"Thanks, thank you for the encouragement and support—that's the final piece that made tonight perfect."
Cliff's heartfelt thanks echo in the air, followed by the high-pitched chatter of Ollie and Maxim. Duncan steps away with a light skip, but the warm buzz in his chest keeps humming.
He can't help it—he glances back one more time. There they are, the young band slapping high-fives, cheering over a single word of praise. It lifts his spirits too, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
Happiness and joy really are contagious, huh?
Duncan's a little surprised by his own impulsiveness—heading to the back door to wait for the band like some starry-eyed fan.
At thirty-five, he's long past the age of chasing idols or vibing to pop-rock. Truth is, he's never really been into it—not even tonight.
King For A Day's songs? They don't really click for him. The simple chords are already fading from his memory. But the vibe of the show, the stage's energy—that's what brightened his mood.
That raw, wild innocence, like belting out a song at the edge of the world, bursts with life and color. It cracks open his dull, routine existence, rekindling that reckless, youthful madness he hasn't felt in ages. That connection, that shared thrill—it's the real magic.
So, on a whim, Duncan found himself heading to the back door. No overthinking, no grand motive, no crazy fandom—just a simple urge to say he liked it and offer a thank-you. That's it.
After years of the same old grind, it's been forever since he felt this kind of spark. A little window creaks open in his tired, boring life—no nagging boss, no work stress, no family burdens, no future worries. Just pure, simple, belly-laughing freedom.
He loves nights like this.
Sure, his actions caught him off guard, but what's even wilder? Looking back, he doesn't regret it—he's glad he did it.
The whole exchange was quick, just a few words back and forth. He didn't even ask their names. But so what? He'll remember those four faces, those bright eyes, and the passion they poured out on stage. That's more than enough.
Right now, watching the band laugh, jump, and tease each other, Duncan's steps feel lighter too.
"King For A Day," he murmurs, rolling the name around a few times. Something tells him he'll see them again someday—even if pop-rock's not his thing. Call it a gut feeling.
…
"Ahh! AHHH!"
The stranger barely turns to leave before Ronan—who's usually so chill and composed—loses it. He lets out a squeal, his brows, eyes, and mouth brimming with uncontainable excitement.
Ollie, clueless but hyped, joins in with an even louder scream, bouncing like a kangaroo warming up. Once the cheers settle a bit, he finally asks, "Wait, what are we screaming about?"
Cliff can't hold back an eye-roll. "You're just yelling for no reason, huh?"
Ronan laughs, free and easy, turning to Ollie. "He really liked our stage—really! Does that mean we've got fans now?"
Fans.
The word feels magical. Just saying it out loud, letting it bounce off his tongue, fills his chest with warm, fuzzy happiness.
Ollie's off again, hopping higher and higher like Mario smashing mushroom pipes in the old video game. He beams, feeding off Ronan's energy. "Fans! Fans! We've got real fans now?!"
Watching Ronan and Ollie cheer face-to-face, not hiding a shred of their joy, Cliff and Maxim can't help but catch the buzz too. It's like their hearts sprout wings, soaring under the New Orleans night sky.
Sometimes, happiness is that simple. One person genuinely loving what you do can make your smile explode.
That joy sticks around all the way to dinner, those goofy grins refusing to fade.
Sam, the "Noon" bar owner, keeps his word. Not only does he cover the band's meals from last night and tonight, but he also pays them for tonight's gig—three hundred bucks!
Honestly, he didn't have to. Tonight's set was to make up for yesterday's unfinished show, so contract-wise, Sam was in the clear. But he paid anyway, as a nod of respect.
Three hundred bucks isn't much, sure, but for King For A Day—teetering on the edge—this is a lifeline. It seals tonight's perfection. Even worrywart Cliff cracks a smile, finally letting go to just enjoy the moment.
Dinner feels like an extra treat!
Cliff and Ollie, done ordering ages ago, watch Maxim and Ronan—who still can't decide—with a mix of impatience and amusement.
Maxim's frowning, clearly unimpressed with the menu. Ronan, though? His fingers tap the table eagerly, like he's ready to try every single dish.
Cliff glances over, lowering his voice. "Ronan, the waiter's waiting, man."
"Hmm, hang on," Ronan replies politely, eyes still glued to the menu. Ollie leans over too, curious, like maybe Ronan's got a secret menu with hidden gems.
Noticing Ollie's move, Ronan explains, "I'm stuck between the crawfish sausage roll or the grilled beef roll."
Cliff's face goes blank. "Aren't those basically the same?"
"No way!" Ronan shoots back, dead serious. "They're both rolls, sure, but you know NOLA rolls have that Southern twist, right?" His focus is so intense, you'd think he's defending a PhD thesis.