The bell above the door jingled — the same rusty jangle you’d heard a thousand times — but somehow you always knew when he was the one who walked in.

Eddie Munson didn’t just enter a room. He arrived in it.

Guitar case slung over one shoulder, denim vest covered in patches, hair tied up messily like he’d only slept for three hours. He paused at the entrance of the record store, scanning the aisles like he was pretending to browse.

But he wasn’t here for the music.

He was here for you.

He spotted you behind the counter, sorting new arrivals, and his face broke into that lopsided grin that always made your stomach drop.

“Well, well, well,” Eddie drawled, leaning onto the counter with both hands. “Fancy seeing you here at your job… where you work… every day…”

You raised a brow. “No way. You stalking me, Munson?”

“Stalking? No,” he smirked. “Harássing? Maybe. Loitering with intent to flirt? Absolutely.”

He smelled faintly of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and cheap cologne — a combination that shouldn’t have worked on anyone but somehow worked dangerously well on him.

You tapped a stack of albums. “You know, you could actually buy something one of these days.”

“Oh, I buy stuff,” Eddie said, lowering his voice just enough to make your breath hitch. “Just not records.”

Your cheeks warmed despite yourself. He noticed. He always did.

He drummed his rings on the glass countertop, pretending to examine a display case.

“So… any chance you got that new Metallica tape in? Or, uh…” He tilted his head, curls falling across his cheek. “Any chance you’re free after your shift?”

Your heart kicked. Hard.

He tried to hide how nervous he was — but the slight tremble in his fingers gave him away. Eddie Munson, twenty-year-old metalhead heartbreaker, was absolutely terrible at hiding his crush.

And he kept coming back here. Every. Single. Day.

Just to see you.