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She slipped into the speakeasy like a whisper, barely disturbing the air yet transforming the room with her mere presence. Her hair, a cascade of midnight and mahogany, framed a face that seemed hewn from moonlight. Though she never sought attention, the room paused, caught in the soft glow of her aura.

The speakeasy was hidden behind an old bookstore, its creaky door groaning as it opened. A haven for poets and dreamers, it was a place not meant to be found, yet she had a knack for uncovering such sanctuaries—places where smoke curled like poetry and silence held secrets.

Her name was Y/N, though she wore it lightly, as if it might drift away with the night. She was an artist or a poet, or perhaps both, though she never claimed the titles. She simply created, leaving traces of herself in every brushstroke, every verse, every lingering smile. She carried her beauty like a gift for others, even as it made hearts ache.

She settled into her usual spot at the bar—a worn wooden stool where the light was soft and the music seemed a private whisper. Her usual order—a glass of red wine, deep and rich like the verses she penned—was prepared without question by the bartender, a man with knowing eyes who had seen her here before, always alone, always with that distant look.

As she sipped her wine, her gaze fell upon a figure at the piano. Andrew Hozier-Byrne’s fingers danced over the keys with a grace that belied the rough world outside. Tonight, his music was a lullaby for the stars. When he noticed her, his smile radiated more warmth than summer sun. She returned it, her smile soft and unaware of its effect on him.

Andrew had watched her since her first visit, a night creature who seemed to blend with shadows and light. Torn between speaking to her and preserving the spell she cast over the room, he hesitated until tonight, when her open, trusting gaze urged him to act. He finished his piece with a flourish and approached her.

“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked, his voice low and respectful.

Y/N looked up, her eyes meeting his with a softness that made his breath hitch. “Of course,” she replied, her voice a melody he wanted to hear forever.

They spoke, or rather, Andrew spoke while Y/N listened, her head tilted, capturing every word as if it were a treasure. He shared stories of the piano, his solace and voice. She nodded, understanding in her eyes, and responded as though weaving a tale just for him.

“You play like the night sings,” she said, and Andrew’s heart stumbled. “It’s like... you tell a story without words, and it’s the most beautiful thing.”

He smiled shyly, unused to such praise. “And you, Y/N, what story do you tell?”

She looked down at her wine, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “I’m not sure I have a story worth telling,” she said. Andrew longed to tell her otherwise, that she was a story, a poem, a painting deserving to be seen. But before he could speak, the door creaked open again.

Damian Haas entered, his presence as commanding as a storm. Despite his casual attire—a skeleton shirt—his eyes held depths of someone who had seen much yet still found joy. He saw Y/N at the bar, illuminated by dim light, and felt a pull he couldn’t name but knew he needed.

Y/N greeted him with a smile that blossomed like a secret flower. “Damian,” she said, and Andrew felt a sharp pang in his chest.

Andrew smiled crookedly and nodded as Damian took the seat beside Y/N. “Have you two met?” she asked, her voice lively and sweet.

“We were just talking,” Andrew said, his voice deep.

Y/N sipped her wine, seemingly unaware of the tension between the men. “You both have the same kind of soul. Like you’re made of music and stories, and the world is waiting to hear what you’ll say next.”

Andrew and Damian exchanged a glance, an unspoken understanding—or rivalry—passing between them. Y/N remained blissfully unaware, her warmth wrapping around them like a gentle embrace.

They spent the evening talking, laughing, and sharing. Y/N’s affection was light and innocent, yet it sent shivers down their spines. She didn’t notice how they leaned closer or how their gazes lingered on her.

As the night wore on and the speakeasy emptied, Y/N finished her wine with a contented sigh. “I should be going,” she said, her voice tinged with something. “But I’m glad I ran into you both tonight. It’s nice to be around people who understand.”

She stood, slightly unsteady, and both Damian and Andrew reached out to steady her. Their hands brushed, and they froze, acutely aware of each other’s presence.

“Let me walk you home,” Damian offered gently, his eyes meeting Andrew’s with a silent challenge.

Andrew hesitated, then smiled sadly. “Yes, let Damian walk you home,” he said, though his heart ached to be the one by her side.

Y/N looked between them, her smile bright, oblivious to the tension. “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “You’re both so kind, but...”

Damian took her arm, and Andrew watched, his heart heavy. Y/N started walking to the door. “I can get home alone,” she said with a smile, as the door closed behind her. The room sighed, the echoes of their conversation lingering like a song that hadn’t yet ended.

Andrew turned to Damian. “Are you two... together?” he asked, frowning.