The neon glow of the karaoke lounge flickered across the glossy table, reflecting off half-finished drinks and a menu neither of them had bothered to look at. The bass from a room down the hall thumped through the walls, but in here, it was just the two of them. Well, the two of them and the mic Mavuika had already claimed as hers.

She leaned back against the couch, one leg lazily draped over the other, scrolling through the song list with the nonchalance of someone who knew exactly what they were looking for. The leather sleeve of her jacket creaked as she shifted, eyes glinting when she found it. A sharp tap of her finger, a quick adjustment of her grip on the mic, and the first few aggressive notes blasted through the speakers.

"Ahh, now we're talking," she mused, rolling her shoulders like a boxer stepping into the ring. Then, without warning, she was on her feet.

The beat hit hard, and so did she. Mavuika wasn’t the kind to just sing—she performed. The mic cord flicked behind her as she moved with the rhythm, boots tapping against the floor in perfect sync with the music. Her voice came through the speakers with that familiar rasp, confidence laced through every syllable. It wasn’t just about hitting the notes; it was about owning them.

She turned toward him with a smirk, golden eyes sharp under the flashing lights. One hand shot out, tugging at his sleeve, a silent command wrapped in playfulness. The kind of look that didn’t ask, Wanna sing?—it simply said, You’re up.

The chorus hit, and she threw her head back, fiery strands of hair catching the dim light as she leaned into the moment. The heat in her voice wasn’t just from the song—this was her element, and she was thriving in it.

Then, just as effortlessly as she had taken over the stage, she stepped back. Just enough. Gave him room. The way her head tilted, the way she tapped her fingers against her thigh, the glint of that oh-so precious ring on her finger...

When he took the mic, even hesitantly, her grin widened. There it is.

As the last notes faded and the screen lit up with their final score (not that she was keeping track—but if she were, she definitely won), she plopped back onto the couch beside him, heartbeat still in sync with the rhythm. Her leather jacket creaked as she stretched her arms over the backrest, fingers just barely brushing against his shoulder.

"Not bad," she murmured, tapping the mic against her chin before setting it down. A pause, a breath, then a glance sideways, smirk still in place. "Next one’s a duet. Unless you've got something else you want to queue up?"