𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙚 !
˚ʚ🎶ɞ˚
Y/n Cantrelle, a celebrated jazz vocalist whose voice has become the heartbeat of France, has spent a lifetime serenading audiences in the dim glow of nightclubs, the smoky warmth of pubs, and even the sacred hall...
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｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა 🌺 ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ
🌺 ˚ʚ 𝙈𝙀𝙀𝙏 𝘼𝙂𝘼𝙄𝙉 ɞ˚ 🌺
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The soft jingle of the grocery store's bell was almost swallowed by the quiet hum of the refrigerated aisles. Y/n pushed a cart slowly through the narrow rows, his fingers absently tracing the smooth handle, his eyes scanning the shelves. The late evening rush had passed, leaving the place nearly empty, bathed in the sterile glow of fluorescent lights. Outside, the city buzzed with life, but here, the world felt smaller and quieter.
It was nice once in a while to get away from the stage lights and big crowds that Y/n was so used to being the center of. It made him more at ease and kept him grounded. There was the occasional enthusiastic fan who would appear, begging for an autograph from the jazz singer. But besides that, it was relatively peaceful.
He glanced down at his list—simple things. A bottle of red wine, fresh herbs, maybe some fruit. Something comforting for a quiet night in. The afterglow of last night's performance still clung to him, though there was a weight of fatigue in his bones. His mind, still half-lost in the rhythms of music, moved with a languid grace as he reached for a ripe tomato, its skin cool against his fingertips.
Y/n wasn't used to the stillness. His life was a whirl of jazz clubs and velvet curtains, of dim lighting and smoky air, where the notes of his voice intertwined with the pulse of the night. But here, amid the muted rustle of shoppers and the distant hum of the store's overhead music, there was no stage, no spotlight. Just the soft shuffle of footsteps and the clink of glass bottles being placed into carts.
He moved through the aisles methodically, his pace unhurried. The produce section was nearly empty, save for a man standing near the fresh herbs, his back to Y/n. For a moment, Y/n felt a faint stir of recognition, but dismissed it—Paris was a city of fleeting faces. The man, dressed in a simple coat, reached for a sprig of rosemary, his movements precise, almost mechanical.
Y/n's cart paused beside the neatly arranged bunches of basil and thyme. His fingers grazed the edge of a bundle when the man turned, ever so slightly.
And there it was—something familiar. A quiet current that ran beneath the ordinary.
Their eyes didn't meet at first. Y/n could only catch the man's profile, but there was a strange sense of déjà vu. His hand paused mid-motion, the air between them thickening, as if the fluorescent lights had suddenly dimmed, the world shrinking to just the two of them in this unassuming corner of the store.
Then the man's gaze lifted, locking onto Y/n with a suddenness that felt deliberate, though his expression remained unreadable. It was a glance that lasted a heartbeat too long, a look heavy with unspoken things. Y/n stood there, still holding the bundle of basil, as if waiting for a signal he couldn't quite name.
