The Warmth Between the Tracks

I did not come to the shop for the music. I came because the city had grown too loud, and his voice was the only quiet I trusted.
He never touched my hand first. He simply stood beside me, close enough that the heat of him softened the cold air conditioning, and let me choose the record. When I finally looked up, he was already looking at me—not with urgency, but with the patience of someone who has learned that love is a slow melody, not a shout.
My sweater slipped off one shoulder and I did not care. In that dim room stacked with stories older than us, his fingers brushed mine over the worn edge of a sleeve, and the world outside—the deadlines, the distance, the years we had kept between us—gently folded shut. We did not need to say I love you. The warmth was already there, resting in the space between our breaths, just right.

Editor: Grace