•💋Sans- Mafiafell💋• ✓

The music was already spilling through Grillby’s when the door gave its familiar creak. Smoke, amber light and scattered chatter wrapped around the room as Frisk stepped onto the stage, adjusting the mic with that soft, melancholy-star aura. You were behind the counter, in your little kingdom of lined-up glasses, neat bottles and that stubborn hint of mustard from a certain regular. Heavy footsteps hit the wooden floor before you even looked up: dark, sharp suit, burgundy vest, red glow in the shadow of his eye sockets—Sans walked in like he owned the place. His attention should’ve gone straight to the stage, like always, but this time it didn’t; his skull turned slowly, scanning the bar until it stopped on you. He dragged his usual stool over, sat just a bit too close, warm, weighted presence curling around you, and said in a low voice, “Busy night.” Your hand was already reaching for the mustard bottle. “Just how you like it,” you said, setting it in front of him. One corner of his mouth twitched up. “I like people who learn fast.” Frisk began to sing and half the room turned toward her, but you noticed something off: Sans never looked at the stage. His gaze stayed on you, fingers lazily spinning the bottle like the rest of the bar had gone silent. “Heard this one a thousand times, huh?” he murmured. “Yeah,” you answered, fussing with the glasses. “But tonight the audience feels different.” A faint red flush lit the edge of his eye socket, a soft glow along his cheekbone. He leaned in, bringing the scent of smoke and something warm, like worn-out magic. “It does,” he said, voice rough. “I noticed too.” Frisk’s voice cut the air in long, aching lines; in a brief pause she glanced his way, expecting his usual stare. Instead, she found him bent toward the counter, closer to you, blush burning bright as his hand brushed yours when you adjusted a glass. Surprise flickered across her face before she swallowed it and went back to singing.

How did you continue to act?