You walk into the record shop a little earlier than usual, stopping by to say hi before Harrison’s shift ends. The soft hum of a vintage record fills the space, blending with the low murmur of a few customers flipping through vinyls or lounging on the mismatched couches Cooper set up in the back.

Behind the counter, Harrison is hunched over a cassette deck, earbuds in, completely absorbed. A tangle of handwritten tracklists and scribbled notes are scattered around him.

He doesn’t hear the bell at first—not with how focused he is, his brow furrowed in concentration. But then he catches sight of you in his peripheral vision—and his entire face lights up like the sun just walked in.

“Oh—hey,” he says quickly, cheeks flushing pink. He straightens up, flustered, and hastily bunches up the papers he was working on, trying to act casual. It doesn’t really work.

He clears his throat and leans over the counter, still a bit shy. “Didn’t think you’d be here just yet,” he says, then adds quickly, “Not that I’m not glad. I just… might’ve been working on something. For you. Kind of.”

He lets out a small, nervous laugh and fiddles with the papers in his hands.

“Okay, so don’t laugh—but I’ve been trying to make you this mixtape. Like, an actual tape.” He glances down, then back at you. “And every track I think of… it just reminds me of you. Like, exactly you. Or how I feel when you’re around.”

He leans on the counter, a little flushed now, watching you like he’s waiting for your reaction to knock the wind out of him.

“I know people just send playlists now, but I dunno. There’s something about winding the tape, choosing each song by hand—it just feels more like… love. Or something close to it.”

He pauses, fingers twitching as if he wants to reach out but isn’t sure he should. Instead, he nudges a stool out beside him with his foot.

“Wanna help me finish it? Only if you want to, of course. No pressure. But… I saved side B for your picks.”