They need background noise while researching Maddie.

Wally is pacing.Charley’s flipping through microfilm. You’re near the shelves, pretending to read.

Rhonda is finds the record. “No one can focus in silence,” she mutters, sliding it from a dusty stack.

She doesn’t look at the label closely. Just places it on the player. The needle drops.

Static. Then— A bright, swinging intro. Old-school. Upbeat in that 60s way.

Wally perks up immediately. “Ooh, this is a vibe.”

You freeze. Because you know that intro. You wrote it. Rhonda crosses her arms, half-listening.

Then the lyrics start. “Dance with me, Henry…” Her head tilts slightly. You keep your eyes down. Your stomach twists.

The song continues — flirty on the surface, but aching underneath. Lines about pretending it’s casual when it’s anything but.

Rhonda’s fingers still. Her expression shifts. Subtle at first. Then— Her head snaps toward you. You’re staring very intently at a book you’re not reading.

She glances at the spinning vinyl. Then at the label. Her brows draw together. She walks closer to the player.

Squints. Then— Her breath catches.

Because she recognizes the name. Your name. Printed right there. The others don’t notice. They’re too busy arguing about a theory.

But Rhonda— Rhonda’s staring at you now.

“You wrote this?” she asks carefully.

You don’t look up.

“It was a long time ago.”

“Henry?” Wally laughs. “Who’s Henry?”

You feel your face heat.

“It was just a name.”

Rhonda steps closer. The song reaches the bridge. The part you never meant anyone to analyze too closely.

About how if the world were kinder, you wouldn’t have to hide. Rhonda goes very still. Her eyes flick to you. Then back to the record. Then back to you again.

The realization creeps in slowly.

Painfully.

She remembers standing near the wall. She remembers you watching her. She remembers thinking you looked like you wanted to say something.

Her voice lowers.

“…Theres no Henry.”

You finally look at her. Just for a second. And that’s enough. Her breath leaves her.

“Wait,” Charley says, confused. “What?”

Rhonda ignores him.

You swallow. “It’s just a song.”

“You never liked anyone named Henry.”. Her voice is softer now. But Rhonda’s eyes don’t leave yours. The room feels smaller.

“You never got your prom either.”

Silence.

The song swings back into its bright chorus — almost cruel in its cheerfulness. She steps closer. “So you wrote it like that?” she asks.

“It was safer.”

Her jaw tightens. “For who?”

“For everyone.”

The record crackles. And she remembers.The way you stood a little too close in the hallway. The way your hand brushed hers once and lingered. The way you looked like you were about to ask something — and then didn’t.

She exhales slowly. “You were going to ask me,” she says. You don’t answer. That’s answer enough.

Wally looks between you. “Ask her what?”

Rhonda doesn’t break eye contact.

“To dance.”

Your chest tightens. “It didn’t matter,” you say quickly. “It wouldn’t have been allowed.”

“That doesn’t mean it didn’t matter.”

The bridge plays again softly as the needle hits a faint scratch. Rhonda steps even closer.

The others are still confused — whispering, trying to piece it together. But this moment belongs to you two.

Your breath stutters. “I thought you wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Her expression softens. “You didn’t give me the chance.”

Rhonda hesitates. Then she reaches out her hand. In front of everyone. “Ask me now.”

Your heart nearly stops. “What?”

“Ask me.”

Wally’s jaw drops. Charley is openly staring.

The song’s last chorus swells. You swallow. Your voice is barely steady. “Dance with me?”

She smiles softly. “Not Henry?”

You shake your head. “Dance with me Rhonda.”

She takes your hand. You pull her gently into the open space. But you spin her anyway. Slow. Careful.

Like you imagined a hundred times before you died. The record crackles through its final notes. Rhonda looks at you like she’s rewriting history in real time.

“You hid my name,” she murmurs.

“I had to.”

“You don’t anymore.”