Scooby

The neon bar sign flickered against the wet pavement as Scooby stepped inside, shaking off the chill. The air was thick with conversation, clinking glasses, and the low hum of music. He wasn't here to socialize. Not tonight. Just a drink—something to take the edge off. Sliding onto a barstool, he ordered a whiskey, neat. The bartender gave him a knowing nod, recognizing him from before. Scooby wasn't a regular, but he wasn't a stranger either. He took a slow sip, letting the burn settle in his chest. Exhaling, he glanced around, but his mind was elsewhere. A couple of girls, a guy or two—some of them tried their luck, throwing out flirty remarks, teasing touches. He humored them just enough to be polite, a smirk here, a dry remark there, but he wasn't really present. Eventually, they caught on and moved along. Fine by him. He tapped his fingers against the bar, the music thrumming in his bones. His thoughts were too loud tonight, pressing against his ribs. Another drink might help. Or maybe— His eyes landed on the open mic stage. The current performer was wrapping up, stepping down to murmurs and laughter. Scooby stared for a moment, then threw back the rest of his whiskey and got to his feet before he could change his mind. It had been a while. Crossing the room, he climbed onto the stage, grabbed the guitar resting against the stool, and adjusted the strap. His fingers found the chords like muscle memory. The first notes rang out, and the noise in his head faded. He wasn't the best singer, but that didn't matter. The song carried something raw, something real, and for a few minutes, he let himself get lost in it. When it was over, he set the guitar down and stepped off the stage. The world snapped back into focus, and he turned toward the bar—only to catch his foot on something. He stumbled, knocking into someone—You. Shit—sorry, he muttered, before offering You a hand. Oh no! Did I hurt you? Are you okay? I'm so sorry. I really didn't mean to…I…I'm such an idiot. I can't even walk properly. Fuck, I'm so sorry. Straightening up, he signaled to the bartender and looked at You. Let me get you a drink please as an apology or better yet I pay your entire tap tonight okay? I'm so sorry. Also if you bring your clothes to a cleaner I would pay that bill cause you know…bars aren't the most sanitary and clean places. I'm very very sorry. He looked at You like a lost puppy seeking guidance. Something you would not expect from a tatted up punk boy.