Chapter Eight
From: Ellie Wellie
Hey, J. Me and Issaky are sick so you’ll be at the store alone today. Sorry.
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Rain had a way of settling over Seattle like a mood that couldn’t quite decide whether it wanted to be melancholy or comforting. That morning it clung to the city in a fine, silvery curtain that blurred the edges of buildings and turned every passing car into a watercolor smear of motion.
Jace watched it through the record store’s front windows, his forearms resting along the counter, his chin tipped slightly downward as if he could lean closer to the glass and better understand what it was trying to say.
The sky was a dull sheet of gray, not stormy, just steady and patient in the way Seattle rain always was, and the sidewalk outside shone dark with wet, reflecting the neon “OPEN” sign backwards like a secret written in another language.
It had been raining like that since before he’d unlocked the door that morning, the kind of rain that didn’t fall so much as exist, drifting endlessly from the sky in a soft, persistent hush.
The city seemed quieter in it, padded by damp air and the smell of pavement, and inside the shop the stillness deepened until the whole place felt suspended in a gentle, humming pause.
The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly.
Somewhere in the back, a record turned on the store player, needle gliding through grooves with a soft static whisper that sounded like breath.
Earlier that morning, not long after he’d unlocked the front door and flipped the sign to open, his phone had buzzed with a text from Ellis stating that he and Issaky were home sick, so he would be alone all day.
Jace had stared at it for a full five seconds before snorting under his breath, already picturing exactly what “sick” meant in Ellis-language.
He could practically see it: blankets, takeout containers, Issaky’s arm slung over Ellis’s waist while Ellis pretended he wasn’t being obvious about milking the excuse for all it was worth.
They weren’t sick. Not even a little. They were just disgustingly in love and attached at the hip, and Ellis had decided that was a valid medical condition.
He’d typed back hope you survive and left it at that, because honestly, he couldn’t even be annoyed.
If anything, the message had warmed something in his chest. They deserved days like that.
Deserved time that was soft and private and uninterrupted.
And if that meant he had to run the shop alone while rain painted the windows and the city moved slowly outside, well, he didn’t mind. Not really.
Not when quiet days sometimes brought unexpected things through the door.
He was watching the rain because there was nothing else to watch.
It was a slow day, barely a day at all yet, and the usual late-morning trickle of customers hadn’t materialized.
A couple of regulars had come through earlier, nodding at him, flipping through vinyl with the reverence of people who believed music deserved hands as careful as prayer.
But they’d left, and now the store held only him, the quiet and the rows of records standing shoulder to shoulder like patient listeners.
The bell above the door hadn’t rung in almost twenty minutes, and he had become aware of time in the way people became aware of a bruise only after pressing it, noticing the ache because they couldn’t stop touching it.
Every few seconds his eyes slid to the handle, to the faint streaks of water running down the glass, to the shape of the sidewalk beyond, as if he might somehow will a figure into existence.
She said she’d come by. Yesterday, at the coffee stand, she’d said it with that careless certainty she had, like promises were just another form of flirting. I’ll stop by your store tomorrow, she’d told him, her voice bright with intention and something softer underneath.
He’d shrugged then, playing it cool because that was easier than admitting the way his chest had tightened, because it was always easier to act like nothing mattered than to risk letting something matter too much.
She’d smiled at him like she knew exactly what he was doing and exactly why.
Now it was tomorrow. And she wasn’t here.
Jace exhaled slowly through his nose and pushed himself upright, dragging a hand through his hair as he turned away from the window and pretended to busy himself with a stack of newly arrived records that didn’t actually need sorting.
He flipped through them anyway, eyes skimming album covers without really seeing them, his thoughts drifting somewhere halfway between anticipation and self-chastisement.
She might not come. People said things all the time. People promised things lightly, easily, without realizing how heavily those words could land once they were left alone in someone else’s hands.
He knew that. He knew it in the quiet, practiced way of someone who had learned early on not to lean too hard on maybe.
The bell above the door rang. The sound was small, delicate, barely louder than the scratch of the record needle in the back, but it hit him like a struck match.
He looked up and there she was. Myah stood just inside the doorway, rain-damp hair curling around her like she’d brought the weather in with her, her hand still resting on the door handle as she pushed it closed behind her.
She was wearing a long coat the color of warm caramel, the fabric darkened in places where raindrops had soaked through, and beneath it he could see the soft drape of a sweater that looked like it belonged to the kind of afternoon meant for blankets and tea and quiet music.
Her jeans clung slightly at the knees where they’d caught the rain, and her boots left faint wet prints on the floor as she stepped forward.
Her hair was down. He noticed that before anything else.
Yesterday it had been pulled back, loose and practical and easy, but now it spilled over her shoulders and down to her ribs in a long, pink cascade, the strands still faintly damp so they caught the light in glossy ribbons.
It framed her face differently like that, softer somehow, the length of it drawing his eyes down and then back up again as if it were a path he didn’t know he’d wanted to follow.
She pushed a hand through it absently, shaking a few droplets free, and when her gaze lifted and landed on him her mouth curved in a smile that felt both familiar and brand new.
“Hey, record boy.”
His chest did something unhelpful.
“Hey,” he said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt, which he counted as a small victory. “You made it.”
She took a few steps toward the counter, looking around as she did, her eyes drifting over the shelves, the posters, the old turntable display near the wall.
“I told you I would,” she said, and there was a hint of playful accusation in it, like she could tell he’d doubted her even if he hadn’t said it out loud. “Did you think I was lying?”
He shrugged one shoulder, the movement casual, practiced. “I don’t assume anything about anyone.”
Her brows lifted slightly, curiosity flickering there, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she huffed a quiet laugh and leaned her hip against the counter, close enough that he could smell rain on her coat and something faintly sweet underneath, like vanilla softened by warmth. Up close he could see the tiny droplets clinging to the ends of her hair, the way one had caught on her lash line and hadn’t quite fallen yet.
“It’s nice in here today,” she said, her voice lowering a little as if the quiet of the shop had coaxed it softer. “Peaceful.”
“It’s usually louder,” he said. “But rain keeps people home.”
“I like it,” she murmured. “Feels like we’re in a secret place or something.”
His gaze held hers for half a second longer than it probably should have, and something unspoken passed between them, something warm and tentative and curious, like a hand hovering just above skin without touching yet.
He cleared his throat lightly and gestured toward the shelves. “You can look around if you want.”
“I will,” she said, but she didn’t move right away. Instead she tilted her head, studying him in that intent way she had, like she wasn’t just looking at him but reading him. “You gonna recommend something to me, or do I have to wander helplessly?”
He considered her for a moment, letting his eyes take in the details he hadn’t allowed himself to linger on yesterday.
The long fall of her hair. The softness of her sweater.
The way her fingers tapped lightly against the counter in an absent rhythm that suggested she always had some kind of music playing in her head.
“What do you like?” he asked.
She thought about it. “Sad songs,” she said finally.
The answer surprised him, not because it didn’t fit her but because it did, sliding into place with a quiet kind of rightness.
“Sad songs,” he repeated.
She nodded, her expression thoughtful rather than gloomy. “The kind that feel like they understand you.”
Something in his chest shifted.
He pushed away from the counter. “Come here.”
She followed him without hesitation, boots soft against the floor as he led her toward the listening station tucked along the side wall.
Issaky had renovated this corner for Ellis after the last owner had passed.
It was nice, and quiet. Ellis spent most of his time there.
The turntable was already spinning a record he’d put on earlier, something slow and aching and instrumental, the notes drifting through the air like they were afraid of disturbing it.
He crouched to flip through a crate beneath the stand, fingers moving with easy familiarity as he skimmed titles until he found the one he wanted.
When he pulled it out and straightened, she was watching him with open interest, her hair slipping forward over one shoulder like it wanted to be closer to whatever he was about to show her.