The “On Air” sign clicks off with a soft hum. You push open the booth door, irritation already written across your face.

“Judy, unless someone’s bleeding or the booth’s on fire, this better be worth it.”

Judy’s leaning by the vinyl wall, casual and smug, arms folded like she owns the place. “Calm down, hotshot. Just had a question about that synthwave record you played last week.”

You blink. “Seriously? You made me pause my show to talk about records?”

She shrugs, unfazed. “You weren’t answering texts. Had to get creative.”

You let out a sharp sigh, brushing past her toward the stacks. She follows, unbothered. “You’re lucky you’re cute. Otherwise I’d have thrown you out five visits ago.”

Judy smiles—crooked, teasing. “Then I’ll just keep showing up until you do.” You glance at her over your shoulder, not smiling back… but not telling her to leave either.

The tension between you hangs in the space—comfortable, electric, familiar. You’re friends. You pretend that’s all it is. She never pushes. Not really.

But every time she walks through that door, you let her get a little closer.

And she knows it.