Page 8 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

"Upstairs." I point a thumb toward the ceiling. "There's a tiny apartment over the shop. Used to be an office. Now it's mine."

"Door locks?"

"Three deadbolts."

He nods once. "This works."

I stand in the doorway, acutely aware of how small the back room is with him inside it. His broad shoulders seem to touch the walls. His presence sucks the oxygen right out of the room. This shop is my mother's ghost. The smell of the cedar, the meticulous organization by decade, the faded handwritten price tags—she touched all of it. She died four years ago. I stayed to keep her memory alive. I anchored myself to this building, and in doing so, I let Crimson Hollow become my cage. I watched the Syndicate corporatize the streets outside. I watched the honest businesses board up their windows or burn to the ground. I have no way out. The Vinyl Vault is what I have left. Every day is a battle to keep the lights on and the monsters outside.

Now, a stranger is claiming the back room. He’s a human wall between my mother’s legacy and the threats on the street. He doesn't know my mother. He doesn't know my history. But he’s planting his boots on my floorboards and refusing to move.

"Don't touch the B-sides," I warn him, gesturing to the milk crate. My voice is sharper than I intend. A defense mechanism.

His jaw twitches. The faintest ghost of amusement softens the hard lines of his face. "Understood."

"And don't snore. The floorboards are thin. I hear everything from upstairs."

"I don't snore."

"Good." I linger for a second longer than necessary. His eyes hold mine. The heavy, gravitational pull between us drags at my limbs. I want to step toward him. I force myself to step backward. "Goodnight, Portland."

"Goodnight, Wendy."

The first night passes in a tense, buzzing static. I sleep in my apartment upstairs, but sleep is a generous word for staring at the ceiling fan. Every creak of the ancient floorboards confirms there’s a man downstairs. A dangerous man who didn't flinch when the Syndicate walked in. I’m consumed by his presence beneath me. The gravity of him reaches right through the floor joists.

I’m awake at four-thirty. The sun is a distant rumor behind the eastern ridge. I pull on a pair of faded jeans and an oversized cardigan, walking down the narrow wooden stairs to the shop.

I expect him to be asleep on the mattress.

He isn't.

He’s sitting on a stool behind the oak counter in the dark. Only the amber lamp is on. He has a steaming mug of black coffee in his hands. The scent of dark roast fills the space, dominating the room. He’s still, his eyes locked on the front door.

"Do you ever sleep?" I ask, stepping off the bottom stair.

He tracks my movement with dark, unreadable eyes. "Sometimes."

"Not tonight?"

"Establishing the perimeter."

I roll my eyes. Establishing the perimeter. Right. Military grunts and their buzzwords. I walk into the back room. The mattress is perfectly made. The blanket is tight enough to bounce a quarter off it.

I grab a small carton of eggs from the mini-fridge in the corner and set up the electric hot plate I keep on a sturdy wooden crate. I crack four eggs into the skillet. The smell of melting butter mixes with his coffee. The sizzle of the eggs is the only sound in the building.

I scrape the eggs onto two paper plates. I walk back out to the counter and slide one plate across the oak surface. I drop a plastic fork next to it.

"Eat."

He looks at the pale yellow eggs. He looks at me.

"Unless Portland cousins are too good for hot-plate breakfasts," I add, leaning my elbows on the counter.

He picks up the fork. He eats the eggs in three huge bites. He doesn't say thank you. He doesn't need to. The silence between us isn't awkward. It’s taut. We’re two people sitting inside a trap, waiting for the jaws to snap shut.

I take my plate and eat slowly. The rhythm of the morning solidifies. This is our new normal.

The days blur together in a strange, hyper-vigilant routine. He learns the physical layout of the shop with terrifying precision. He knows which floorboards creak near the jazz section. He knows the blind spot behind the new arrivals display. He never walks into the back room the same way twice.