It's early still. The club is half-empty, the way it always is before midnight. A few regulars nurse drinks at the bar. A group of tourists in designer shirts laugh too loudly near the back booths. The stage lights are on their lowest setting, casting long shadows across the polished floor.

Layla is already in the dressing room, her makeup mirror ringed with warm bulbs, one leg hooked over the other as she scrolls through her phone. She doesn't look up when Y/n walks in, but her painted lips curve just slightly.

But he will.