Chapter Four #2
Oh no, he’s hot. He looked different here.
Calmer, somehow. More grounded. His shoulders weren’t hunched like they usually were outside the coffee stand, and there was no tightness in his jaw.
He leaned casually against the counter, flipping through a stack of sleeves while talking softly to one of the customers, his posture loose and easy.
Then he laughed. The sound caught her off guard. She’d heard him do the polite, small version before, the one people used when they didn’t want to take up space, but this was warmer and fuller, like it came from somewhere deep in his chest.
It made something strange twist in her stomach.
Why was he here today? Did he always work here on…what day was it again?
God, of course this would be the day she showed up looking like a gremlin in oversized sweats and unbrushed hair. She briefly considered turning around and pretending she’d forgotten something at home, but that would be obvious and weird, and she’d already been standing there too long.
He glanced up and their eyes met. Recognition flickered across his face, followed immediately by a soft, real smile that felt dangerously specific.
“Hey,” he said as the customer left.
Her brain short-circuited. “H—hi.” Cool. Great. Fantastic start.
She walked up to the counter, suddenly hyper-aware of every step she took and every awkward swing of her arms. This was weird and uncomfortable. She was almost always confident, but now she just felt small and silly.
“You’re here,” she blurted.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I work here.”
“I–yeah. Obviously. I just thought you didn’t today. I mean–not didn’t. Just–”
Stop talking. Stop talking. Please stop talking.
He tilted his head, clearly amused. “Day off?”
“Yeah. I just came to browse.”
“Good day for it,” he said, gesturing vaguely around the nearly empty shop. “Slow.”
There was an easy confidence to him here that made her chest feel tight. He moved like he knew exactly where everything was, like this place fit him in a way nothing else did.
“I didn’t know you liked records,” he said.
“Oh.” Panic prickled up her spine. “Yeah. A little.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she winced internally. A little, as if she didn’t alphabetize her collection or maintain a spreadsheet or spend nights comparing pressings online like a complete dork.
He raised an eyebrow. “A little?”
And then something inside her cracked open. Because he wasn’t teasing. He looked genuinely curious, like he actually wanted to know. So the words just…spilled out.
“I mean, yeah. I’ve always liked them. The sound’s warmer than digital, you know?
And older pressings have this specific compression that makes everything feel closer, like you’re in the room with them, and sometimes the mixes are different than the streaming versions.
The art’s better too, and I like physically owning stuff.
Flipping sides makes you actually listen instead of skipping songs, and–”
She kept going. “I have this whole spreadsheet of what I own and what pressings they are, which sounds insane when I say it out loud, but I just–I really like it.”
She stopped, horror creeping up her spine. Oh god. She’d done it again.
“I’m sorry,” she rushed to add. “I’m rambling.”
But he didn’t look bored. He wasn’t checking his phone or glancing around for an escape. He was smiling, a soft, almost fond smile.
“I think that’s awesome,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“Seriously. Most people just say they like music. You actually know stuff.”
The compliment hit her so unexpectedly that her brain lagged behind it. “Oh. Um. Thanks.”
“I get it,” he added. “I’m the same way with old punk pressings. Half the fun is hunting for them.”
Her heart did a weird little flip. “You collect too?”
“Yeah.”
And then they were talking, like actually talking, about records and bands and weird obscure albums no one else ever seemed to care about. About terrible remasters and mislabeled sleeves and that thrill of finding something rare for five bucks in a dusty bin.
Time blurred around the edges.
She forgot about her hair. Forgot about the fight with her dad. Forgot about everything except the way his eyes lit up when he got excited and the way he actually listened when she spoke, like she wasn’t weird or annoying or too much.
Like she was interesting. Which somehow made her talk even more. Stories. Tangents. Facts.
God, why couldn’t she ever just be normal? Eventually it hit her that she’d been standing there for way too long.
“Oh my god,” she said, straightening. “I’m keeping you from work. I’m sorry.”
He glanced around the empty store. “I think we’re good.”
Still, heat crawled up her neck.
She grabbed the random jazz record she’d picked and rushed through checkout, fumbling her card like it had personally betrayed her.
“Thanks,” she said too quickly.
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Totally.” Then she practically fled.
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Halfway down the block, the spiral started.
Slow at first, then faster and faster until it felt like she couldn’t keep up with her own thoughts.
Why did she say all that? Did he even care? He was probably just being nice.
She’d talked for, like, twenty minutes straight. Who does that?
God, she was so annoying.
Her cheeks burned as she replayed every sentence of her ramble, searching his face in her memory for any hint of boredom. Maybe he’d just been trapped behind the counter, forced to listen. Maybe he’d been waiting for her to leave the whole time. Maybe he thought she was intense. Weird. Too much.
By the time she reached her building, she felt hollow and embarrassed, like she’d accidentally peeled back too many layers of herself in public. She leaned her forehead against the cool metal door for a moment before unlocking it.
Inside, her apartment was quiet. Too quiet.
Her tote slid off her shoulder, the record peeking out from the top. She stared at it, this thing that had been supposed to make her feel better. Instead she just felt exposed. Stupid.
She sank onto the couch and pulled her knees to her chest, phone heavy in her hand. Her thumb hovered over her work chat, over the option to call out tomorrow. Maybe she could say she was sick. Just…not go.
If she didn’t show up, she wouldn’t have to see the look on his face. Wouldn’t have to confirm she’d embarrassed herself.
Pre-rejecting herself felt safer somehow. She hated that her brain did this, turning every nice thing into a threat and every connection into something fragile she could ruin.
After a long moment, she dropped the phone onto the cushion beside her and reached for the record player instead. The vinyl slid out with a soft whisper. She set it down carefully, lowering the needle until it caught.
A gentle crackle filled the room, followed by a warm, rich sound that wrapped around her like a blanket. The music filled the apartment slowly and steadily, and she let it wash over her, letting the noise in her head soften just a little.
Maybe tomorrow wouldn’t be as bad as she thought. Maybe he didn’t hate her. Maybe she hadn’t ruined everything.
She curled deeper into the couch, staring at the record as it spun, still not entirely sure if she’d be brave enough to find out.