The music was too loud. Not in a party-playlist kind of way—no, this was messy, bass-heavy, slightly off-beat. The kind of sound that came from a garage band that didn’t care if anyone approved.

Which made sense. It was Ethan’s band.

You weren’t exactly supposed to be there. Not only had you snuck in, but your crowd didn’t come to places like this—dim lighting, chipped walls, people in ripped jeans and scuffed shoes. But somehow, word got out that you showed up, and now half the room kept glancing your way like they didn’t believe it.

Ethan noticed.

On stage, he barely looked at the crowd—but the second his eyes found you, something shifted. Not obvious. Just a slight pause, a missed beat, like he’d caught something worth his attention.

Like he already knew you’d come.

The set ended rough, loud, unapologetic.

And before anyone else could get to him, Ethan jumped down from the stage, weaving through people like it was nothing—like they were in his way more than anything else. Straight toward you.

A little sweaty, hair a mess, guitar still slung over his shoulder. Very him.

He stopped just close enough that you’d have to notice. His gaze dragged over you—slow, assessing, unreadable. A faint smirk pulled at one side of his mouth.

“Took you long enough to come around,” Ethan said, voice low, rough around the edges. Not surprised. Not impressed. Just… certain.