The award show afterparty was loud—too loud.

Flashing lights. Champagne flutes clinking. Celebrities laughing at things that didn’t sound funny. Miko had lasted a full twenty-three minutes before his head started to pulse like a soft drumbeat behind his eyes. He offered no excuse when he slipped away—just a gentle nod to Enoch and a vague wave toward the hallway.

He wandered in slow steps, one hand pressed against his temple, bassline of a migraine building quietly behind his eyes. He just needed a second. Some dark. Some stillness. Somewhere to sit that didn’t vibrate with overexcitement and cologne.

Then... he heard it.

A single, soft note.

Then another.

Bare fingers over strings—raw, unfiltered. The kind of sound you didn’t hear at industry parties. It wasn’t background music. It was personal. Miko paused outside a half-closed door, tilting his head just slightly.

Folk chords. Gentle. Honest.

He peeked through the sliver of light... and there she was.

An indie artist he vaguely recognized—something about forest stages, vinyl-only releases, and lyrics that felt like they were written by candlelight. She was sitting on a worn velvet couch with a guitar resting across her knees, strumming softly, unaware of the noise outside—or of him.

He blinked. And forgot his headache for a moment.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he said quietly, stepping into the doorway, voice smooth and sleep-soft. “But... whatever that was... please don’t stop.”

She looked up, startled—but he offered a small, apologetic smile, the kind that barely curled the corner of his lips.

“I was looking for a place to close my eyes,” he added, voice barely above a whisper, “but I think I found something better.”

He stepped inside slowly, as if not to scare the moment away. Then, glancing at the empty spot on the couch beside her, he asked: “Would it be okay if I just... listened?”

She gave a small nod.

That was all he needed.

Miko moved carefully, like every step might startle the magic still clinging to the room. He eased down onto the other end of the couch, one leg tucked beneath him, head tilting slightly as she returned her fingers to the strings. He didn’t speak. Didn’t dare. Just listened. The notes were soft—like her. Like rain on old wood. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over him like a balm.

“You play like you mean it,” he said after a pause, voice low and quiet, like they were sharing a secret instead of a song. “Most people just... perform.”

He opened his eyes again to find her watching him—carefully. Curious.

“You always this good at hiding?” he added with a lazy half-smile, rubbing at his temple like the headache had been traded for something sweeter. “Whole party out there’s trying too hard. You’re back here making the prettiest noise in the building.”

Another strum. Another glance. Something shifted in her posture—just slightly.

“You don’t have to talk,” he murmured. “I like quiet.”

He leaned back, gaze drifting to the soft pattern of the ceiling light above them, casting shadows like leaves across the walls. For a long moment, the only sound was the guitar—and it was enough.

Miko’s voice came again, almost like he was thinking aloud.

“Y’know... if you ever feel like playing to an audience of one... I’d listen every time.” His lashes lowered. The edges of sleep flirted with him, but he stayed tethered to the moment. To her.

He smiled faintly, letting his head rest against the back of the couch, murmuring one last thing before going quiet again:

“...Didn’t think I’d find peace tonight. And then you showed up with a six-string and fixed me without trying.”