She was looking at me when she said that last part, and I gave her my best innocent smile. “I'm not going to get drunk.”
“Mm-hmm.” She didn't look convinced. “That's what you said last time, and then I found you doing shots with some guy who claimed he could teach you how to breakdance.”
“In my defense, he was very convincing.” I stood up and stretched, feeling my shoulders pop. “And I didn't get that drunk. I made it through the second set fine.”
“You made it through the second set,” June agreed. “But you also disappeared for twenty minutes between sets and came back looking like you'd been through a car wash.”
Luca snorted. “That's because he was probably?—”
“Don't finish that sentence,” I said, pointing at him with my water bottle. “Whatever you're about to say, don't.”
“I was going to say 'having a meaningful conversation about music,'” Luca said with a grin that suggested he absolutely was not going to say that. “What did you think I was going to say?”
“Nothing good.” I grabbed my phone off the amp and checked the time. We had another set in about two hours, which gave me enough time to cool down, grab a drink, and maybe flirt with someone who looked like they wanted to be distracted for ten minutes. “I'm going to the bar. Anyone need anything?”
“Water,” June said. “And maybe a miracle that keeps you from doing anything stupid between now and the next set.”
“I never do anything stupid.” I was already heading toward the door, grinning over my shoulder at her. “I'm a model of responsible decision-making.”
“You're a walking disaster,” she called after me, but there was affection in it, the kind that said she'd seen me at my worst and was still here anyway.
I pushed through the door and into the hallway that led back out to the main floor of the venue. The noise hit me immediately, louder now than it had been during the set because the crowd had thinned slightly but the energy was still high. People were clustered around the bar and scattered at tables, talking and laughing and riding the same post-show buzz that I was carrying.
I made my way through the crowd, nodding at a few people who recognized me from the stage, and found an empty spot near the end of the bar. The bartender was swamped, so I leaned against the wood and waited, letting my eyes drift over the room without really focusing on anything.
That was when I saw him.
A man sitting two seats down from where I was standing, broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, fingers wrapped around a glass that looked like ginger ale or something equally boring. He had his back to me, but there was a stillness to him that made me look twice. Not the usual drunk-and-looking-for-a-good-time energy most people carried after a show. This was different. Controlled. Like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will and had been doing it long enough that it looked almost natural.
I slid into the empty seat next to him before I'd fully decided it was a good idea, still riding the adrenaline from the set and feeling reckless enough to try my luck. The man didn't look up, just kept staring at his drink like it held the answers to questions he hadn't asked yet.
I leaned my elbow on the bar and turned toward him with my best trouble-starting grin. “Hey. Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?”
It was possibly the worst pickup line I'd ever used, which was saying a lot considering I'd once opened with a pun about drumfills that had made a guy physically wince. But it did the job. The man's shoulders shook slightly, and then he laughed.
And that laugh.
I knew that laugh. Had heard it a thousand times in a different life, always after I'd thrown out a line so ridiculous it should have landed as annoying but somehow never did. It was low and genuine and warm in a way that made my chest tighten before my brain had fully caught up to what was happening.
The man turned to look at me, still smiling from the terrible pickup line, and the world narrowed down to the space between us.
It was Rook.
Unmistakably him. Same dark eyes, same steady jaw, same way of looking at me like he could see straight through every defense I'd ever built. My brain short-circuited. My mouth went dry. My pulse kicked up so fast I could feel it in my throat, and for a second I forgot how to do anything except stare at him like he'd materialized out of thin air.
He stared back, and I watched the recognition hit him too. Watched his eyes widen slightly, watched his grip tighten around his glass, watched the surprise shift into a tense awareness that said he'd known I was in this city but hadn't expected to be sitting next to me at a bar after my set.
I should do literally anything other than sit here with my brain screaming at me while my mouth refused to form words.
Instead, I smiled. Because that was what I did when I had no idea how to survive a moment. I smiled like everything was fine and I wasn't currently having an internal meltdown.
“Rook.” His name came out steadier than I'd expected, almost casual, like running into the ghost of my past was just mildly surprising instead of completely devastating. “Hey. Didn't expect to see you here.”
He didn't smile back. Just kept looking at me with an expression I couldn't read, tension radiating off him in waves. “Soren.”
Hearing him say my name after all this time did awful things to my chest. Made it tight and achy in ways I'd spent years trying to avoid. I wanted to reach out and touch him, wanted to confirm he was real and not just a stress-induced hallucination, but I kept my hands on the bar and my smile locked in place.
“Small world,” I said, and it came out too light, too breezy, like we were old acquaintances catching up instead of two people who'd once meant everything to each other. “You come here often, or is this your first time slumming it at dive bars?”
