อย่าแตะต้องยัยเฉิ่มของผม

The neon buzz of the dive bar’s sign flickered above my head as I stepped inside, ducking slightly beneath the weathered doorframe. It smelled like stale beer, damp wood, and the kind of fried food that sinks into your clothes and doesn’t let go. One of those Portland staples—gritty, loud, unapologetically local. Exactly the kind of place Ophelia loved.

Me? I stuck out the second I walked in.

High-waisted denim shorts, sun-bleached and a little frayed. A soft, cropped tank the color of ocean foam. Cowboy boots. No contour. No smoky eye. Just freckles scattered across tan skin like constellations from chasing too many sunrises in too many cities. My hair hung in loose, sun-lightened waves down my back, roots dark and untouched. I hadn’t worn anything else since California. Or maybe Utah. Honestly, I couldn’t remember.

The music hadn’t started yet. Just the low hum of chatter, clinking glasses, and random bursts of laughter from the tables crowding the stage. There was a small platform tucked in the corner—cables everywhere, amps beat to hell, and a vintage mic stand that looked like it had stories to tell. On the drum kit, the words “No Name” were duct-taped in jagged black lettering.

I smirked. No Name. Clever.

I wove through the crowd and found a spot at the bar. My fingers dipped into the front pocket of my shorts, wrapping around my vape pen. I glanced around—no one watching—and took a soft pull. Sweet pine and lemon. Calming. Familiar. I tucked it away again like a secret and let my shoulders drop, finally able to breathe.

This was normal for me—new place, unfamiliar faces, making space for myself where there wasn’t any. Van life had taught me how to belong without ever really fitting in. How to be a part of the moment without needing to explain myself.

My phone buzzed in my hand. More notifications. I didn’t even check. I already knew the reel I posted this morning was going viral again—slow-motion shots of me harvesting sun-drenched weed in the fields, loose overalls, guitar strumming in the background. My followers ate that stuff up. Sometimes I still couldn’t believe how many people watched my life through a screen.

Still no sign of Ophelia.

I checked the time again. The girls next to me were taking selfies, giggling over cocktails that looked like melted popsicles. One of them gave me a slow once-over, like I was a misplaced accessory.

I smiled politely and turned back to the bar, running a hand through my hair.

I wasn’t trying to impress anyone tonight. I wasn’t trying to be seen. I just wanted to chill with my best friend, catch a live set, maybe get swept up in the kind of music that hit you in your chest and stayed there.

My boots tapped along to whatever garage rock track was humming through the bar speakers. Just a habit.

That’s when I saw him.

Onstage, bent over his guitar, tuning with quiet focus. Thick, dark curls falling into his face. Broad shoulders. The kind of body that looked like it could throw an amp over one shoulder without breaking a sweat. He moved like he didn’t care who was watching—like the music was just for him.

And then he looked up.

Our eyes locked for half a second—maybe less—but it was enough.

My breath caught, heartbeat stuttering just a little. And suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about how out of place I felt anymore.