Strings Attached ➤ Jay

|| The Pick

🎙️ 

love. -

♪ ༘⋆"비로소 우리의 세상이 완벽해
사랑으로"˖ ݁⋆.˚𝄞.

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By the time I trudged into the record shop, it already felt like I'd lived through three days crammed into one. My eyelids drooped like I'd taped weights to them, and the messy bun on top of my head was hanging on for dear life with nothing but a single hair tie and the grace of some hair gods. 

The storm from last night had been merciless, and my brain still buzzed from everything that had happened — the flickering shadows, the suffocating dark, the way Jay's hand had gripped mine like I was some kind of lifeline.

Now, the shop was too bright, too normal. The neon "OPEN" sign hummed, the faint sound of Sinatra crackled from the dusty speakers, and the faint smell of vinyl sleeves and lemon cleaner lingered in the air. 

My dad was in the back, humming something tunelessly as he counted boxes. I'd barely kicked the door closed behind me before I collapsed onto the stool behind the counter, chin in hand, pretending that if I blinked long enough I might actually fall asleep sitting upright.

Then the door jingled.

Of course.

Jay walked in — perfect posture, hair smoothed into place, his coat tailored like he was stepping off the cover of some ridiculous glossy magazine for "men who own yachts and expensive cufflinks." His polished shoes didn't squeak against the old floorboards like mine always did; no, his footsteps were silent, confident, irritatingly graceful.

And suddenly the whole air went... awkward. Not storm-dark tense like last night, but something quieter. Almost fragile.

"Morning," I muttered, not looking at him for too long.

"Morning," he echoed, his voice lower, softer than usual. No smug smirk today. No immediate jab about the guitar. Just... him.

He walked up to the counter, and before I could ask what he wanted, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat. My eyebrow arched automatically, already prepared to roll my eyes at whatever rich-boy thing he was about to pull out. A diamond pen? A monogrammed handkerchief? Bribes for the guitar?

But no. He placed a small, soft pouch on the counter and slid it toward me.

I stared at it. Then stared at him. His face gave away nothing except a little nod — subtle, but insistent — urging me to open it.

"What's this?" I asked cautiously, already tugging the string.

"Just open it," he said, his tone surprisingly quiet, almost... nervous.

Inside, nestled against the dark velvet fabric, was a silver guitar pick. My breath caught as I carefully lifted it out, holding it up to the light. It was smooth, polished, and clearly custom-made — heavier than the plastic picks I usually tossed around, more like jewelry than an accessory. And there, engraved in tiny, precise Korean characters, were the words:

"소리 없는 음악은 없다."

I squinted at the text, my lips moving silently as I sounded it out in my head, but Jay leaned closer and said softly, "It means... There is no music without sound."

The pick gleamed between my fingers, catching the shop light as though it had its own pulse.

For a moment, all I could do was stare. Not because of its beauty, though it was beautiful, but because Jay — Jay — had handed it over so simply. No grand speech, no smug bragging about how much it cost, no hint of "see what I can buy you?" Just him, standing there in his neat coat, watching me with a strangely careful expression.

"You—" I cleared my throat, my voice embarrassingly scratchy. "You just carry around engraved guitar picks now? Is that like a... rich guy thing? Like how normal people carry gum?"

His mouth curved, but not into his usual cocky grin. It was softer, almost amused. "No. I had it made a while ago. Thought about keeping it for myself, but... it feels like it belongs with you."

My face warmed, which was inconvenient. I stared at the pick again, flipping it over, trying not to think about the weight in my chest. "This is... wow. I mean, I thought the most you'd ever give me is a migraine, so this is—"

"An upgrade?" he offered lightly.

I shot him a look. "Barely. Maybe just a side quest reward."

His laugh came out low, and I hated how nice it sounded. Ugh. Dangerous. Too nice.

But then his gaze flickered, like he remembered something, and for a second his mask slipped — the polished, confident, spoiled-boy mask. There was vulnerability there. Something private.

"I... wanted to thank you," he said finally. "For last night. You didn't have to... you know. Stay. Or try to distract me. Or let me hold—" His eyes flickered to the guitar case leaning against the back wall, and then back to me. "—that."

I felt my throat tighten. I fiddled with the pick, flipping it between my fingers. "You don't have to thank me. I wasn't about to leave you hyperventilating in the corner. I'm not that cruel."

He smiled faintly. "Still. I don't usually..." He trailed off, searching for words. "I don't usually tell people things. Or let people see me like that."

I raised a brow. "Lucky me."

This time he did grin, that sharp, cocky grin I was more familiar with. "Lucky you," he teased, though his voice didn't carry the same edge as before.

The moment hung there, heavier than it should've been.

Finally, I tucked the pick back into the pouch, cinched it closed, and held it to my chest for a second before setting it down carefully on the counter. "Thank you, Jay. Really."

Something flickered in his eyes, something unreadable. He gave a tiny nod, shoved his hands in his pockets, and glanced toward the shelves like he needed to busy himself.

I didn't know what to do with the warmth curling in my chest, so I did what I always did: deflect.

"You know," I said, picking up a pencil and twirling it dramatically between my fingers, "if you think giving me shiny things is going to make me cave and sell you my guitar—"

"I didn't say that," he interrupted smoothly, though the spark in his eyes betrayed him.

"Uh-huh." I squinted at him. "This is all part of your master plan, isn't it? You're going to emotionally manipulate me with thoughtful gifts until I give in."

He smirked, leaning one elbow against the counter. "Is it working?"

I opened my mouth, then promptly shut it again, because the traitor blush on my cheeks said enough.

Damn him.

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A/N: I LOVE THIS SONG MORE THAN LIFE