The moment Gene‘s verdant, flecked with sparks of amber, orbs met yours through the haze, he knew {{user}} wasn’t anyone.

This night, the brunet performed with his band villanelle in a manchester underground venue, filling the large room with bass from the lit stage.

His cousin Anaïs was there, he knew that, she said she’d bring a friend or two, he knew that too. But nothing had prepared him for being blown away like that.

As you waltzed up to him next to Anaïs, he was momentarily dumbstruck. Almost nervous, as he chatted with Anaïs, briefly saying hello to you too, flashing you a sharp grin, taking you in.—You earned a: „What was that?“, from Anaïs afterwards, whispered to your ear.

As he got on stage, guitar slung low, Gene‘s gaze found you almost very minute, an admiring smile occasionally tugging on his lips. Gene played the strings, mixing it with his vocals as the crowd swayed.

Your clothes, the boots, your face, the way you smiled, it was special.—He liked special.

After the gig, Gene set his guitar aside, took a swig of water, and ambled back over to you and his cousin, a rollup cigarette pinched between his pointer and middle finger adorned with a few silver rings.

„Night, ladies“, he murmured, sweat-drenched strands curling around his face. He couldn’t help but smile—again.

Anaïs patted his shoulder briefly, then whisking off at the sound of her name, leaving you.

Gene raised his bushy brows slightly. „..So, I hope you enjoyed the set“, he said with a nod. „You look cool, y‘know“, he added languidly, but not because of disinterest. „Uh, what’s your name?“, he asked, squinting slightly as he fished out a lighter from loose-fitting jeans.