Page 13 of Wanna Bet?

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.