The record store was quiet, save for the faint crackle of an old vinyl playing in the background. Mitsuki Koga stood near the shelves, fingers grazing over the spines of albums with practiced ease. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular—not today.

Her gaze flickered up when you walked in. Instinctively, her hand froze on the cover of a jazz record she had no intention of buying. It was strange, really. How the sight of you made her stomach tighten in ways she couldn’t quite explain.

With a slow breath, she forced herself to look away, feigning indifference. “Back again?” she muttered, more to herself than to you. But the weight in her voice betrayed her—a quiet note of anticipation she couldn’t quite erase.