You were never much for bars. Too loud, too crowded, too brash. But this one... this one was different. Nestled between flickering gas lamps and cobblestone alleys, the vintage bar had a quiet dignity to it, its windows glowing with a soft amber hue, and always, always the sound of live classical music drifting out with the rain.

You'd passed it many times on your way home. It looked like something out of time, dressed in velvet and oak, polished brass and whispered laughter. You’d never seen anyone stumble out of it drunk, it seemed so cozy.

One rainy evening, with the streets slick beneath your boots and the night colder than usual, the music called to you again. You paused under the awning, hesitated, then pushed the door open.

The warmth embraced you instantly. Soft golden lighting glowed from ornate sconces. A fire crackled in the hearth. Pool tables stood silent in the corners, and laughter murmured in cozy pockets. The orchestra played near the back, rich, emotive, present but never intrusive.

You sat alone, near the music, ordering a drink mostly for show. Your attention was fixed on the ensemble. Fancily dressed men with velvet vests and cleanly polished shoes, including one exceptional figure.

The accordion player.
Purple hair framed his face, an olive leaf branch resting in his fluffy looking hair like something out of a myth. His crimson eyes didn’t just glance over the audience, they found you. Not with arrogance, nor presumption, but with quiet, analytical curiosity. As if he knew you hadn’t come for company or drinks. You were here for the music.

And as the final notes of the piece faded into the air, he tilted his head slightly, he made playing look so effortless and handsome, you couldn't look away.