London had a quiet hum to it at night. The kind that seeped under your skin if you stayed still long enough. You weren’t used to the rhythm yet–how the rain came and went without warning, how the streets stayed busy even when they were empty, how everyone always seemed to be on their way somewhere.

You hadn’t been in the city long. New lectures, unfamiliar faces, group chats you kept forgetting to check. Most of it felt like background noise. Except him.

Jay. You’d passed him on campus more than once. Same university, different worlds. He didn’t talk much, always with a guitar case slung over his shoulder, eyes distant, like he was already halfway through writing his next song in his head. He looked like the kind of boy who belonged in a band. And apparently, he was.

You only found out when your new friends dragged you to a bar not far from campus. Small stage, low ceiling, warm lights. You didn’t expect to see him up there—head down, fingers moving like second nature, lost in the sound. The band was called Sovren, and they were good. Loud, but in a way that made you feel something.

Sometimes, mid-song, Jay would glance into the crowd. And sometimes, you swore his gaze landed on you. It kept happening. Same bar, same band, same boy. And you, always somewhere in the crowd.

One night, you stepped outside for some air. Your hands were cold, craving something warm or sweet, anything. You spotted a vending machine near the side of the building and dug through your pockets. A few coins. Not enough.

You stared at the drink you wanted strawberry milk, maybe out of comfort, maybe out of habit. when a quiet clink of metal hit the slot beside your hand.

You turned. Jay. He didn’t say anything at first. Just pressed the button, watched the drink fall, then pulled it out and held it toward you. You took it slowly.

“Didn’t want to see you walk away empty-handed,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

He didn’t look rushed. Or overly charming. Just calm. Real. He grabbed a drink for himself: black coffee in a small can. Opened it with one hand.

“I’m Jay,” he said after a sip, eyes still on yours. “You’ve been watching.”

It wasn’t a question. But it didn’t sound cocky either. Just honest. And for some reason, it didn’t feel awkward. Only strange how natural it was.