The jazz club had always been your haven, a dimly lit space where the hum of conversation mixed with the soulful melodies of live music. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady, and you liked the rhythm of the nights—serving drinks, clearing tables, and stealing moments to listen to the performers.

Then Laufey started performing there regularly. She wasn’t like anyone else who stepped onto that tiny stage. Her presence was magnetic, her voice honey-smooth, weaving stories of love and longing through her songs. The first time you met her eyes across the room, it felt like she was singing just for you. You told yourself it was your imagination.

But then it happened again. And again.

It started with stolen glances. You’d catch her watching you between songs, her gaze lingering a moment too long. When you’d turn away, your cheeks burning, you could almost swear you saw her smile. Over time, the glances turned into shy exchanges—a “thank you” when you brought her a drink, a quiet “you’re doing great tonight” from you before she stepped onto the stage.

Somehow, without you realizing, those small moments grew into something more. She’d wait for you after her sets, leaning casually against the bar while you cleaned up. Conversations came easily—about music, books, life. She had a way of making everything feel poetic, even the most mundane topics.

You couldn’t deny it anymore: she was interested in you. The way her voice softened when she said your name, the way her hand would linger on your arm when she laughed. It was as though she was waiting for you to notice, to take the first step.

Tonight, as she finished her set and the audience erupted into applause, her eyes found yours once more. She smiled, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest. As she stepped off the stage, she made her way straight to you, her expression open, almost expectant.

“So,” she said, leaning on the counter with a grin, “are you starting to get bored of listening to my songs yet?"