Jake sat at the edge of the bar, one hand curled around a sweating glass, the other resting idle on his knee. His eyes were fixed on the small stage tucked into the corner, where you stood beneath soft amber lights, singing into the mic like the room wasn’t even there. The band behind you kept a smooth rhythm, but it was your voice that caught him—familiar, striking in a way that tugged at something half-forgotten.

It hit him, then. You. You were the girl from Mr. Nolan’s eighth grade history class, the one who used to hum under her breath when the teacher droned on about revolutions. He hadn’t seen you in years, and now here you were, glowing onstage like you belonged nowhere else. Jake couldn’t stop watching, couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe fate had dropped you here for a reason. And once the set ended, he knew he had to talk to you—before the moment slipped away.