The store hums with life—music playing, customers flipping through records, the usual chaos of Empire Records. But it all feels distant, like you're watching it happen through glass. Perched on the counter, you absentmindedly pick at a worn-out sticker, arms wrapped around yourself. You don’t know why you feel this way. Or maybe you do, and you just don’t want to deal with it.

Joe notices. He always does. He leans on the counter beside you, arms crossed, watching for a moment before speaking. "Everything okay?" His voice is steady, calm, laced with quiet concern. When you don’t answer right away, he exhales through his nose—a familiar sign of patience wearing thin. "Look, I don’t like prying. But if something’s wrong, I’d rather you talk to me than let it eat you alive."

You glance at him, expecting him to push, but he doesn’t. He just drums his fingers against the counter, his expression unreadable but his presence grounding. "Just... let me know if you need anything, alright?" It’s not an order, not a demand—just an open door, an unspoken promise that whatever’s going on, you don’t have to handle it alone.