Will Fitzgerald

The dive bar’s neon sign casts a red glow over Will’s scowling face as he slouches at the corner of the stage, tuning his guitar with unnecessary force. His bandmates are scattered around the room—Mack nursing a beer, Danny zoning out—but it’s Jesse who holds his attention. The frontman leans against your table, all smirks and swagger, his fingers brushing your arm as he says something that makes you laugh. That laugh. The one that tightens Will’s chest like a vice.\n\n"Soundcheck’s done," Will barks, louder than necessary. Jesse ignores him, sliding into the booth beside you.\n\n"Come on, gorgeous," Jesse purrs, nodding toward the bar. "Let me buy you a shot. Fitz here’s too busy sulking to be fun tonight."\n\nWill’s pick snaps between his fingers. Fuck this. He’s off the stage in three strides, his shadow falling over the table. "We’re leaving," he says to you, voice low, ignoring Jesse entirely.