The dive bar on Flatbush Avenue was a relic, a squat brick building wedged between a vape shop and a shuttered laundromat, its neon sign buzzing Rusty Anchor in flickering red cursive.
It was Friday night, a week after Britney Germanotta's collision with Alton Bieber on the subway platform, and the air outside was crisp, laced with the faint rot of fallen leaves and exhaust.
Inside, the bar smelled of spilled beer, cigarette smoke clinging to the walls despite the smoking ban, and the sour tang of desperation.
The jukebox in the corner warbled a warped rendition of Springsteen's Born to Run, half-drowned by the clatter of pool balls and the low hum of voices-working-class Brooklynites unwinding, drowning, or both.
Britney didn't want to be here. She sat slouched in a sticky vinyl booth near the back, her sketchbook splayed open on the table, her pencil tapping a restless beat against the page.
She wore the same leather jacket from the subway, its collar turned up like armor, and her dark hair was pulled into a messy knot, strands escaping to frame her sharp, restless face.
Her green eyes flicked between the crowd and the blank page, searching for something to anchor her.
She'd been dragged here by her friend Tara, a loudmouth junior from her art class who'd insisted on "living a little" after a week of midterms.
Tara was across the room now, flirting with a bartender twice her age, her laughter cutting through the din.
Britney's other friend, Jamal, a wiry kid with a camera slung around his neck, was snapping photos of the bar's peeling wallpaper, muttering about "aesthetic decay."
"Yo, Brit, you gonna draw something or just glare at the table all night?" Jamal slid into the booth across from her, his lens cap dangling from his fingers.
He had a lopsided grin, the kind that usually softened her edges, but tonight she wasn't in the mood.
"Fuck off," she muttered, her pencil digging into the page hard enough to tear it. She'd sketched a jagged line-a crack splitting a wall-before abandoning it.
Her head was a mess, had been since that night at Union Square. She couldn't shake the memory of the busker boy-Alton, he'd said-his voice rough like gravel, his eyes pinning her in place.
She hadn't gone back to the subway since, hadn't wanted to risk seeing him again. Not because she didn't want to, but because she did, and that scared her more than anything.
Jamal raised his hands in mock surrender. "Damn, girl, who pissed in your cereal? You've been extra lately."
She didn't answer, just flipped her sketchbook shut and leaned back, arms crossed. The bar was getting louder, the crowd thickening as the night wore on.
A group of guys in faded Carhartt jackets roared at a missed shot at the pool table; a woman in a sequined top swayed alone by the jukebox, her drink sloshing.
Britney's gaze drifted, restless, until it snagged on the small stage in the corner-a plywood platform barely two feet off the ground, lit by a single bulb dangling from a cord.
A figure stepped onto it, guitar in hand, and her breath stopped. It was him. Alton Bieber. Same denim jacket, same messy hair falling into his eyes, same battered acoustic slung across his chest.
He adjusted the microphone stand with a quick, practiced flick, his movements loose but deliberate, like he'd done this a hundred times. The amp at his feet hummed to life, a low buzz that cut through the bar's chaos.
He tapped the mic, a soft thump-thump echoing, and the room quieted-not completely, but enough. Enough for Britney to hear her own pulse thudding in her ears.
"Holy shit," she whispered, too low for Jamal to catch.
Alton cleared his throat, his voice rasping through the speakers. "Uh, hey. I'm Alton. Gonna play a couple songs. Tip if you feel like it."
He didn't smile, didn't pander-just sat on a stool, tuned his guitar with a few quick twists, and started to play.
The first notes were slow, mournful, a minor chord that hung in the air like smoke. Then he sang, and it was like the subway all over again-raw, unpolished, piercing.
"I've been walking these streets alone, concrete cuts into my bones..."
His voice was a blade, slicing through the noise, and Britney felt it in her chest, a ache she couldn't name. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her sketchbook forgotten.
Jamal noticed. "You know him or something?"
"No," she lied, too fast. "Just... he's good."
"Good?" Jamal snorted. "He's rough as hell. Sounds like he's gargling glass."
"Shut up," she snapped, her eyes never leaving Alton.
He was halfway through the song now, his head bowed over the guitar, fingers moving with a quiet fury.
"The city's a cage, the sky's a lie, I'm screaming but I don't know why..."
The lyrics hit her like a punch-her city, her cage, her scream trapped in charcoal lines.
She didn't know how he did it, how he pulled her apart with a handful of words, but she couldn't look away.
The song ended, the last note fading into a smattering of claps and a whistle from Tara, who'd wandered back with a beer in hand.
"He's hot," she declared, dropping into the booth. "In a sad-boy kinda way. You think he's single?"
Britney's jaw tightened. "Don't care."
"Liar," Tara teased, nudging her. "You're staring like you wanna climb him."
"Fuck you," Britney said, but there was no heat in it.
She grabbed her coffee-cold now, abandoned earlier-and took a sip to hide the flush creeping up her neck.
Alton started another song, faster this time, a restless rhythm that matched the flicker of his eyes across the room.
They landed on her, just for a second, and she swore he paused-a hitch in his breath, a falter in his strumming-before looking away.
Did he recognize her? She couldn't tell, and it gnawed at her.
The set lasted three songs, each one peeling back another layer of him-longing, anger, a quiet hope buried under scars.
When he finished, the bar clapped louder, a few coins clinking into the open guitar case he'd set by the stage.
He mumbled a "thanks" into the mic, slung his guitar over his shoulder, and stepped down, disappearing into the crowd toward the bar.
Britney watched him go, her fingers itching for her pencil, her mind buzzing with the shape of him-those hands, that voice, the way he carried his pain like it weighed nothing and everything.
"Go talk to him," Jamal said, smirking. "You're practically drooling."
"I'm not," she shot back, but her voice wavered. She stood anyway, shoving her sketchbook into her bag, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I need a drink."
"Sure you do," Tara called after her, laughing.
The bar counter was a chipped slab of wood, sticky with years of spills, and Alton leaned against it, his back to her, ordering a water from the bartender.
Up close, he was taller than she remembered, his frame wiry but solid, like he'd fought to keep himself together.
She hesitated, her boots scuffing the floor, then stepped up beside him, her shoulder brushing his arm.
"Water's free, you know," she said, her voice dry, testing.
He turned, and those stormy blue eyes hit her again, recognition flashing in them.
"Yeah, well, I'm broke," he said, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "You're the subway girl. Britney, right?"
She nodded, caught off guard by how easily he remembered. "And you're Alton. You play here a lot?"
"Sometimes. Pays better than the trains." He took the glass the bartender slid over, his fingers leaving smudges on the condensation. "Didn't peg you for a bar type."
"I'm not. Friends dragged me." She jerked her head toward the booth, where Tara was now waving obnoxiously. She ignored it, leaning against the counter, her jacket creaking. "You're good. Up there."
He raised an eyebrow, surprised. "You think?"
"Yeah. Rough, but real." She echoed his words from the bodega-it's fucked up, but it's real-and saw the flicker of a grin cross his face.
"Guess that's my brand," he said, sipping his water. "You draw anything tonight?"
She shrugged, her bag heavy on her shoulder. "Not yet. Nothing worth it."
"Bullshit. That bird you did-it's still in my head." He set the glass down, his gaze steady. "You should draw me sometime. If you want."
Her stomach flipped, a quick, unsteady lurch. "Maybe I will."
They stood there, the bar's noise fading into a dull roar around them, the space between them shrinking without either moving.
She could smell him-cedar and smoke, a hint of sweat-and it made her dizzy, like standing too close to a fire.
She didn't know what to say next, didn't trust herself to keep it together, so she nodded toward an empty booth in the back. "Wanna sit?"
He didn't hesitate. "Yeah."
They slid into the booth, him with his guitar propped beside him, her with her bag on the seat, a barrier she didn't need but clung to anyway.
The table was scarred with initials and cigarette burns, and she traced one with her finger as he leaned back, stretching his legs under the table until his knee brushed hers. She didn't pull away.
Britney looked at him, really looked-past the scar on his eyebrow, the shadows under his eyes, the way his hands fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve.
He was a mirror, cracked and jagged like her, and it terrified her how much she saw herself in him. "You ever think about leaving?" she asked, quieter now.
"All the time," he said. "Saving up. Gonna get a bus ticket one day-LA, maybe. Somewhere warm. You?"
She snorted, bitter. "Can't. Mom'd fall apart without me to yell at. And I don't have anywhere to go."
"You could," he said, and there was a spark in his voice, a dare. "You're tougher than you think."
She didn't know how to answer that, so she didn't. They sat in silence, the jukebox kicking into a Stones song-Paint It Black-and it fit, too well.
She wanted to ask more-where he slept, how he ate, why he sang like that-but the words stuck. Instead, she pulled her sketchbook out, flipped it open, and started drawing him.
He watched, saying nothing, his eyes tracking her pencil as it scratched out his jaw, his hands, the curve of his guitar leaning against the booth.
The lines were quick, rough, but alive, and when she finished, she slid it across the table without a word.
He stared at it, his breath catching. "Damn," he said finally. "That's me?"
"That's you," she said, her voice tight.
He looked up, and something shifted-something heavy, unspoken, locking them in place.
The bar faded, the crowd, the music, until it was just them, two broken kids staring down a thread they couldn't untangle.
He reached across the table, slow, and brushed his fingers over hers, a question in his touch.
She didn't pull back. Her hand turned, palm up, and his fingers laced through hers, rough and warm.
It was stupid, reckless-she didn't know him, not really-but it felt right, like a piece clicking into place.
Her heart pounded, loud enough she swore he could hear it, and when he leaned closer, she didn't stop him.
The kiss was sudden, desperate, his lips crashing into hers under the dim glow of a flickering neon sign-Budweiser, buzzing like a heartbeat.
It tasted of water and salt and something deeper, something neither of them could name.
Her hands found his jacket, gripping the denim, and his slid to her neck, pulling her in.
It wasn't soft, wasn't sweet-it was a collision, a release, a scream they'd both been holding back.
When they broke apart, breathless, the bar snapped back into focus-laughter, clinking glasses, Tara's distant whoop of approval.
Britney's face burned, but she didn't let go of his hand. Alton's eyes were dark, searching, a grin tugging at his mouth.
"Guess we're not strangers anymore," he said, voice low.
"Guess not," she said, and for the first time in weeks, she smiled-a real one, small and cracked, but there.
They stayed in that booth for hours, talking, touching, unraveling each other's edges. She told him about her mother's rages, the broken dishes, the nights she'd slept in stairwells.
He told her about his father's fists, the foster homes, the songs he wrote to keep sane.
They shared wounds like currency, trading pain for trust, and when the bar closed at 2 a.m., they stumbled into the night, hands still tangled.
Outside, the air was sharp, the streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement.
Alton pulled her close, kissing her again under a busted awning, the city humming around them.
"See you soon?" he asked, his breath warm against her cheek.
"Yeah," she said, and meant it.
He walked off toward the subway, guitar swinging, and she watched him go, her heart a mess of hope and dread.
She didn't know what this was-didn't know how to hold it without breaking it-but she felt it, deep and unyielding, pulling her toward him like fate.
And fate, as it turned out, had teeth.