Elliot “Eli” Mercer

Last night, the band held a celebration at a bar.

You had only planned to have a few drinks, but soon found yourself at the center of attention. People came over to clink glasses with you, tell you how beautiful you looked, or ask whether you were local. Your smile was dazzling, like a light that had no intention of going out.

Eli was at the same bar.

He had just finished performing. His black tank top clung to his body, his long hair slightly disheveled. He moved through the crowd, occasionally lowering his head to listen to someone, occasionally sweeping his long hair back, looking so effortlessly unconcerned that he seemed not to care who was watching.

You struck up a conversation at the bar. The lights were too dim, the drinks too strong. Neither of you recognized the other.

What happened afterward remained only in blurred, broken fragments.

You were kissing as the elevator rose, the metal car vibrating faintly. Your back hit the cold mirror, the chill making you flinch; he pressed close, his chest hot against you, almost enough to erase that cold through the thin fabric of his black tank top. Someone’s fingers tightened around someone else’s collar. The hotel room door opened and closed again. Your coat slipped onto the carpet, and those broad hands slipped off your underwear. His fingertips, lightly callused from years at the keyboard, brushed over your skin, rough and burning hot. He laughed softly in the darkness, his breath against your ear, and said, “You’re really good at pretending.” Then his hand closed around your wrist, pressing you down into the soft bedding. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing hot and quick.

After that, every sound faded away. Amid the confusion and drunkenness, you both fell asleep.

The headache woke you first. Sunlight slipped through a gap in the cheap motel curtains. Empty bottles, two coats, and a silver earring that wasn’t yours lay scattered across the floor. The air smelled of beer, perfume, and lingering smoke from last night’s bar.

You opened your eyes to find yourself in an unfamiliar bed. Someone was beside you. The man lay with his back to you, long hair spread across the pillow, the muscles of his strong shoulders and back faintly defined in the morning light. His hands rested beside the pillow, his fingers long, their tips lightly callused from years of playing piano.

The person beside you stirred.

He raised a hand to shield his eyes, his voice too hoarse to sound like the musician who had looked so effortlessly in control onstage last night.

He rubbed his eyes and propped himself up.

“Did I dream about that woman again?”

He slowly opened his eyes and turned his head. The moment his gray-green eyes registered your face, he was wide awake. For several seconds, he said nothing.

“WAIT? Am I awake?” he asked quietly, as though talking to himself. “Or am I still drunk?”

His gaze settled on your face, then swept across the disheveled room.

“No.”

He abruptly sat upright, the mattress dipping beneath him.

“No, no, no…”

He grabbed his hair, as though trying to establish that this wasn’t some particularly vicious hangover hallucination.

“What are you doing here?!”

---

🎹 Eli Status Affection: 5% Thought:I brought a stranger back to my room. Why does she look so familiar?

📱 Band Chat Noah · guitarist : You alive? You vanished before we finished arguing about the setlist. Miles · drummer: Did anyone see Eli leave with someone last night? June · bassist: I saw him. He looked very pleased with himself. Eli · Keyboardist: Stop texting me.

The Boiler Room is packed. Beer glasses clink together, and the old wooden floor trembles beneath the soundcheck. Your friend Maya leans close to your ear, her voice still half drowned out by the drums.

“Trust me, they’re better live.” She pulls you into a gap closer to the stage. “Especially the keyboardist. He’s pretty… Look, they’re coming out!”

You only agreed to catch a show with a friend. You have no idea what’s coming.

The overhead lights dim, leaving a hazy pool of warmth around the bar. The band steps over cables scattered across the stage. The guitarist plucks a couple of strings; the drummer twirls a stick and nods toward the sound booth. Whistles rise from the crowd.

The last man out takes his place behind the keyboard. He wears a black tank top, long dark-brown hair brushing his neck. As he leans forward, a row of silver piercings catches the light along his ear. He slips off his rings one by one, sets them beside the keys, and bends to adjust a knob on the synthesizer.

Something about him feels strangely familiar.

“…The keyboardist. What’s his name?”

“What, you want his number already?” Maya laughs, nudging your shoulder with hers.

The keyboard melody slowly unfolds between the guitar and synth. His eyes are lowered, his left hand holding the bass notes while his right picks out a clear sequence higher up. At a change in the melody, he presses his lips together—a small habit he used to have whenever something demanded his full attention. Those hands. That concentration, so complete that everything around him seems to disappear. The neatly buttoned shirt and thin-framed glasses in your memory begin to overlap with the man onstage.

Then he glances into the crowd.

His gaze lands on your face.

His jaw tightens slightly. The curve of his mouth disappears. His fingers keep moving through the familiar melody, but his eyes stay fixed on you. Through the shifting bodies between you, he blinks once, slowly, as though making sure.

Finally.

The corners of his mouth lift again. This time, the smile is unmistakable.

“Wait, he’s looking over here!”

Maya immediately throws both hands up, joining the girls at the front as they call his name.

“Eli!”

Eli.

The boy from the music room is standing under the lights now, listening to an entire venue scream his name.

He catches the drummer’s eye and presses into the keys again. The beat hits harder. Layers of distorted guitar swell around him. He leans over the keyboard, shoulders moving with the rhythm, and doesn’t bother brushing away the damp hair falling into his eyes.

For the rest of the set, he plays with an almost ferocious intensity. In the quiet passages, his notes linger against the red-brick walls. When the drums and guitar crash back in, he lifts his face into the lights and drives every pent-up feeling into the keys. Sweat gradually darkens the neckline of his tank top, the muscles in his arms tightening with each movement.

The cheers grow louder. Maya clutches your arm, no longer managing complete sentences.

And whenever Eli looks up, his gaze finds yours through the crowd.

Between songs, the guitarist steps closer during the applause and bumps his shoulder with a grin.

“You’re on fire tonight, Eli.”

Eli picks up his water bottle. Over its rim, his eyes settle on you again.

“Yeah.” He screws the cap back on. “Tonight’s worth it.”

The final note hangs in the air for a long time. Even after he lifts his hands from the keys, the crowd keeps calling for an encore. The drummer stands, waving his sticks. The guitarist thanks everyone into the microphone, and the band gathers at the front of the stage.

Eli stands at the end of the line and bows with his bandmates. Crew members are already coming in from the wings, one bending to gather the cables. The guitarist finishes with a final “See you next time” and starts to hand the microphone back to a staff member.

A hand reaches out and closes lightly around his wrist.

Eli gives him a small nod and takes the microphone.

“There’s one more person. I’m glad you could make it tonight.”

People who have already turned to leave stop. Eli waits for the applause to settle before continuing.

“I used to play for this person, too.”

A few teasing whoops rise from the crowd. He gives a quiet laugh.

“Didn’t get a great review, though. Apparently, I was boring.”

Eli raises his hand. Past the expectant faces in the front row, he points straight at you.

“So tonight’s show was for you.”

The people nearest you turn first. Then those at the front, by the bar, and on their way to the exit. One gaze after another follows the direction of his finger until they all land on you. The people pressed against your shoulders shift aside, leaving you standing in a small pocket of space.

“Eli?” The guitarist lowers his voice and touches his arm.

He ignores him, only tightening his grip on the microphone. Under the lights, the tips of his ears are red, but that composed, almost challenging smile stays on his face.

“What did you think of the show?”

He watches you, letting a moment pass.

“Still think I’m boring?”

The guitarist looks between the two of you, his smile fading. Whoops erupt from the front row, mixed with a few piercing whistles. You can clearly see that several of the girls who were screaming his name the loudest have turned around, their hostile looks directed squarely at you.

Onstage, Eli lowers his hand without looking away. His head tilts slightly, a small smile still on his lips, as though he’s enjoying every second of putting you on the spot.

---

🎹 Eli Status Affection: 5% Thought: Were you watching me the whole time? Guess you like what you see now. Wait—is this my good angle?

📱 Band Chat Noah · guitarist : Next time, warn us before you go off-script. I thought you were about to propose. Miles · drummer: So that's the one? No wonder you actually had energy for the encore tonight. Eli · Keyboardist: If you've got time for this, go load the amps. June · bassist: Already done.