Nico

  The final chord trembled in the air, a delicate vibration that lingered too long, reluctant to fade. Nico’s fingers remained suspended just above the strings, still poised as if the music might resume on its own. For a breathless second, he couldn’t tell if it was over, or if he just didn’t want it to be. He stayed frozen, holding the space like a gss sculpture — delicate and uncertain.

  Then, slowly, came the sound.

  A single cp, then another. A ripple of hands, growing louder, fuller. A few whistles cut through the noise. Someone in the back shouted, “Damn, kid!” — and just like that, something in Nico’s chest gave way. The tension that had gripped him since the moment he stepped onstage unraveled, loosening in a rush that nearly left him dizzy.

  They were cpping. For him.

  He exhaled sharply through his nose, shoulders sinking, and a grin — trembling but genuine — tugged at the corners of his mouth. His heart was still hammering, and every inch of his skin felt electric, as though he were still inside the song. His hands hadn’t stopped shaking since midway through the second verse, but it didn’t matter. He’d done it. Every chord, every song, every stumbling moment. No walking off, no excuses. He had stood his ground and pyed the entire set through.

  Adjusting the mic stand more out of reflex than purpose, Nico half-turned to step down — ready to disappear into the crowd — then a flicker of movement caught his eye.

  There, at the bar. A man. Not cpping. Not moving. Just sitting with a stillness that somehow stood out more than the noise around him. He was tall, blonde, sharply dressed — his tailored shirt and polished shoes far too clean, too precise for a pce like The Rookery, with its chipped stools and crooked string lights. He looked like someone who belonged in a different kind of room.

  And he was watching Nico.

  Their eyes met, and the air seemed to tighten. Something unreadable settled in the man's expression — not cold, exactly, but calcuted. He wasn’t just enjoying a show; he was observing.

  A strange heat crept up Nico’s neck. He looked away first.

  His face burned, stomach flipping with a nervous energy he couldn’t expin. The man was a stranger, clearly. Not from school, not from around the neighborhood. He didn’t belong here — and yet there had been something in the look they shared. Something that hit like static, like the moment before lightning strikes and the air feels suddenly too full.

  The next performer was already setting up, plugging in cables and tuning strings. Nico gave a nod — half acknowledgment, half apology — and stepped off the stage, the guitar slung across his back, suddenly feeling heavier than before.

  The crowd blurred around him as he made his way toward the bar. Now that the adrenaline had begun to wear off, the fatigue hit all at once, rolling through his limbs with the slow weight of come-down. His shoulders ached. His fingertips were sore. But his mind was still buzzing, repying every moment of the set on a loop.

  “Water, please,” he murmured as he reached the bar, unsure if the words even made it out clearly.

  The bartender slid a gss toward him, droplets of condensation tracing lines down the sides. Nico took it and drank half in one breath, the cold hitting his chest like a reset button. He let out another slow exhale and leaned against the counter, the weight of everything catching up to him at once.

  In his head, the songs were still pying. The second one had felt the best — like something had cracked open inside him and the words had poured out with a kind of crity he didn’t expect. But the other songs? He couldn’t stop the mental reel. The rushed tempo at the start. The buzzing low E string. That one lyric he’d bnked on and masked with a hum. Did they notice? Could they tell? He didn’t know.

  But they cpped.

  He reached for his gss again, and as he lifted it to his lips, his eyes drifted to the right — drawn by instinct more than intention.

  The man was still there. Still watching.

  Their eyes met a second time, and Nico’s breath caught, just briefly. The space between them felt sharper now, like it had narrowed somehow. The man’s gaze wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t warm either. Focused. Direct. Like he was still weighing something in his mind.

  Then, from the edge of Nico’s vision, a woman appeared. She was striking — tall, with dark waves of hair and a velvet-red dress that shimmered like liquid in the low light. She touched the man’s shoulder casually. The man turned to her immediately, smiling, his attention sliding away from Nico as though it had never been there at all. A date, clearly. Maybe more.

  Just like that, the moment shattered.

  Nico blinked and looked away, the cold rim of the gss pressing against his lower lip as he took another sip. His cheeks felt warm again, but this time it wasn’t from adrenaline. It was embarrassment. He told himself it didn’t mean anything — that whatever passed between them was just a weird blip. Nothing worth holding on to.

  But the way his heart still beat just a little too fast made that hard to believe.

  He finished the water and set the gss down gently, watching the beads of moisture gather at its base. Around him, the sounds of the bar grew again — ughter, a stool scraping against the floor, the murmur of the next song beginning on stage.

  Whatever that moment had been, it was gone now.

  But the set — that had been real. That had belonged to him. And as he stared down at the gss in his hands, one thing pulsed quietly through the noise:

  He wanted more.