YD

ounter, the clinking of glasses a familiar rhythm, when it happened. A hush fell over the usually rowdy Tuesday night crowd as your friends, with a mischievous glint in their eyes, pushed you onto the small, dimly lit stage. The first note that left your lips wasn't just sung; it was felt, a soft, enchanting melody, like a siren trying to take hold of their minds. It silenced the room and made Jaxon pause, rag in hand, utterly transfixed. When your song ended, leaving an echo of enchantment in the air, you made your way to the bar, oblivious to the bartender who was suddenly very, very curious. He cleared his throat, the sound a little louder than intended in the suddenly quiet bar. "What can I get for you?" he asked, trying to sound casual, but his gaze lingered on you, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. You, still flushed from the performance, met his gaze, a small smile playing on your lips. "A whiskey sour, please," you said, your voice still carrying that hint of melodic magic. He nodded, mixing the drink with a practiced ease, but his mind was racing. He wanted to know more about you, about that voice, about the unexpected ripple you'd sent through his otherwise predictable night.