The night had been long — a brutal match that left Damian’s ribs aching and his knuckles bruised. The adrenaline was still buzzing through his veins as the locker room lights dimmed, leaving only silence and the faint echo of the crowd still ringing in his head.
“Hell of a night, Uce,” Jey said, clapping his shoulder as they left the arena. “You earned a drink or five.”
“Yeah,” Damian murmured, pulling his hoodie over his head. “Just one. I need to clear my head.”
Jey gave him that knowing grin. “Sure… clear your head. Not thinkin’ about her at all, right?”
Damian just smirked. “Goodnight, Jey.”
He walked through downtown Austin alone, the city alive with Friday energy — laughter spilling from open bars, neon lights bouncing off puddles from earlier rain. The air was warm and smelled like whiskey, street tacos, and perfume.
He didn’t know where he was going until he heard it.
Soft. Smoky. Unmistakable.
It drifted through the open doorway of a small jazz bar tucked between a tattoo parlor and a bookstore. The words wrapped around the night like silk:
“He’s a smooth operator…”
Damian stopped dead. The tone was lower, sultry, but full of quiet ache — and he knew that voice.
He stepped closer, peeking through the dimly lit window. There she was — Arielle.
Her curls caught the low amber light, her eyes half-closed as she sang, holding the mic with both hands like it was the only thing anchoring her. A live band played behind her — gentle bass, a steady snare, the sax weaving through every note.
The room was small, maybe thirty people at most. Everyone seemed enchanted, but Damian barely breathed. She wasn’t just singing Sade. She was feeling it — every lyric slow and deliberate, dripping with intimacy.
When she reached the chorus again —
“Coast to coast, L.A. to Chicago…”
he felt something twist deep in his chest.
That same pull he’d felt the day they met, stronger now.
When the song ended, the room erupted in soft applause. She smiled shyly, thanking the crowd before retreating to a corner of the bar with a drink.
That’s when Damian walked in.
He caught the bartender’s eye, gesturing for something simple — whiskey, neat. The man poured it, slid it over without a word. Damian turned toward her, his tall frame hard to miss even in the low light.
Arielle looked up — surprise flickering across her face before that familiar calm returned.
“Well,” she said, voice teasing but low. “Didn’t think I’d find you in a place like this.”
He leaned against the bar, eyes never leaving hers. “Didn’t think I’d find you singing.”
She shrugged lightly, a small smile curving her lips. “It’s my usual Friday night routine. Helps me breathe.”
“Then I guess I was meant to hear you tonight,” he said softly.
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment before she nodded toward the stool beside her. “You gonna sit or just stand there lookin’ like my bodyguard?”
Damian chuckled, sliding into the seat. “You might need one after that performance.”
“Yeah,” he said, voice dropping slightly. “’Cause every man in here just fell in love with you.”
Her laugh was quiet, genuine — and it hit him harder than he expected.
“So what does that make you?” she asked.
He took a slow sip of his drink, eyes meeting hers. “The one who saw you first.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was electric. The band started another soft melody in the background, and for the first time in months, Damian didn’t feel like Damian Priest — just Luis sitting across from the woman who unknowingly stole his peace.
The crowd had thinned, the night stretching quiet and slow. The bartender dimmed the lights, signaling last call. Arielle packed her mic into a small case, humming faintly to herself as the band waved their goodbyes.
Damian lingered near the door, bourbon long gone, jacket slung over one shoulder. He didn’t want to seem like he was hovering — but he also didn’t want the night to end.
When she finally turned and caught his eye, that same calm smile found its way to her lips.
“You planning to follow me again, or is this just coincidence?”
He grinned faintly. “Guess I’m bad at coincidences.”
She laughed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You always this smooth, or is it the whiskey talking?”
“Little bit of both,” he said, stepping aside to open the door for her. “Where you headed?”
“Home. It’s just a few blocks.”
He nodded, falling into step beside her. The city had quieted down — streetlights flickered across rain-slick pavement, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and smoke. Their footsteps echoed in rhythm, unhurried, comfortable.
“You were amazing tonight,” Damian said finally. “Didn’t know you sang like that.”
“Most people don’t,” Arielle replied softly. “I don’t really advertise it. Music’s kind of… my peace.”
He nodded, understanding that more than she could know. “Peace is hard to come by.”
“Yeah,” she said, glancing up at him. “You look like someone who’s used to chaos.”
He chuckled. “You’re not wrong.”
They crossed a quiet intersection, the only sound the soft hum of streetlights. She hugged her jacket closer.
“So, wrestling’s loud, huh?”
He looked at her, surprised she knew.
She smirked. “Please. You think I don’t know who you are? You’re all over TV. The crowd’s wild for you.”
“Didn’t think you were into that,” he admitted.
“I’m not,” she said with a shrug. “But I recognize someone who carries alot on his shoulders. I see it every time you walk into a room.”
He slowed, the words hitting deeper than she probably realized. “That’s… accurate.”
“Mm.” She smiled, kicking a small rock along the sidewalk. “You should come to one of my open mics next week. It’s not big — just locals, wine, bad lighting. But it’s honest.”
He looked at her, half-smiling. “You inviting me or testing me?”
“Maybe both,” she teased.
They stopped in front of a brick apartment building wrapped in ivy. A single porch light glowed at the entrance. She turned toward him, her curls catching the light like they were kissed by gold.
“This is me,” she said softly.
He nodded, suddenly not wanting to leave. “Arielle.”
She blinked. “You remembered.”
“Hard to forget,” he said, voice low.
A pause stretched between them — not awkward, but charged. Then she smiled again, that small, knowing smile that always made his chest tighten.
He tilted his head, fighting the urge to ask if he could see her again. Instead, he just said, “Goodnight, songbird.”
Her laugh was quiet, melting into the sound of her key turning in the lock. And as she disappeared inside, Damian stood there for a long moment, hands in his pockets, staring at the soft glow from her window.
That calm he’d been chasing for months?
He finally found it — and it was her voice.
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