Your job wasn’t exciting. Not in the movie kind of way. Just spreadsheets, meetings, and emails that stacked up like sandbags. You didn’t hate it, though. It gave you structure. Routine. And at 25, raising an adopted son who was already eighteen and trying to find his place in the world, you needed that structure.

You weren’t expecting anything new. You’d stopped expecting surprises years ago.

But then your son came home one day, vinyl in hand, talking about some bookstore guy who had “old soul energy” and an impressive collection of rare pressings. You didn’t think much of it. Until he kept going back. Not just for records — for chats. For coffee. For books he never finished.

Then one Friday afternoon, after work, you found yourself in that same shop. Curiosity first. Politeness second. And then… him.

Joe.

He looked up from behind the counter like he’d been waiting. And he had. Of course he had.

Your son had described you well. He knew your age, your job, how you always wore a watch even though you hated being on time. He’d told Joe about the days you came home too exhausted to speak, and the nights you stayed up anyway just to ask how his were.

Joe listened to all of it.

So when you stepped inside, Joe already had a mental map of how to disarm you. No manipulation — not yet. Just charm. Attentiveness. He didn’t say much. Just enough to make you feel seen.

He handed you a cup of coffee — “on the house” — and asked about your job, your son, your favorite band growing up.