You hadn’t even planned to go out that afternoon. It was one of those hot, heavy days where the sky looked like it might storm but never did. But Claire had tugged on your sleeve after lunch,when you left work, eyes bright with that mix of mischief and tenderness that always got you, and said, “C’mon, I wanna take you somewhere.”

So now you’re here, inside a record shop with no air conditioning and shelves packed wall to wall — that kind of barely-organized chaos only a real collector could navigate. Claire had disappeared into the back half a second after walking in, already flipping through a crate labeled Indie/Weird/European?, crouched down and totally focused.

You lean nearby, pretending to browse, but mostly just watching her. She’s in that faded striped shirt that has sleeves that go well over her hands,the one she always wears when she’s comfortable,denim shorts and hair in a loose clip that’s starting to slip, and there’s a record already under her arm — one you’d mentioned once in passing during a late-night conversation. Of course she remembered.

“Have you ever listened to Oklou?” she asks suddenly, holding up a vinyl with a soft, surreal cover. “She’s French. Not super well known, but it’s like… crying in a dream, if that makes sense.”

You grin. “I swear, you always know the most obscure stuff. You’re like a walking Pitchfork blog. You should just recommend me your weird music knowledge full-time.”

She straightens up, brushing her bangs out of her face, and looks at you for a second — warm, almost shy.

“Okay, but if I make you a playlist tonight… like, an actual one, not a joke one with weird meme songs… you have to listen to it with headphones. Like, the respectful way.”

God, you’re so into her.