“Tragic. Sounds like your forte.”
“Hey, pain makes great art,” he says, flipping through again. “What about this?”
“That one Idoknow.” I take it from him, tapping the edge. “You made me listen to it the first time we talked on the phone. Said the bass line was the closest thing you’d heard to lust.”
He laughs, low and warm. “You remembered.”
“How could I forget? You made a five-minute speech aboutsonic sex.”
He mock bows. “Guilty.”
We make a game of it after that, him pulling records to “educate” me, me pretending I’m immune to his enthusiasm. I get a few right and pass his smug little tests, but he keeps trying to trip me up.
When it’s my turn, I dig out a classic Polish jazz record, the cover all warm hues and melancholy. “My turn. Cultural exchange.”
He eyes it. “You’re trying to convert me toPolish jazz?”
“Obviously. You need taste.”
He laughs again and tucks it under his arm. “Fine. One album each, a duel of education.”
By the time we make it to the counter, I can feel the shift. A couple of people start glancing over, murmuring. One whispers to another, eyes widening. Rafe feels it too, I can tell by the small exhale through his nose, the way his shoulders tighten beneath the hoodie.
The clerk looks up, does a double take even with Rafe’s half-sunglasses on. “Wait are you…?”
Rafe gives a polite nod. “Yeah.”
When the clerk shyly slides a vinyl across the counter, Rafe signs it without hesitation, his smile practiced but still kind. By the time we finish paying, a small group has gathered near the corner, phones raised, whispering.
Rafe adjusts instinctively, stepping in front of me, his hand gentle but firm as he turns me slightly so my face is hidden from their line of sight. It’s small, subtle and protective. He’s the one who tries tocling to what’s left of his anonymity, though some of it went out the window afterthe punch heard around the internet.But the reality of maybe losing mine had never really hit home, until now.
The rain finds us the second we step outside. It always does. We don’t even run anymore, just pull our jackets tighter and let it happen. He insists on carrying the bag, a bottle of red tucked inside with our trophies.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “My fault, should’ve known better. Record stores are probably thelastplace I get to hide. Love me or hate me, they still look.”
“Rafe,” I say, brushing it off, “it’s fine. Nothing major. It’s not like they know who I am, or that anything’s going on, we just bought music.” I slip my hand into his and squeeze. “You’re allowed to have a life, to forget sometimes. Remember the Waffle House? Nothing happened.”
He shakes his head, jaw tight. “No. I can’t risk you like that. We got lucky with those kids and the napkin picture. It could’ve been much worse.” His thumb rubs against my hand anxiously, tension brimming beneath the surface. “This still could. We’ll just have to cross our fingers for the next week and hope nothing gets posted.”
“I’ve been too casual since everything with Rithy, acting like I’m still as hidden as before.” His head turns back toward the glass door of the record store, checking behind for anyone following. “Time to face the facts. Next time, I’ll plan better.”
The way he saysnext timeand the tone of his voice, measured, protective, threaded with guilt, makes me realize he’s not talking about PR. He’s talking aboutus.About keeping what we havesafe, even if it means shielding me from the world he can’t always control.
Later, at his place, I sit cross-legged on his bed, wearing his shirt, the sleeves rolled past my hands. My hair’s still damp, curlingagainst my neck. He’s stretched out beside me, half lit by the bedside lamp, looking at me like he’s trying to turn the scene into a song. I study him right back, the small scar on his collarbone, the freckle near his jaw, the faint stubble shadowing his throat.
“Do you ever get tired of being watched?” I ask.
He meets my gaze without hesitation. “Only when it’s not you.”
For a moment, there’s nothing else, just his voice, the whir of the turntable, the hint of rain and wine. His scent clings to my skin. His rhythm lives under mine. Sometimes I think I could stop time right here. Suspend it in amber, in that fragile breath before everything changes. Right now, it feels like we’ve caught a comet mid-flight, stardust still burning between our fingers and I don’t want to let go.
The clock is already counting him down. Tomorrow he flies to L.A. for a week to rehearse and do a handful of things that, I’m sure, make sensein musicianbut only sound to me like more reasons for him to be far away. Then Europe, two months of distance stretching like an ocean he hasn’t even crossed yet. Tonight, he just wants me here, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
We’re in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, flour in the air, dough sticking to everything. The counter looks like snowfall. I’m showing him how to fold the edges right, pinching each pieróg like I’m sealing a secret inside.
“Don’t press too hard,” I tell him. “You’ll break it when it boils.”
“Story of my life,” he mutters, and I can’t help smiling. There’s flour on my cheek; he looks at me like he could live in this version of the world forever. He tries again, and the dough splits.
