1. The Bar
Louis' POV
A wave of frustration washed over me. “Where in the hell is he?” I muttered to myself, scanning the crowded bar. It was 10:30 PM on a Thursday, and Niall was already an hour late. Honestly, I’d rather spend the evening curled up with Netflix than squeezed amongst sweaty bodies and stale beer fumes. But Niall had insisted, raving about “the best band ever,” and I’d reluctantly agreed. Now, I was left to fend for myself, sipping a sickly sweet cocktail while Niall ignored my texts.
I sent another message – “Where the *fuck* are you, bro?” – for the third time, then opened a coloring app to distract myself. A gaggle of shrieking bachelorette party attendees swarmed the bar, their satin sashes a blur of pink. Just as I was losing myself in the calming strokes of the app, one of them nearly knocked my phone out of my hand. Enough was enough. I pushed through the mahogany doors leading to the balcony.
The cool night air was a relief. I lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply as the smoke settled my nerves. The bar crowd had been grating, but this—this was better. I took another drag and leaned against the railing, looking down at the miniature cars crawling below. Rooftop bars were supposed to be trendy, but I didn’t see the appeal. It was still crowded and chaotic, just a few feet higher.
A few minutes later, my phone buzzed. Niall. “Here, next to the stage.” Finally. I was ready to deliver a firm lecture, but as I turned back into the bar, I noticed something had shifted. The lights were dimmed, and music—not the predictable ukulele strumming I’d braced myself for—filled the space. It was deeper, richer, soulful like honey. Without realizing it, I began to relax, my body swaying to the rhythm as I moved towards the crowd, searching for Niall.
By the time I reached the front, the song had ended. That’s when I truly took in the band. The drummer was cute—drummers usually are—wearing a red bandanna that masked his dark, shaggy hair and a silver lip ring. All the musicians seemed to have one of those.
The guitarist wasn’t my type. Tall and muscular, with close-cropped brown hair, he reminded me of Neville, the kid I’d known growing up who had ended up in jail.
My gaze drifted to the lead singer, partially obscured by the stage. He was taking a sip of water—vodka, maybe. I could certainly use one myself. Then he turned around, and I tried to swallow the gasp that rose in my throat. He was one of the most beautiful people I'd ever seen. Long, curly brown hair tied back with a red, white, and blue bandanna, a jawline sculpted in stone, cheekbones that could cut glass. His lips curved into a teasing pout, and my own lips trembled in response. And his eyes—were they locking with mine? I glanced around, half expecting a crowd to be staring. But no one seemed to notice him, or me.
I met his gaze, trying to hide my embarrassment. Was there something on my face? Why was he looking at me? I ducked my head, trying to disappear into the shadows, and bumped into Niall.