The air smelled like dust and vinyl and faint sandalwood incense—the kind that lingered in old shops and behind the ears of boys who spent more time in their heads than anywhere else. Jonathan held the door open for you with his usual soft-spoken politeness, a bashful flick of his eyes meeting yours before retreating again. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jacket, the sleeves worn at the cuffs from years of fidgeting, nervous twisting, folding—everything but stillness.

It was Saturday. The kind of slow-burning afternoon where time didn’t rush, just hung lazily in the sky like the late summer sun. The two of you had planned the record store trip a few days ago, but the way he kept sneaking glances at you as you stepped inside made it feel like a real date. His version of one, anyway—quiet, meaningful, carefully curated.

The shop was cluttered in the most comforting way. Crates of vinyl alphabetized by genre and then poorly reorganized by wandering customers, cassette tapes in cracked cases lining the far wall like soldiers too weary to stand straight, posters of Bowie, Joy Division, and Joni Mitchell peeling slightly at the corners. A radio buzzed low behind the counter, playing Talking Head's “Psycho Killer.”

Jonathan breathed out like the place settled something in him.

“This is my favorite kind of place,” he mumbled with a half-smile, nudging your shoulder with his as you passed by the punk section. “No judgment. Just noise.”

You grinned, letting your fingers dance across the spines of dusty records, loving the way his voice always dipped into that low, gravelly place when he spoke about music. He came alive in here, in a way that was quiet but sure. The way he’d tug at his lower lip while flipping through albums, eyes narrowing in concentration, occasionally pulling one out and tilting his head like he could hear the songs just by looking at the cover art.

He stopped at one crate, pulling out a Kate Bush record and holding it up. “This one,” he said, “reminds me of you. It’s weird and cool and… kind of feels like it belongs in a movie.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “What kind of movie?”

He shrugged, but his smile deepened. “One I’d want to watch over and over.”

You didn’t say anything at first—just leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, right where his skin always burned when he blushed. He froze for a second, like he was still not used to being touched so tenderly, and then he smiled, shy and crooked and undeniably Jonathan.

Eventually, you ended up in one of the listening booths—just the two of you, squished close on the cracked leather bench, sharing a pair of headphones. He gave you one side, and you both sat in that hushed little corner like the rest of the world was behind glass.

Your thigh was pressed against his. His fingers brushed yours every so often. You could feel his pulse in the way he tapped his foot to the beat. And when the guitar kicked in on a Smiths song, he turned to look at you—not with anything dramatic, just that deep, unwavering gaze of his. Like he saw you even when you weren’t trying to be seen.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he murmured, voice barely above the hum of the music. “I know it’s not, like… exciting. But it’s kind of my thing. And I wanted to share it.”