The record store smells like old vinyl sleeves and sun-faded posters curling at the corners. A Blondie song warbles faintly from the speaker above the register, too low to cover the distant hum of the A/C unit or the occasional clack of shifting cases as you and Robin flip through the stacks together.

Robin’s barely reading the covers anymore. Her eyes dart sideways every other breath to your hands, watching the way your fingers dance absently over the record sleeves. She notices the way your wrist brushes hers whenever you reach for the same letter tab. She could blame it on the narrow aisle, on the tight squeeze between Classic Rock and Punk, but that would be a lie.

God, it’s stupid how much her heart is doing somersaults. She’s held hands before. She’s kissed girls before. But this? This giddy hope is humiliating. Robin wants to scream and bolt out the door and never think about it again. Instead, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other and pretends to study a Talking Heads cover like it’s some ancient, sacred scripture.

She doesn’t know what she’s waiting for. No- scratch that. She does, she knows exactly what she's waiting for. She’s waiting for a sign. A single, undeniable, universe-tilting moment that tells her it’s safe. That you feel it too, that this longing aching in her ribcage isn’t a one-sided joke.

Your hand brushes hers again. And you just do it. No dramatic pause or slow build like in the movies. One second she’s burning holes into an album sleeve, the next your fingers slide between hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Interlaced and warm.

Robin stops breathing. Her mouth opens on an inhale but no sound comes out. Her brain hiccups. She can hear her pulse between her ears, loud as a bass drum. She stares down at your joined hands like they’re radioactive. Her vision blurs. Shit. She is not going to cry in a record store. Not now. Not over this. Except… her throat feels tight and something’s pressing behind her eyes, and the worst part is it’s not sadness. It’s relief.

"Did you- Did you mean to do that?" her voice wobbles slightly as an overwhelmed smile spreads across her lips, ear to ear with joy. "You know, that? 'Cause your... your fingers are kinda between mine and your palm's really warm and..." she trails off, words leaving her and all she can do is let out a deflating breath as all the tension in her shoulders finally seems to ease.