Nico

  The final chord lingered in the air, vibrating through his fingertips just as the soft round of appuse began — nothing explosive, but steady and genuine enough to make Nico’s pulse jump. Not from nerves this time, but from 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, the warm, dim lighting, and the fading tension all melted into one quiet wave that washed over him.

  Not bad for a weeknight set.

  He gave a small smile, nodding in acknowledgment as he stepped off the ptform, the heat of the stage lights still clinging to his skin. His neck prickled, but it was the kind of warmth he welcomed. His fingers still buzzed from the strings as he adjusted the strap across his back, the guitar settling into pce. He exhaled slowly. His legs felt a little unsteady — not from fatigue, but from the kind of tiredness that followed when something had gone right. Like the moment had clicked into pce exactly as he’d hoped.

  It had only been a week since he’d st pyed 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 cpped 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 spot, it nded differently.

  So here he was again — his second real gig in a real venue. The Rookery felt different tonight: quieter, warmer, filled with a soft murmur of voices like an old familiar tune. This time, he’d ditched most of the heartbreak balds. 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. Maybe both. His first set had been raw and too open. He’d felt the crowd hesitate, intrigued but distant. 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 nded thin — he caught sight of someone who made everything else grind to a halt.

  The man from st time.

  Same seat. Same effortless posture. Maybe even the same drink — amber liquid catching the dim light, gss resting loose in his hand. Nico froze, his thoughts evaporating as if time had stopped just for him. The man’s presence anchored the room, pulling Nico’s focus like a magnet.

  He remembered it vividly — the way their eyes had met after his st set. A brief moment where everything felt too still, too charged. He hadn’t imagined it, had he? That flicker of something passing between them, the heat of recognition, or maybe something more. Just the briefest gnce, a spark — enough to lodge itself in Nico’s memory like a splinter.

  And then 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, his expression softening into something else, something practiced.

  Nico couldn’t even pinpoint why it had affected him so much — why the sight of them together left a hollow 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.

  Now the man sat alone, bathed in the soft overhead light. The soft glow of the mp sharpened the cut of his features, and his tall frame was draped in a sleek bck coat. One hand cradled a lowball gss with fingers that looked too elegant for this pce. 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, locked onto something, unreadable and unnerving in their quiet focus.

  Nico stood frozen for a moment longer than he realized. Seeing him again — it was like something tightened in his chest. 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.

  Nico straightened automatically. “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. His 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 it for a moment, 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 immediately. 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 — not quite challenging, but expectant — 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-bance 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 asked, nodding faintly toward the cigarette between his fingers. “Why would anyone think it’s inappropriate?”

  The stranger flicked open a silver lighter with a fluid, effortless motion and lit his own cigarette, the fme casting a brief glow over his sharp features. Without a word, he tilted the lighter toward Nico’s cigarette, offering the fme. Nico leaned in, the warmth from the fme brushing his face. His gaze remained locked on Nico’s, steady and unwavering, 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, his voice low and measured.

  “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, sharp and unfamiliar. He didn’t cough, but barely. He hoped it didn’t show.

  The man watched him, a faint amusement flickering in his 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, his tone casual. “Bright eyes. Fidgety hands. The way you performed st week.”

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

  “So, should I be fttered that you noticed me st 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 pying 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 gnced 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 eborate — 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?”

  Jordan gave a short, surprised ugh — low, rich, and far too nice to be coming from someone who looked like that. “Is that what you think 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 gss, “I guess I’m lucky I showed up during one of those nights.”

  Jordan was polished and clearly used to saying things that nded 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 zy 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 ugh, 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.” The man swirled the liquid his gss, 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.”

  Nico huffed out a ugh. “You’re really into the melodrama, huh?”

  “Maybe I am,” Jordan replied, giving a zy smile that made it hard to tell if he was joking or confessing. He finished the st of his drink and set the gss down with a quiet clink.

  A pause stretched between them — not awkward, but thick with something unsaid. Jordan’s hand rested close to Nico’s on the bar, not quite touching, but close enough for Nico to feel the shared heat.

  Then Jordan turned, angling his body toward him. His tone dropped, softer but certain. “You doing anything now? Or is this your whole Cinderel routine — py your set, disappear before midnight?”

  Nico raised an eyebrow, a small tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What are you offering? The ball or just the gss slipper?”

  Jordan’s ugh came low and warm, smooth like a secret meant just for Nico. “Neither. Just a better drink. At my pce.”

  The offer settled between them like slow smoke — unhurried, unforced. There was nothing lewd about it, no edge of impatience. Just confidence, calm and deliberate. Like Jordan had already lived this moment a hundred times and was content to wait for Nico to catch up.

  Nico froze. His heart stuttered behind his ribs, caught between adrenaline and disbelief. “You’re inviting me over?”

  Jordan gave a single, intentional nod. “I am.”

  The bar didn’t go quiet, but it felt like it had. Music pyed, drinks clinked, someone ughed too loud behind him — but all of it dimmed, like background noise in a dream. The air between them thickened, and Nico felt suspended in it, just slightly outside of real time.

  His brain scrambled to recalibrate. A minute ago, he’d been on stage, heart pounding with the st chords of his set, sweat still damp at the back of his neck. Now he was here, being looked at like that. Spoken to like that.

  And Jordan meant it. That much was clear. There was no wink, no smirk to soften it into a joke. This man, with the expensive calm and that subtle, devastating smirk, was completely serious. It made Nico suddenly feel very young. Jordan had that rare composure, like nothing ever surprised him. Like he always got what he wanted.

  Nico’s mouth was dry. His pulse buzzed behind his ears. He couldn’t tell if this was real or some eborate prank, the kind designed to humiliate a kid with stars in his eyes. He almost gnced around the bar, just to check if anyone was watching, waiting for the punchline. But no one was. Jordan’s gaze stayed fixed on him, like he already knew how this would end.

  Nico cleared his throat, then had to do it again when his first attempt caught halfway. His fingers twitched at his side, craving something — alcohol, distraction, an anchor. Something to make this moment feel less impossible. All he had was a nearly spent cigarette. He took a long drag, trying to steady himself.

  “I mean…” he started, his voice thinner than he wanted it to be. He hesitated, then forced the words out. “I don’t really know you.”

  It sounded even worse out loud. Naive. Half-hearted. Like a warning he didn’t even believe himself.

  And yet, he couldn’t stop watching Jordan — his mouth, his eyes, the rexed curve of his posture. Nico felt like he was standing on the edge of something. Something dangerous, something he already wanted too much.

  “You know my name,” Jordan said, tone teasing but not unkind. “You know I like sad songs and moody bars. And apparently, guys with guitars. That’s not nothing.”

  Nico let out a breath, gncing down at his guitar like it might offer advice. He was aware of his pulse in his throat. Aware of the bar noise fading behind the static hum of his own thoughts.

  Jordan didn’t push. Didn’t move closer. Just added, gently: "Look, you can say no. I won’t be offended. You seem smart enough not to say yes unless you want to. And I’m not looking to trick you into anything. No weird expectations. Just... a better drink. And maybe another song. Just for me this time.”

  Nico looked at him again. Really looked. The way Jordan’s expression had softened, the way his voice had gone quiet. It wasn’t fake. At least it didn’t feel like it.

  Still, every part of him screamed this was a bad idea.

  He didn’t know this man. Jordan was confident in a way that only came from experience. He was smooth and calm, clearly from a different world. This wasn’t someone from the neighborhood. He probably lived in a high-rise somewhere and wore cologne Nico couldn’t pronounce.

  But then again… Nico hadn’t stopped thinking about him since st week. Since their eyes met and something electric passed between them — then vanished as fast as it appeared, swallowed by that beautiful woman and the moment that never became anything.

  And now here he was. Asking.

  “Alright,” Nico said at st, his voice quiet but steady. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s go.”

  Jordan’s smile spread slowly, warm and genuine, and this time, Nico didn’t doubt its sincerity.

  Author’s Note:

  Thank you so much for reading this far! I really hope you’ve enjoyed the journey so far. As I mentioned before, your feedback means the world to me, so feel free to share your thoughts, reactions, or anything that stood out to you. I can’t wait to hear what you think!