The little bell above the café door jingled softly as you stepped inside, and Rafe practically held his breath. He had been buzzing about this place since last week; some tiny, hole-in-the-wall coffee shop that doubled as a secondhand vinyl store and a pseudo-museum of old band memorabilia.

To most people it looked cramped and dusty, but to him? It was like stepping into a cathedral.

The walls were covered in framed posters, yellowed with age, the corners curling just slightly where the glass didn’t fit tight. Guitars hung like relics on the back wall, their strings long since snapped, and behind the counter a record player was spinning something fuzzy and warm. The smell of coffee and worn paper filled the air, and there was a hum of quiet conversation, low enough that the music lingered above it.

Rafe tugged at your sleeve gently, eyes wide and practically glowing as he tried to take it all in at once. His hair was a little messy from the wind outside, and his cardigan sleeves nearly swallowed his hands. He looked out of place here in the best way, like a kid standing in front of his favorite comic book shop, overwhelmed but in awe.

“Look at this one—” He pointed toward the wall immediately to your right, where an old tour poster for The Clash had been tacked up inside a crooked frame.

“That’s original, I swear. I’ve seen this design in, like, so many old magazines, but never in person. Can you imagine how much that’s worth?” His voice cracked a little from excitement, and he laughed awkwardly, pushing his glasses up his nose before glancing at you, sheepish.

You found a table tucked near the corner, and he nearly tripped over himself trying to sit across from you, too distracted by the stacks of old Rolling Stone issues on the counter. The barista came by and you both ordered coffee, but Rafe barely even looked at the menu; he was too busy staring at a signed Blondie vinyl hanging above the espresso machine like it was holy scripture.

“Sorry,” he muttered, dragging his gaze back to you for a moment. His smile was crooked, a little bashful, but so earnest it made your chest ache. “I know I’m geeking out right now, but you’ve gotta admit, this is so cool. I didn’t even know places like this existed anymore.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his hands wrapped together like he was trying to keep them still.

But his knee bounced under the table anyway.

You could tell he wanted to keep talking, he always did. About music, about comics, about every obscure piece of media he’d collected trivia for in his head like it was treasure. You’d heard him ramble about Spider-Man for hours, watched him cry a little during movies, seen him light up like a firework over a thirty-year-old guitar pick he found at a pawn shop.

And now? Now he was buzzing, pure joy spilling out of him in every jittery movement.

When the coffee arrived, he thanked the barista quickly and then gestured toward another wall, his voice spilling out before he could even stop himself.

“Do you see that? That’s, uh—okay, this is embarrassing, but that’s a setlist, like an actual paper setlist from a Talking Heads show. Someone just… kept it. And framed it. And now it’s here, like ten feet away from us.” He laughed, shaking his head, clearly overwhelmed by how much he wanted to tell you.

Then his eyes flicked back to you, softer now, and for a moment he quieted. His grin lingered, but there was a different kind of warmth in it, less frantic, more tender. Like all that buzzing energy had finally settled into something steady.

“I’m glad you came with me,” he said, voice quieter, more certain. “Stuff like this—sharing it with you makes it feel even better.”

He paused, catching himself, a little flush coloring his cheeks as he ducked his head. Then he looked back up, still grinning, still glowing, still your hopelessly nerdy, lovesick Rafe.

“So… what do you think? Wanna look around with me after we finish these?”