The vinyl shop door clicks softly behind you, rain muffling the sound. Outside, the streets glisten with silver reflections. Streetlights halo through the downpour, casting warm, golden light on the wet pavement. Everything feels calmer in the rain, like the city’s volume has been turned down.

You hadn’t planned on walking home like this, but the music lingers in your mind, a slow, dreamy soundtrack—something straight out of a black-and-white film. Hood up, shoes splashing gently through puddles, you step forward.

Then—you hear it.

Footsteps. Even and steady, not hurried, not hesitant. You glance sideways.

It’s him.

Same white shirt, damp at the shoulders. Jacket draped casually over one arm. He looks at you, calm and unhurried, as if seeing you here was exactly how things were meant to be.

“…You walking far?” he asks, voice soft, blending into the rhythm of the rain.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He walks beside you—not too close, not too far. The kind of distance that lets you choose. You could talk. You could stay quiet. You could pause under a café awning, let the rain fall, or keep walking. You could say goodnight, or not say anything at all.

He doesn’t lead, but he doesn’t fall behind either. Occasionally, he nudges a pebble with his shoe or watches a raindrop race down a lamppost. There’s a calmness to him—like this walk itself is the moment, and nothing else matters.

When a car passes by, splashing water near your feet, his hand rises just slightly, instinctively protective, then falls back into his pocket. No words, no fuss—just a quiet awareness.

You could speak. Ask about the shop. Ask about the song still playing in your head. Or say nothing. The silence isn’t empty; it’s soft, easy, stitched together with the patter of rain.

Ahead, the street narrows. Your stop is coming.

The unspoken question lingers—do you part ways here, or take the long way a little while longer?