Jordan

  The paint on the door to The Rookery had long since started to fke, revealing uneven yers of deep red, gunmetal gray, and pale green underneath — like a history of careless reinvention. The Rookery wasn’t the kind of pce Jordan usually found himself in. It was too warm, too intimate. No velvet ropes, no gss chandeliers, no curated pylists humming from designer speakers. Instead, there was a soft murmur of conversation, the occasional clink of a gss, and a slow blues song pying softly from a battered jukebox near the door. Cozy, understated. Not trying to impress anyone.

  And that, oddly, made him like it.

  Jordan let the quiet hum of the room settle around him. The bar had a kind of lived-in elegance — walls lined with exposed brick and shelves cluttered with vintage records, old books, and dusty liquor bottles that looked more decorative than functional. A few mismatched chairs sat around tables lit by warm amber mps, and the booths along the back wall were upholstered in deep, worn leather.

  It smelled faintly of citrus and aged oak, with just a trace of old smoke lingering in the rafters, the kind you only noticed if you paid close attention. Jordan appreciated that about The Rookery. It didn’t try to erase its age — it wore it like a charm. There was no curated aesthetic here, just a quiet honesty that felt strangely rare.

  He sat at the bar, one elbow resting on the polished oak surface, his fingers loosely curled around a gss of whiskey. He fit in and didn’t, in that distinct way people of a certain kind always did. His clothes were expensive but deliberately understated — bck trousers, sharp loafers, and a dark grey coat draped over the stool beside him. A crisp shirt, unbuttoned just low enough to suggest confidence, revealed a hint of his colrbone. His watch — a vintage Omega — caught the light with every subtle movement.

  He had the air of someone used to being noticed. There was a sharpness to him, like he moved through the world with intent, always a step ahead. His clothes sat perfectly, his hair untouched by the wind. Everything about him was immacute, almost too pristine for a pce like this—but not so much that anyone would question it. Just enough to turn heads. Maybe it was his looks. Or maybe it was because they recognized him.

  He was early. He liked being early — it gave him time to study the room. The bar was already half-full, scattered with quiet groups and couples leaning in close. His date wasn’t there yet. He hadn’t even remembered the woman’s name until he checked the messages on the way over. A fashion student, or a model. Jordan hadn’t cared enough to find out. She had the look: angur, breathy over text, lots of mirror selfies.

  Jordan wasn’t looking for a connection. He didn’t want meaningful. Not tonight, not ever, if he could help it. He was a fiction dressed up in charisma. People liked the version of him they saw on TV, in interviews, on book jackets. He gave people what they wanted: clever quotes, charming smiles, the illusion of intimacy. But no one ever got past the surface. He wasn’t looking for anything tonight except a buffer from the quiet. Something to silence the corners of his mind that got too loud when he was alone. A beautiful girl with soft skin and forgettable stories. A few drinks. A cab ride. An exit. That was all.

  He turned his gss slowly between his fingers, the whiskey catching the light in dull gold tones. Neat. Always neat. He hated ice. Hated dilution. He wanted to feel the bite, not soften it.

  The mic gave a low pop as someone stepped onto the small stage. Jordan heard the voice before he turned — loud, practiced, the kind of bar host who’d done this a hundred times, steady and smooth, with just enough energy to keep the room leaning in.

  “Alright, folks, settle in,” the host said, his voice booming through the speakers. A few chairs scraped against the floor as heads turned toward the stage. “We’ve got a full list tonight, but I want to take a second for this next act. Because listen — this one’s been chasing me down since the snow melted.”

  Mild ughter rippled through the bar. Jordan shot a quick gnce over his shoulder at the man on the stage. The stage, that small square ptform tucked beneath a spotlight, was clean. Reverent, almost. Just a mic stand, an amp, and a stool. Jordan felt the low buzz of conversation around him fade a bit as the anticipation rose, even if only a little. He barely paid attention. He wasn’t here for the music — at least, not for the kind of music that made people chase after someone.

  “He’s young. He’s stubborn. He wouldn’t leave me alone. And hey — turns out he’s got something worth hearing. So tonight’s his first shot here.” The host's words settled into the noise of the bar like a weight. "Give a warm welcome to a local voice you won’t forget — Nico Sanchez!”

  The name nded softly in the noise of the bar. A few hands cpped zily, curious — half-interested. Polite, but cking energy. Someone near the bar let out a wolf-whistle, while the rest of the crowd’s attention remained scattered, drifting between the various distractions of the bar.

  Jordan sipped his whiskey and leaned on one elbow, eyes now on the bottle shelves behind the bar. There were too many bourbon brands to count.

  There was a slight pause, and then a breath at the mic. Lighter than the host’s voice.

  "Hi," the warm, young voice rode a beat of silence. "I wasn’t sure I’d get to py tonight. So I just want to say thanks to The Rookery." The tone was confident, but only on the surface. Tempered, almost practiced, like someone who had said these words in their head a thousand times but had never spoken them out loud. Jordan could hear the smile behind the words. "And… to whoever’s still sober enough to listen.” A short ugh followed. Nervous, but not shaky.

  Jordan turned his head again, more intrigued than he’d anticipated. He didn’t turn all the way, just enough to see the kid.

  The guy on stage wasn’t at all what he had expected. He was scrawny, almost painfully so, with a wiry frame that made him seem like he might fall over if a strong gust of wind hit him. His bck, messy hair fell just over his forehead, a little too long, the kind of unkempt look that screamed “I don’t care” but also “I care too much.” He wore a bright, graphic t-shirt with a bold, abstract design — neon orange and electric blue swirled together — paired with faded jeans that hung a little too loosely on his hips and sneakers scuffed from use.

  The kid adjusted the mic stand, fiddling with it for a moment as his guitar hung loosely from his shoulder, the strap resting casually across his chest. When he touched the strings, his fingers were light — brushing them without making a sound — and for a moment, Jordan thought he might hesitate.

  “Alright…” His voice was a little rough around the edges. It felt almost too delicate for the space he was in. "I’m not sure how to start, but... I guess we all get nervous sometimes, right?" His smile was small, almost apologetic, but sincere. “Anyway, here we go."

  There was a showmanship to the tone — cool, offhand — but underneath, something taut. Not fear, exactly. Anticipation. It was almost as if the kid was bracing himself, mentally crossing some invisible line. There was something about the way the kid held himself — anxious, but trying to cover it up. The kind of shy confidence that didn’t look like much on the surface, but Jordan could sense it: the raw hunger to be seen.

  Jordan took another sip of his whiskey, the liquid warming him from the inside. He didn’t expect to feel so caught up in this.

  The first note of the song hit, and the young man's voice followed — softer than Jordan had imagined, but somehow... fuller. The sound was raw, a little shaky, but it cut through the air with an aching vulnerability.

  “I’ve chased the sound through empty streets

  Dreamt of voices rising at my feet

  The stage is small, the room feels wide

  And all I’ve got is what’s inside”

  The kid’s voice warmed the air, carrying over the chatter, and there was something magnetic in it. The bravado was there, but underneath it, Jordan could hear the subtle tension, the buzz of nerves hiding behind a mask of casual confidence. The kid was wearing the mask, sure, but it was fragile. You could see the cracks in it if you paid attention. His delivery wasn’t perfect — there was a slight break in his higher notes, an imperfection that shouldn’t have worked, but somehow did.

  “My voice is cracked, my hands are cold

  But there’s a fire I can’t hold

  If I break, I’ll break loud

  Like thunder rolling through my spine”

  Jordan’s fingers flexed around his gss. It wasn’t the kind of polished sound he was used to. The young man wasn’t pying to the crowd. He was pying for himself.

  “Every eye feels like a fme

  I showed up, I said my name

  I showed up, I took the dare

  Even scared, I said I care”

  The young singer kept his head down, eyes fixed on the guitar, as if to shield himself from whatever thoughts or doubts were creeping in. His fingers strummed, slow and steady, each note ringing out like he was trying to convince himself of something, too.

  As the song went on, the room quieted even further, the weight of his voice filling every corner. The chatter that had once danced zily around the bar now seemed distant, like a world apart. Even the jukebox in the corner had fallen silent, as if giving this fragile moment the space it needed.

  The song wrapped up, the final note lingering in the air like the st breath of a storm. The kid’s fingers hovered above the strings for a heartbeat, and then he dropped his hand to his side, the moment suspended in time for just a second too long. He looked out into the room, his face flushed but still holding that smile.

  Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the vulnerability in the air. Maybe it was the silence that hung in the room after the kid’s song. Whatever it was, it had shifted something in Jordan, in a way that made him feel slightly uncomfortable.