Pt 1.
Nico

As the soft round of applause began—nothing explosive, but steady and genuine enough to make Nico’s pulse jump—the final chord vibrated through his fingertips. He wasn’t as nervous this time. Today, he felt something closer to satisfaction. Maybe even pride. He stood still for a beat, letting the note settle into the room, savoring the moment before it slipped away. The low hum of the crowd and the fading tension melted into one quiet wave that washed over him.

Not bad for a weeknight set.

Nico gave a small smile, as he stepped off the platform, the heat of the stage lights still clinging to his skin. His neck prickled, but it was the kind of warmth he welcomed. His legs felt a little unsteady, but not from fatigue. More like the kind of tiredness that follows when something has gone right. 

It had only been a week since he’d last played at The Rookery. He hadn’t expected to be asked back so soon, but the owner—a broad-shouldered, no-nonsense guy named Frank—had clapped him on the shoulder after that first set and invited him to return. Nico had half-suspected it was a polite gesture Frank gave every new performer, but when the message came through confirming the date, it landed differently.

So here he was again, his second real gig in a real venue. This time, he’d ditched most of the sad ballads. Still his own songs, but polished, more upbeat, more crowd-friendly. A little less bleeding heart, a little more put-together. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to prove something to the audience, or to himself. Possibly both. His first set had been too open. Tonight, he hoped for something else.

As he made his way toward the bar, already cataloging his performance, tempo slips, mic levels, the one note that landed thin, he caught sight of someone who made everything else grind to a halt.

The man from last time.

Same seat. Same effortless posture. Maybe even the same drink. Nico instantly remembered the way their eyes had met last time, a brief moment where everything had felt just a little charged. That flicker of something passing between them, like the heat of recognition, or maybe something else. That was, until she had appeared.

Stunning. Impeccably styled. She’d approached the man like she belonged there, sliding into the scene with effortless grace. In an instant, whatever fragile thread had existed between Nico and the man snapped. The man’s attention had shifted completely. 

Nico couldn’t quite figure out why it bothered him so much, why the sight of them together left a vague, unsettled feeling in his chest. Maybe it was how easily they fit, how familiar they seemed. Or maybe it was just that Nico wasn’t sure if he had misread the moment he thought he’d shared with the man, if he’d built something in his head that was never there. 

The truth was, Nico hadn’t felt a real connection with anyone, so he wasn’t sure what it was supposed to look like. Like everyone else, he wanted closeness. He wanted to be understood, to have someone see him beyond the surface and like him for… well, for him. Still, he didn’t know how that kind of thing was supposed to show itself or how it would feel when it finally happened. 

But this time, the man sat alone. The soft glow of the lamp sharpened the cut of his features, and his tall frame was draped in a sleek black coat. One hand cradled a lowball glass with fingers that looked too elegant for this place. His tousled blond hair looked almost too perfectly undone. 

The man looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine ad for luxury watches or cologne or something equally unattainable. And his eyes, even from across the room, were intense and unnerving in their quiet focus when they locked with Nico’s. Just like last time. 

Nico stood frozen for a moment longer than he realized. His heart stuttered. His feet nearly did, too. He tore his gaze away, fast, turning toward the opposite end of the bar like he suddenly had somewhere urgent to be. His movements felt clumsy as he took a seat, too aware of himself. Like being under a spotlight again, but not the good kind.

“You changed your sound.”

Nico turned instinctively, pulse skipping, and there he was. Leaning casually against the bar like they knew each other.

He straightened automatically. “Uh, yeah,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “Figured something a little lighter might fit better on a weeknight.”

The man gave a slow, thoughtful nod, swirling the drink in his hand as if considering the taste of Nico’s answer. “You’re good either way. But the first set, the sad one… It was better.”

Nico wasn't sure how to respond to that. “Most people don’t like the sad stuff,” he said after a pause, unsure whether it came out defensive or just honest.

A faint smile curled on the man’s lips as he brought his drink to his mouth, then eased down onto the barstool beside Nico. The move took Nico by surprise. He hadn’t expected him to stay, let alone sit. Nico’s first instinct was to shift uncomfortably, but he stayed rooted to the spot, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do now.

“That’s not true,” the man said, his voice velvet over gravel. He slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his coat, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, then held it out toward Nico. “Most people like the sad stuff more. They just don’t want to admit it. Think it’s inappropriate.”

Nico stared at, his mind scrambling for an answer. He didn’t smoke, and the thought of taking one felt forced, almost like trying to fit himself into a space he wasn’t meant to occupy. Still, something about refusing, about drawing a line between them, felt even worse. Awkward, juvenile, even. Like it would expose him as inexperienced, or worse, as someone not worth talking to.

The weight of the silence pressed down on him, the kind of silence that starts to feel loud the longer it stretches. He hesitated just a second too long, then reached out and took one, trying to make the motion look smooth. “Thanks.”

The man didn’t respond. Instead, he kept watching Nico, as though trying to see past the words and into the thoughts Nico hadn’t said. Something about the way the man looked at him made Nico feel like he was under a microscope.

Nico adjusted the strap of his guitar where it dug into his shoulder and studied the man’s face up close for the first time. He was striking, unreasonably so. The kind of beautiful that didn’t make sense outside of film or fiction. It was the sort of beauty that made you feel a little off-balance just by being near it. His features were sharp, sculpted, like someone had carved him out of marble and then softened the edges just enough to make him human.

He cleared his throat. “Why’s that?” he nodded faintly toward the cigarette between his fingers. “Why would anyone think it’s inappropriate?”

The stranger flicked open a silver lighter with a fluid motion and lit his own cigarette. He tilted the lighter toward Nico’s cigarette, offering the flame. Nico leaned in, the warmth from the flame brushing his face. His gaze remained locked on Nico’s, as the tip of Nico’s cigarette caught fire. The man sat back, exhaling a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. After a moment, he spoke.

“Makes them feel exposed, probably,” he said, the smoke curling from his lips. “Or weak.”

Nico took a drag from the cigarette, more for something to do than any real urge to smoke. The taste hit the back of his throat. He didn’t cough, but barely. He hoped it didn’t show.

Faint amusement flickered in the stranger's eyes, one brow arched just slightly. “You don’t smoke,” he said, the words more of an observation than a question.

Nico shrugged, letting out a quiet exhale of smoke. “Eh, not much.”

The man’s lips quirked into a small grin. “Didn’t think so. You’re too clean.”

The remark caught Nico off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The man shifted on his stool, turning just enough to face Nico more directly. “You’ve got that look,” he said. “Bright eyes. Fidgety hands. Colorful clothes. The way you performed last week.”

Nico opened his mouth, then hesitated. What the hell was he supposed to say to that?

“So, should I be flattered that you noticed me last time?”

Nico stared at him, momentarily thrown off. “I— What?”

“You looked right at me after your set,” the man said casually, tapping the ash from his cigarette into a nearby tray. “Held my gaze, just for a second.”

Nico felt a slow heat rise in his chest. He hadn’t expected to be called out on it, let alone have it acknowledged.

“I thought maybe you imagined it,” the man added, a teasing smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Or regretted it.”

“No. I noticed you.”

The man’s smirk widened, his voice dropping lower. A dimple appeared, just for a second, then vanished. “Yeah, I know. I noticed you too.” He glanced at the cigarette between Nico’s fingers. “You don’t have to smoke it.” His tone was amused, as if he could tell Nico was trying a little too hard.

So Nico took another drag, this time with more ease, less like he was about to choke and more like he was getting the hang of it. The man’s smile deepened just enough to show he was entertained.

“My name’s Nico,” he offered, shifting his guitar strap again as he extended a hand.

The man took it without hesitation, his grip warm, skin startlingly soft.

“I’m Jordan.”

Jordan.

Nico had expected something more elaborate. Something polished, maybe foreign-sounding. A name that fit the kind of man who looked like that. But Jordan felt almost too normal. And yet, somehow, it suited him. Effortless, like he didn’t need the name to do any of the heavy lifting.

Nico let go just a moment longer than he should have, flexing his fingers as if trying to hold onto the moment. 

“Do you… usually hang around bars listening to people pour their hearts out, or is that a new hobby?”

“Is that what you’re doing up there? Pouring your heart out?”

Nico didn't hesitate. “Yes.”

“Well,” Jordan said, dragging his thumb along the rim of his glass, “I guess I’m lucky I showed up during one of those nights.”

Jordan was polished and clearly used to saying things that landed the way he wanted. Nico looked away, feigning interest in the scratched bar top.

“I had a date, actually,” Jordan said casually, as if reading Nico’s thoughts.

Nico felt the words hit, sharp and quiet. Still, he kept his voice even. “Girlfriend?”

Jordan shook his head, stubbing out his cigarette with a lazy motion. “Not really. More of a mistake, probably.”

“That bad, huh?”

Jordan smiled slowly, like the question amused him. “She wasn’t what I wanted.”

And though he didn’t say it directly, the way his gaze lingered on Nico made the air feel heavier. The space between them seemed smaller than it had just a minute ago.

Nico let out a quiet laugh, unsure if it was amusement or nerves. “What do you want, then?”

Jordan leaned back slightly. “That’s a bold question.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

“Oh, I’ll answer.” He swirled the liquid his glass again, eyes still on Nico. “Right now? A better drink. And maybe…” His gaze dropped briefly to Nico’s guitar, then returned to his face. “Another sad song.”