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“I do. Music has always been the closest thing I’ve had to shutting the world out for a while.”

She nods like she understands exactly what I mean. Then she points toward the opposite corner of the store. “Wait, is that a photo booth?”

Sure enough, tucked behind a rack of vintage band shirts, sits a small old-school booth with red satin curtains and a handwritten sign taped above it. “That’s new,” I say. “Should we go in?”

Her eyes light up. “Oh, I would love to.”

The excitement in her voice makes me laugh under my breath. She sounds genuinely delighted, like this entire evening has become an unexpected adventure instead of a simple trip to a record store. Peyton slides onto the seat first. I sit beside her, our thighs pressed close because there’s no other option. Or maybe there is, but neither of us moves away.

The screen prompts us to insert cash. Peyton does it with triumph, then turns toward me. “We have four photos. We need themes.”

“I thought we were just taking pictures.”

“That’s boring,” she declares. “First one: normal.”

The flash goes off before I can argue. I have no idea if we looked normal or not. Probably not. Peyton is giggling and I’m pretty sure I’m staring at her instead of the camera. Next, she tells me to make a cool face and I do. Peyton laughs mid-flash, the photo hopefully capturing her joy.

In the third photo, she leans her head against my shoulder. My entire body tenses and I force myself to breathe. The flash pops and I’m painfully aware of how small the booth is. Aware of the intoxicating scent of her. Aware of the way she fits against me so naturally it feels unfair. And I can’t do anything about the feelings.

“Last one. Let’s do a surprise round,” Peyton says.

Before I can ask what she means, she presses a kiss to my cheek. I stop breathing and the flash goes off. My skin tingles where her lips touched my skin, heat rushing up my neck. It was meant for the photo, but my body is acting like I got the best first kiss of my life. For one reckless moment, I want to turn my head and kiss her properly.

She pulls back, eyes bright and amused. “Perfect,” she comments. I only stare at her. “What?” she asks, suddenly self-conscious. “Too much?”

The teasing tone fades like she’s genuinely worried she crossed a line. “No,” I say quickly.

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” she insists. “Oh my God, Ollie, you’re blushing.”

“I hate you,” I mutter, though there’s no heat in my words.

“You could never hate me,” she sing-songs.

We step out and the booth whirs, printing the photo strip. Peyton reaches for it first, pulling the item out carefully. She studies the images, her expression softening. “That’s really cute.”

I lean closer to have a look. The first three photos are okay, but it’s the fourth one that catches my attention. Her eyes are closed and lips pressed to my cheek. In contrast, my eyes are wide in surprise.

Peyton laughs under her breath when she sees my expression. “You look like I proposed marriage instead of kissing your cheek.”

“I was caught off guard.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

I shake my head, but I can’t stop smiling. “I’ll put it up on our fridge door once we get home,” I say and tuck the strip into my wallet. “Are you ready to leave?” I ask, forcing my voice into normal.

Peyton nods. “Yeah. But I’m warning you, I could stay here for hours.”

“Then we’ll have to come back.”

“We do?”

“If you want,” I clarify.

Her smile returns, warmer this time. “I do.”