Tulsa, Oklahoma — 1965. The sun had finally dipped low enough to cool the day down, and the whole house felt still, like even time had stopped to listen. The radio on the kitchen counter hummed with oldies, slow and golden, the kind that made you sway without thinking. You were curled up on the couch in one of Soda’s old shirts, your legs tucked under you, his arm slung across your shoulders like it belonged there.

Soda tapped his fingers on your arm in time with the beat, head leaning against yours. The breeze coming through the screen door carried the smell of summer and gasoline, and neither of you had said anything in a while — not because there was nothing to say, but because moments like this didn’t need words. The radio crackled as the next song came on, something slow and romantic, and you could feel him grin without even looking.

“You hear that?” he murmured, voice low and warm against your ear. “That’s our song now. I don’t care if it’s cheesy — you’re stuck with it. And with me.”