“You could go through them,” she offers, almost hesitant.“Take what’s yours.Leave his in here?”She says it like a question, like maybe I’ll bite.
“What was your plan before I walked in?”
Her grin tilts left, mischief blooming.“Split them with a friend.”
She leans closer, voice lowered like we’re kids again hiding secrets in a treehouse.“He and I deserve them more than anyone.We’re music geeks.”
“You’re still a music thief,” I mutter, trying not to smile as I shake my head.“You just place them where they’ll be ...what?Worshipped?”
“Loved,” she corrects with no shame whatsoever.“Albums need a home.”
I glance over the mess and sigh.“So this friend of yours—will he be okay with having stolen goods in his collection?”
She nods, smug.“He might.I’d have to ask him.”
“If he says yes, maybe he’s not a great friend.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s enabling a record thief.That’s morally questionable at best.”
She laughs, full and unguarded.“It’s not thievery if they’re given a warm, cozy place to live out the rest of their musical life.”
I pause, watching her.That laugh used to fill entire rooms.I didn’t realize how much I missed it until it hit me square in the chest.
“Well,” I say finally, crouching beside the boxes.“Sorry to break it to you, but I’m taking them home if these are mine.”
She looks around the store like maybe a car will materialize out of nowhere.“You have a car?”
“Nope.Lost my license a few years ago.”
Her brow arches.“Wait—what?”
“Drunk driving.Not my proudest moment,” I confess.“No one got hurt, but it was part of my settlement.Didn’t do time, but I had to give up my license.”I force a breath through my nose, fingers drumming the top of an album sleeve.“I’m not proud of what I did back then.”
Kit doesn’t say anything right away.There’s no judgment, no gasp, no overly dramatic pause.Just a soft inhale—barely there—like she’s absorbing it all and letting it settle in her chest.Then she sinks down beside me, crossing her legs like we’re at a fucking sleepover and none of this is real life.
“I’m glad no one got hurt,” she says, voice low but sure.“And I’m glad you’re okay.You’re doing better now, right?”
“I’m trying,” I whisper.And I mean it.Every inch of me means it.
She nudges my knee with hers—nothing overthought—just enough to remind me she’s still here.Still ...her.“Then that’s all that matters.People fuck up.You’re still here.”
The way she looks at me then—it knocks something loose.Not pity.Not forgiveness, either.More like this lingering belief that I’m salvageable.Like I’m not all rust and wreckage.
“So, here’s the thing.”I clear my throat, trying to come back to Earth.“I’m going to figure out who can help me take this home.”I point at the boxes.“That doesn’t mean you can go through them and pick what you can keep.”
“But aren’t they part of the collection we were building?”Her voice goes quiet, a little uncertain, like she wasn’t planning to say it out loud.“For when we started living together?”
“Maybe?”My throat gets tight, and I hate how unsure it sounds.
“That means we should split them.”
“Would you do that to them?”I point at the boxes.“Split the children when they like to be together?”
“That’s low, Wilder.”
I shrug, biting back a grin.“Sure, but you know I’m right.”Then I narrow my gaze at her, pretending to scold.“And you planned to give them to a stranger.That’s cruel.”
