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“I didn’t even say anything remotely sexual!” 

“Whatever. Okay, pucker lips. What next?”

“Leave space for the air to come out. Just a little.” 

You’re back to being obedient, lips moving together with the space he’d asked for. You look at him expectantly as he’s assessing your face. “Alright. Now the most important part. Close your eyes and believe.”

You pause, mid-pucker, staring at him in disbelief. Your lips fall in a straight line. “I’m not doing that.” 

“Your lips! Pucker your lips!” Colt moves to squish your cheeks together, smiling fondly at how wholesome you look in front of him. Cute, despite being mildly annoyed at him. “And close your eyes. Promise it’ll help. It’s a thing.”

You relent, finally closing your eyes when a kiss is suddenly placed on your puckering lips. It's so quick that you almost believe you'd imagined it.

Your eyes open in surprise, face immediately blushes up in response. Involuntary. The heat just starts rushing to your cheeks. “Did you… did you just kiss me?”

He notices a slight twitch in your eye, in the corner of your mouth, and all your boyfriend can do is blink innocently at you despite the contrasting mischief glinting in his eyes. 

“What? Must’ve been the air. I don’t know. Close your eyes again and I’ll double check for you.” 

“You think you’re so sly.” 

You give him a pointed look. And you’re too adorable that he laughs and tilts his head back a little, hands moving to squeeze your knees. There is a fond smile adorning his lips when he’s done laughing. 

“Come on, baby. Back to step one, or you’ll never know how to whistle.”

You give up arguing, maybe a little too hastily, because the moment you attempt to bring your lips together, Colt is already leaning in and placing his lips on yours in a quick peck. 

Your eyes widen. “Colt!”

“What?!” 

He tries to mimic seriousness, but his cheeks are throbbing in the constant smile he’s been wearing since you asked him to teach you how to whistle. And he’s still eyeing your lips so obviously because how could he not when your lips are so soft and inviting to him? 

They form words, but all he can think about is kissing them some more.

“Stop kissing me! I’m trying to learn how to whistle!”

He giggles, watching your face remain beet red.  “But you just look so cute and kissable. You can’t blame a man for wanting to kiss his girlfriend.”

Colt is so straightforward about what he wants, no hesitation dripping in his tongue as he tips his body forward to lean closer to you again because kissing you is apparently completely reasonable in this scenario.

“You think flirting is gonna get you out of th—”

He kisses you before you even finish talking, and you gasp in such an innocent way that he wants to kiss you again and again and again. And he does, lips soft and warm and persistent, and he tastes like the coffee he’d drank earlier. 

“I wasn’t even puckering my lips!” You crease your eyebrows, glaring at him in mock disbelief when he finally gives you a few seconds break from his lips. 

Colt only smiles, bigger this time. 

“Sorry, no yeah, that one was on me. I just really wanted to kiss you.”

“Okay. This isn’t going anywhere.” You suddenly say, hands atop of his as you try to pry them away. “I’m gonna ask Ryland to teach me.”

“Absolutely not.”

He says instantly, shuffling to intertwine his fingers with yours so he can keep you in place.  

“Ryland!” 

You’re attempting to set yourself free, yelling out his brother’s name who is silently grading papers in his room. 

“Nope!” Suddenly you’re engulfed in the entirety of Colt Seavers–his breath, his scent, his warmth, his arms that are now wrapped around you and carrying you towards his room.

“Ry—!” You squeal when he sends a playful slap on your ass before a kiss follows where your hips are. A short kiss, and you’re kicking your legs and roaring in laughter and Colt can’t help the nudge in his heart at the sound of complete, unabashed happiness from you. 

“Baby, put me down!” You’re still laughing, and he presses a kiss on you again, completely unbothered. “You still have to teach me to whistle.”

“Sure, baby. Of course I will!”

“Without all the kissing!” 

“But, baby.” He says, already smiling. Already trying to put up the best argument of his life. “That’s the best part!”

You roll your eyes, but you’re still laughing, and Colt thinks he will never grow tired of your smile, of your laughter, of moments like these where he gets to annoy you, gets to make you laugh.

𝄢 and sebastian, who usually has opinions about every musician he meets, just stares at you for a second too long before remembering how words work. that’s the replacement singer?

𝄢 “you know jazz?” he asks cautiously, still halfway expecting disappointment because he’s spent years dealing with people who say they understand jazz and then proceed to butcher it. you just smile softly. “i know good jazz.” that should annoy him but instead, it completely derails him.

𝄢 rehearsal is supposed to be quick. just one song, maybe two or three. just enough to survive the evening. but then you step up beside the piano and ask: “what do you want to hear?” sebastian studies you carefully before playing a few opening notes from “is it a crime?” almost experimentally. because how can you fuck that up? it’s a classic.

𝄢 most singers oversing it. push too hard and mistake restraint for lack of emotion. but you don’t. you sink into the song slowly like smoke filling a room. low velvet voice and perfect timing. no unnecessary dramatics. and sebastian— for the first time in his life, sebastian completely misses his next chord because he’s too busy staring at you.

𝄢 because suddenly the club sounds exactly like the version he’s carried around in his head for years. it’s intimate, it’s warm. late-night golden. it’s alive.

𝄢 when the song ends, there’s silence for a second. you glance over at him curiously. “well?” sebastian just blinks, then: “where the hell have you been?”

𝄢 the first performance is supposed to be forgettable. background music while people drink overpriced whiskey and pretend to understand coltrane. then you start singing and the entire room changes. not dramatically at first. quietly. all conversations slowing. glasses lowering. people turning in their seats without realising they’re doing it. because your voice doesn’t sound forced or theatrical. it slips through the room slow and warm and intimate, like smoke curling through dim light. smooth in that impossible sade kind of way. effortless. sensual without trying to be.

𝄢 sebastian’s standing by the bar when he realises he’s completely stopped moving. he’s just staring because suddenly the club sounds like the version he’s had in his head for years. not polished. not commercial. not obnoxiously drunk and loud. it’s full of soul.

𝄢 and the worst part is that you catch him watching halfway through the set. your eyes meet across the club while he’s frozen beside the piano and you smile slightly into the microphone.

𝄢 sebastian almost misses his cue entirely. after the performance the crowd applauds harder than they ever have before in that club. and sebastian, who normally acts deeply emotionally constipated about praise, immediately corners you backstage. “you free tomorrow night?” you raise an eyebrow. “for another emergency?”

“for employment.”

𝄢 from that point onwards, the club changes completely. because people become obsessed with the two of you. not just the music. you and sebastian. the chemistry is visible from the stage immediately and neither of you are subtle enough to hide it properly. sebastian watching you while he plays piano like he’s witnessing divine intervention.

𝄢 you leaning against the mic stand smiling at him knowingly during solos. the quiet little conversations between songs that feel far too intimate for an audience to be witnessing. people start coming back specifically to watch the dynamic unfold. entire tables placing bets on whether you’re secretly together.

𝄢 sebastian doesn’t call it “being attracted to you” at first, he calls it as “professional curiosity” which is his favourite lie to himself. he tells himself he’s just fascinated by how you bend timing, how you sit behind the beat like you’re refusing to be chased by it

𝄢 you notice him noticing you before he ever speaks properly. it’s not obvious attention, it’s worse: quiet attention. the kind that lingers too long on your phrasing after you’ve finished a line, like he’s trying to reverse-engineer you

𝄢 the first real shift happens when you start changing small things just to see if he reacts. a held note slightly longer. a lyric twisted into something more playful. he reacts every time, even if it’s just a micro-expression in his jaw. you start playing to him specifically without meaning to. not in a performative way, more like your instincts adapt. you lean into certain phrases because you know he’ll recognise them as a challenge

𝄢 there’s a night where you hold eye contact during a long instrumental break and neither of you looks away first. after that, everything changes slightly. not dramatically, just enough that it can’t be undone

𝄢 sebastian starts doing small, unnecessary acts of care that he immediately tries to rationalise: saving you a seat near his piano during your breaks without acknowledging it. adjusting the stage light so it doesn’t hit your eyes directly. rewriting the set order so your hardest song isn’t first

𝄢 he watches you more than he means to. not in a staring way at first, more like his attention just keeps drifting there. when he catches himself, he looks away too quickly and pretends he was listening to the band. you start catching him at it. sometimes you pause mid-sentence just to see if he’s paying attention. he always is. he just looks like he isn’t.

𝄢 he starts walking you out without announcing it, like it’s obvious. he takes your coat off the back of a chair without asking and holds it out. when you look at him, he says: “you’re slow when you’re cold.” and refuses to elaborate. you begin timing your exits so you meet him in the same corridor after shows. neither of you admit this is planned.

𝄢 sebastian starts getting protective in very quiet, socially unacceptable ways. if someone interrupts your set, they mysteriously don’t get booked again. if someone talks over you, the sound balance “accidentally” shifts so they can’t hear themselves properly. if someone flirts with you after a show, sebastian suddenly appears beside you with a question about “logistics”

𝄢 he never acknowledges jealousy. he reframes it as professionalism. “they’re distracting the room.” “they’re not respecting the music.” “they don’t understand timing.” you call him out once: “you don’t like people talking to me.” and he replies, without looking at you: “i don’t like people wasting your time.” that lands harder than he intends. he goes quiet for the rest of the night.

𝄢 he begins adjusting the club’s rhythm around you. not in big changes. just tiny edits that make your presence feel inevitable rather than scheduled. you start leaning into him emotionally in small ways without naming it: “was that set alright?” “you’d tell me if it wasn’t, wouldn’t you?” and he always answers honestly, which surprises both of you.

𝄢 sebastian becomes slightly worse at pretending he doesn’t care. people notice before he does. someone says: “you’ve got favourites now.” and he replies: “i’ve got standards.”

𝄢 you start noticing he only fully relaxes when you’re still in the building after your set. not speaking, just present. one night, you ask: “do you ever go home?”and he says: “eventually, but not when you’re still here.” he immediately regrets it. you don’t let him retract it. you just nod like it makes perfect sense.

𝄢 sebastian is falling in love and he feels like control he regained after mia is slowly failing in very precise ways. he starts waiting for you to arrive because it’s the best part of his day. he begins smiling slightly when he hears your voice before he sees you. and your falling in love looks like familiarity turning into dependency. you look for him first in any room. you sing differently when you know he’s listening. you start staying longer just to see what he’ll say when the crowd leaves

𝄢 neither of you define it, because if you do, it stops being something you can hide behind work. and right now, the work is the excuse that lets him stand close enough to you without falling apart.

𝄢 bar goers openly complaining about the way sebastian looks at you. band members hanging around after hours just to witness whatever strange romantic tension keeps happening onstage.

𝄢 because sebastian wilder, chronic snob and professional emotional avoider, becomes ridiculously obvious about you. he’s impossible. introducing you every night with increasingly lovestruck descriptions disguised as professionalism. “and now, the reason any of you people actually showed up tonight…” or: “if you talk during her solos i’ll have you removed physically.”

𝄢 meanwhile you stand beside the piano trying not to laugh while the audience loses their minds over him. he starts dressing even better than he already does too. not intentionally at first. but suddenly his nice button ups are nicer. his shoes extra polished. his hair actually brushed perfectly instead of loosely.

𝄢 because you complimented one outfit once and sebastian has apparently decided to build his entire self-esteem around that interaction forever.

𝄢 the rehearsals become unbearably intimate. all dim lighting and old records and lingering eye contact. sometimes you stay after closing while sebastian plays piano softly just for you, tie loosened, whiskey abandoned somewhere nearby while the city glows outside the windows. and he talks more around you. that’s what surprises everybody most. because sebastian usually keeps people at arm’s length emotionally. he hides behind jazz trivia and pretentiousness and sarcasm. but around you? he softens completely.

𝄢 suddenly he’s telling stories about childhood records he used to play. talking about music like it still hurts him a little. looking at you after songs with this open vulnerable expression like he forgot how to hide for a second. and you always notice.

𝄢 one night during rehearsal you quietly tell him; “you only tap your fingers like that when you’re nervous.” sebastian looks genuinely alarmed. “you can tell?” you smile, “i can tell everything with you.” he spends the next hour completely unable to make eye contact.

𝄢 the audience notices that shift too, because your chemistry evolves from flirtation into something softer and infinitely more dangerous. suddenly there are moments onstage where you look at each other too long after songs end. little smiles meant only for each other. sebastian adjusting the microphone for you with absurd tenderness before performances start. and the crowd eats it alive every single night.

𝄢 articles start appearing about the club. “the jazz revival hidden in downtown la” “the impossible chemistry keeping audiences returning weekly” sebastian pretends to hate the attention. meanwhile he keeps every article folded carefully beneath the counter in his office.

𝄢 after shows the two of you always end up sitting together in the empty club long after everyone leaves. exhausted. half-drunk on whiskey and adrenaline. music still humming softly through the speakers. sometimes you sit on top of the piano while sebastian talks nonsense beside you at three in the morning. sometimes he plays quietly while you sing only for him. those are his favourite moments. no audience, no applause. just you in the dim golden light sounding like true love and velvet.

𝄢 sebastian falls first obviously, catastrophically too. because you understand music the way he does. you make jazz sound intimate again, human again.

𝄢 and sebastian looks at you like you saved something inside him he thought had died years ago. one night after a packed show, you find him alone at the piano after closing, absentmindedly replaying one of your songs. he doesn’t notice you immediately but he feels you there. he’s smiling to himself softly while playing. completely gone. “you know people think we’re sleeping together,” you tease lightly from the doorway.

𝄢 sebastian glances up. and the look on his face is so fond it almost catches you off guard. “yeah?” he says quietly. “they’d probably lose their minds if they knew i’m actually worse than that.” you lean against the piano curiously. “worse how?”