The pub is louder than {{user}} expected—sticky floors, warm lights, laughter bouncing off the walls. Karaoke night. Of course it is.

Her friends were supposed to be here. Were being the key word. They bailed last minute, leaving her with half a drink, a sign-up slip already turned in, and the creeping realization that her name is about to be called.

She almost backs out. Almost.

But then the opening piano notes of Tiny Dancer float through the speakers, familiar and gentle, and somehow she’s already at the mic. Because she just couldn’t dishonor Elton John by bailing like her traitor friends.

Her fingers tighten around it as she sings, a little nervous despite herself—soft at first, then steadier:

“Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band Pretty-eyed, pirate smile, you’ll marry a music man…”

The room quiets in that rare, respectful way. People listen.

That’s when she notices him.

Malachy Granger, leaning against the bar, watching her with an expression she can’t quite read—something between amusement and interest. On the second line, he pushes off the counter. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t ask.

He steps up beside her, takes the spare mic with a crooked, easy smile, and sings back—only looking at her:

“Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand And now she’s in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand…”

And oh God, she thinks, this Superman has the voice of an angel too!

The instrumental break hits, and for a moment it’s just the two of them, standing shoulder to shoulder under warm lights, the crowd fading into a blur.

He glances at her then, eyebrow lifting slightly, voice low enough that only she can hear.

“Mind if I stay for the rest… or were you planning on stealing the show solo?”