Work Text:
Jacob Palmer is a womanizer.
And somehow, somewhere along the way, he’d accidentally settled into this strange, undefined thing with the jazz musician at the bar.
And apparently, that hadn’t made him realize anything at all.
“Are you performing tonight?”
The same question he asked every time, the one that always made me hope he’d come watch me play.
“Hey ladies, mind if I join?”
Under the low amber stage lights, with the band’s music drifting softly through the room, my eyes kept wandering back to a table in the corner.
He sat there chatting with a different beautiful woman night after night, so openly that I didn’t even have to try to catch him in the act.
We draw lines, then close our eyes so we can pretend for a while
“Hey.”
“Hey?”
“You play really well.”
It was a Friday night at the jazz bar downtown. I played there regularly.
“I’ve been watching you for a few nights now. Your skills are no joke.”
I lifted my glass for a drink while listening to him ramble about something I didn’t think I cared much about.
“Uh-huh. Thanks.”
“You look so happy when you play. You must really love jazz.”
I cleared my throat, set my glass back on the long counter, and prepared to leave.
“Sorry for interrupting, but I’m not interested in men.”
He gave me a silly smile, the kind you make when you’re trying to save face, then shrugged lightly, as if unsure what he was even doing.
“Hey, you don’t think I wanted to talk just because I’m interested in jazz, do you? Do I really look that boring?”
“Sorry. Not interested.”
If I remember correctly, I rushed home that night faster than I ever had before.
Unbelievably, I ran into him again the next night. Worse, he actually waved me over after I finished performing.
What a weirdo.
“Jacob,” he said once he got close enough.
“Nice to finally meet you.”
I stared at him.
This asshole chose to walk over to me when I’d clearly decided not to go to him.
“Sebastian.”
The same cocktail I’d ordered yesterday was placed in front of me before I’d even said a word to the bartender.
I didn’t need to look around to know who was responsible. To my left, that idiot was winking and pointing at me like he was proud of himself for figuring out my taste.
“You play here every night?”
“If you come here this often, shouldn’t you already know?”
I teased, then slid the freshly served drink back toward him. He only raised an eyebrow in amusement. Maybe I just wanted to punch this guy in the face. Who knows? The intrusive thoughts were loud tonight.
“Give me three minutes.”
“For what?”
“To make you think I’m interesting.”
Cocky bastard. He knew I wasn’t the type to talk first. I hadn’t even said I’d still be sitting there three minutes from now.
“Sebastian,” he began,
“you don’t just like jazz, you love it. And yeah, I know you’re talented, but I’m guessing you’ve heard that your whole life already. Me? I don’t really listen to jazz myself. I mean, where do people even hear jazz these days?”
He slid the drink back toward me.
“But when you play...” His voice softened slightly.
“It feels like you’re trying to tell a story. Like every note means something to you. Honestly, I think that’s kind of insane. In a good way.”
Dear lord, does he knows what he's talking about?
“...Thanks?”
You don’t get compliments like that every day. It was strangely ticklish.
“So! I genuinely want to know, how did you get into jazz?”
Unbelievable. Exactly three minutes, ending with a question that somehow got me talking about myself instead.
“Because it’s unpredictable.” And I know my answer.
“Like me.”
“No. You’re more like someone mentally unstable.”
“Ouch.”
Before I realized it, I’d spent the next several minutes telling him about myself.
“You know... I really wanna have my own jazz club someday.”
“Oh yeah?” he replied immediately.
“So you’ve already got a name picked out, don’t you?”
“Mm-hm. Sure do.”
“Which is?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Knew it.”
I still remember the way he looked at me that night.
The way his eyes never left mine. The way he listened more attentively than anyone I’d ever talked to before.
“You’re actually pretty fun to talk to.”
“Nah, that’s you. I could listen to you talk for hours.”
“It’s not like I’ve got that much to say.”
That earned a laugh from both of us, and as the hours slipped by, the crowd in the bar slowly thinned out around us.
“Wanna play one more song before we head home?”
“Just so we’re clear,” I replied, standing from my seat,
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Then Jacob blinked at me.
“Jesus, I hadn’t even asked yet.”
That night, it was just me alone beneath the stage lights, pouring more of myself into the final song than I’d ever intended to for just one person.
And after that, it became routine.
Every night after my set, Jacob would be waiting for me in the same spot. And somehow, I always ended up sitting down to talk with him again.
Eventually, I started seeing him outside of work too. Usually because he was the one asking me to.
Working out? Not really my thing. Shopping, though? Weirdly enough, he had ridiculously good taste.
Honestly, for “just friends,” we spent way too much time together.
He always asked what I was doing, always finding ways to insert himself into my day, even though half the time I didn’t think he genuinely cared about the answer.
I liked teasing him about going home with a different woman every night, though the truth was that pretending not to notice felt easier.
And he’d ask me where I was going with that look on his face, like he didn’t actually want to know either.
At some point, I told myself to stop trying to guess where this thing between us was heading.
Even though deep down, I already knew we’d drifted far past whatever I originally thought we were supposed to be.
Maybe I was the one who got the wrong idea.
Maybe I was the only one who thought we were close.
But honestly, how was I supposed not to?
“Wanna get out of here?”
That same familiar voice. The one I always caught myself listening for before I even turned around.
And every time, I found myself wondering if this was what it felt like to always get things wrong.
The live music hadn’t even ended yet. I didn’t want to look at which beautiful lady he’d be taking home tonight.
So instead, like always, I lowered my gaze to the instrument in front of me.
Because I didn’t want to know where he was going after this.
Maybe pretending we were nothing at all to each other really was for the best.
So I just hoped we’d move along mutually.