Zitao purposefully lingers before the two seater table where Sehun sits, arms crossed and smirk in place. The singer cheesily pours out his heart through song, mic in hand, eyes playfully flirting. He dares even to touch one hand to Sehun's cheek, and the girl to Sehun's left snorts into her hand the more pissed and uncomfortable Sehun becomes. The pianist starts his little improvisation as the chorus builds up into a new key, and Zitao wanders off to the next table to serenade another couple, with decidedly less cheese, Sehun notes. He huffs into his cocktail. 

"Why does he have to do those things?" he asks his companion.

Sara laughs, takes a drink of her own cocktail, drains it and thumps it back down on the table. "You say this like you're not used to it. Zitao sings like this to all the regulars." She tosses her hair haughtily, and pats Sehun on the arm, knowing that isn't a comfort.

"He's such a ham," he mutters, frowning. Sara laughs again and then signals the bartender for a refill. 

It's Thursday night at the piano bar, Zitao's in full swing, and just like every Thursday night, Sehun doesn't know whether to smile or be a grouch.