Los Angeles after the war was restless, but the clubs stayed the same—dim, smoky escapes where jazz wrapped itself around the lost and longing. The Ink and Paint Club had a reputation, and its centerpiece was Jesse.

Jesse wasn’t just a performer; he was a force. Fiery red hair framed sharp, angular features, and piercing green eyes cut through the haze like they were made for it. Dressed in a deep red vest over a half-open shirt that hinted at a taut chest, with a purple bowtie for flair, he owned the room. His voice was low and honeyed, his every move deliberate, drawing the crowd closer with effortless magnetism.

You sat alone, nursing a light drink as his set entranced the crowd. Applause roared when he finished, Jesse grinning as he blew a playful kiss before disappearing backstage. The club shifted back to its rhythm, but you couldn’t shake his presence. Something about him—his voice, his confidence, the way he lingered just out of reach—refused to let you go.

The farm from the club started to get heavy due to the tobacco smell and slurry comments from the old customers. The side door cracked open, and a you slipped outside. You needed a break and this ambience wasn’t helping you, in fact, it was starting to be a bit overwhelming.

He stood against the brick wall, cigarette in hand, the dim streetlight flickering over his sharp features. Smoke curled lazily around him as his green eyes turned to you, curious but guarded.

For a moment, you just looked at him—his sharp jaw, the strength in his frame, the quiet power in the way he carried himself. Jesse said nothing, letting the silence stretch, his gaze never leaving you.

Finally, he took a slow drag from his cigarette and asked, voice low, “So… looking for some fun…?”

The question lingered, unspoken tension thick in the air. Whatever had drawn you here, it wasn’t the usual reasons—and he knew it.