In Which
He wants to buy her guitar.
or
In which
Her guitar brings them together.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
In a forgotten corner of the city sits a little record shop, filled with dusty shelves, the scent of coffee, and the girl who keeps it alive. She's twenty-tw...
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🎸
Manchild -
⋆𖦹.✧˚"But there's a cuter word for it I know Manchild" ༘˚⋆𐙚
⚡︎⚡︎⚡︎
I hated slow afternoons.
The shop was silent except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the low rasp of Sam Cooke playing on the stereo. Outside, the sun hung heavy in the sky, casting harsh white light through the dusty blinds. The streets were quiet in that mid-afternoon lull, when even the city seemed too tired to move.
I sat behind the counter, peeling the label off my empty water bottle, nails scraping thin plastic with rhythmic insistence. My eyelids felt heavy, and Dad's soft snores drifted out from the back room where he'd fallen asleep in his cracked leather armchair.
2:14 PM.
I sighed, leaning forward on the counter, my chin propped in my palm, dark blue hair falling like a curtain around my face. I thought about practicing guitar again, but the silence felt too oppressive right now. Even music felt too loud.
The bell above the front door jingled suddenly, slicing through the stillness. I didn't move at first, expecting Mr. Han with his usual cup of vending machine coffee. But then I heard footsteps – calm, unhurried, deliberate.
I brushed my hair away from my eyes and sat up straight, forcing myself into polite retail mode. My gaze lifted lazily to the door, and the moment I saw him, my breath caught.
He stood there, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer interior. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Black hair parted neatly to the side, not a single strand out of place. He wore tailored black trousers and a crisp white button-down tucked perfectly into his waistband, sleeves rolled up to reveal lean forearms and a silver watch that probably cost more than my tuition. His skin was golden, smooth, glowing under the fluorescent lights.
But it wasn't just his clothes or the silent gleam of wealth around him. It was the way he moved. Effortless. Confident. Like the world bent to accommodate him without question. His dark eyes scanned the store slowly, flicking from the jazz section to the record wall to the glass guitar cabinet, assessing everything with quiet calculation.
He didn't look at me at first. He walked in with deliberate slowness, each step echoing on the old wooden floor. When he reached the guitar cabinet, he stopped, hands slipping casually into his pockets as he leaned forward slightly to study the electric Fender inside.
