HASALYNX PRESS
Read Romance Ebooks Legally — Anytime, Online, With a Monthly Subscription

Chapter 1. Rain-Soaked Records and Silver Morning Light 

(Serah's POV)

The morning light through the front windows of Vinyl Moon Records was soft and grey, the kind of light that made everything look like it had been dusted with silver. I stood at the counter, my hands resting on the worn wood, and watched the street outside slowly come to life—a woman walking her dog, a delivery truck double-parked outside the bakery, the first few drops of rain beginning to spot the pavement. It wasn't the downpour that would come later, just a gentle mist that seemed to hang in the air like breath.

I'd been open for an hour already, the brass bell chiming for a handful of early customers who moved through the shop with the quiet purpose of people who knew exactly what they wanted. A man in his sixties had come in looking for a particular pressing of a jazz record, and I'd helped him search through the crates until we found it. A young woman with pink hair had browsed the indie section for twenty minutes before leaving with a used copy of an album I'd recommended. These small interactions, these brief connections with strangers who shared my love of music, were the closest I came to intimacy anymore.

The shop was my sanctuary, the one place where I could control the variables, where every record was in its proper place and every surface was exactly as I wanted it. The worn hardwood floor, scarred by decades of footsteps, caught the light in patches where the finish had worn thin. The wooden crates along the walls bowed slightly under the weight of their contents, their labels faded and creased. The vintage turntable on the low table near the window was playing something soft and instrumental, the needle dropping into the grooves with a gentle crackle that felt like a heartbeat.

The bell chimed again, and I looked up to find Ivanna standing in the doorway, shaking the mist from her coat, a bundle of dried herbs clutched to her chest. Her dark hair was plastered to her temples, and she was wearing the same worn cardigan she always wore, its elbows patched with mismatched fabric.

"Storm's coming," she announced, crossing to the counter and setting down her bundle. "I can feel it in my bones."

"You say that every time it rains."

"Because I'm right every time it rains." She pulled off her coat and draped it over the back of a chair, then turned to survey the shop with the practiced eye of someone who'd spent years in retail. "You look tired."

I didn't argue. There was no point—she knew me too well. Instead, I reached for the kettle in the back room and filled it from the sink, the familiar ritual of making tea a comfort I didn't want to examine too closely. Ivanna followed me to the listening corner, dropping into one of the worn armchairs and tucking her feet beneath her. The space was small and intimate, the two chairs facing each other across a low table cluttered with records and the remains of yesterday's coffee.

"The amethysts are here, by the way," she said, reaching into her coat pocket and pulling out a small velvet pouch. "Esmeralda sent them with me. Said she'd come by later to help you arrange the display."

I opened the pouch and tipped a handful of crystals into my palm. They were beautiful—deep, rich purple, their facets catching the lamplight and turning it into something almost liquid. "She's been having a hard time," I said quietly. "Her brother called again."

Ivanna's face flickered. "I know. She told me. She's been feeling guilty, like she should have done more."

"Should have done what? She can't save him."

"None of us can save anyone. We can only be here when they're ready to save themselves."

I looked at her, at the way her face had shifted into something harder, more guarded, and I knew she was thinking about herself as much as she was thinking about Esmeralda. We'd been through so much, the three of us, and yet here we were, still standing, still finding small moments of grace in the spaces between our grief.

The bell chimed again, and I looked up, expecting Esmeralda, expecting another customer, expecting anyone but the person who walked through the door.

Carter.

He was wearing the same worn jacket he always wore, his dark hair damp from the mist outside, and he was carrying a record under his arm, its sleeve worn and creased with age. He smiled when he saw me, that easy, unhurried smile that had always made something in my chest tighten, and I felt my guard go up automatically. I'd known him for a year now, ever since we'd first met at the Underground Club through a mutual friend. We'd talked at parties, shared drinks at the Rusty Nail, exchanged pleasantries at the lake on the rare occasions our circles overlapped. And every time, I'd felt this same pull, this same terrifying recognition.

"Hey," he said, crossing to the counter. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by."

I watched him set the record on the counter, his fingers lingering on the edge of the sleeve, and I recognized it immediately—a pressing of a band we'd talked about once, months ago, at a party neither of us had wanted to be at. He'd mentioned he was trying to find it, and I'd said something offhand about keeping an eye out.

"You found it," I said, and I could hear the surprise in my own voice.

"Found it? I've had it for months. I just wanted to show you." He shrugged, a gesture that was meant to look casual and didn't quite succeed. "I know you said you'd never heard them."

He'd remembered. He'd remembered a conversation from months ago, a throwaway comment I'd made in passing, and he'd brought me a record I'd mentioned I'd never heard. I didn't know what to do with that, the careful attention, the quiet persistence.

"Thank you," I said, and my voice came out softer than I'd intended. "That's—thank you."

He smiled, and something in his expression shifted, warmed. "I was hoping I'd find you here. Can I get you a coffee? I know a place that does a decent cup."

"Not right now. Ivanna's here." I gestured toward the listening corner. "And Esmeralda's coming by later."

"Ah." He nodded, understanding. "Found family day."

"Found family day."

He looked toward the listening corner, where Ivanna had given up on pretending and was now openly watching us. "Tell them I said hi. And—I don't know—maybe I'll see you at the bonfire this weekend? Ivanna mentioned something about a bonfire."

"She mentioned it?"

"I was at the studio, and she came by to drop off some herbs for a client. Said you'd be there."

I didn't know what to say. The bonfire was our thing, mine and Ivanna's and Esmeralda's—the one night a month when we let ourselves forget the weight of everything. "I'll see you there," I said, and the words came out before I could stop them.

He smiled again, that slow, gentle smile that made me feel like I was the only person in the room. "Good. I'm looking forward to it."

He left, the brass bell chiming softly behind him, and I stood at the counter for a long moment, staring at the record he'd left behind. I hadn't asked him to bring it. I hadn't asked him to remember that conversation, to find the record, to walk across town in the rain just to give it to me.

Ivanna appeared at my side, her tea mug still in her hands. "He's sweet," she said.

"He's dangerous."

"Sweet and dangerous. Those are the best kind."

I looked at her, at the knowing smile on her face, and I felt the familiar ache of wanting something I was afraid to have. Why did he have to be so attentive, so present, like he actually saw me? Because people who saw you could also see your flaws, your cracks, the parts of yourself you'd spent years trying to hide. And I'd spent too long building walls to let someone tear them down with a smile and a record I'd mentioned once in passing.