Page 18 of Obsession on Repeat (Vinyl Hearts #1)

With the club closed, an unfamiliar kind of quiet settled over the place.

Only the sound of my own footsteps echoed through the building as I carried two coffees.

Asher sat on the edge of the stage, reading something on his phone, sleeves pushed up, sneakers unlaced.

He looked up when I approached, expression unreadable.

"I brought a peace offering." I lifted the cups.

He arched his brow. "Am I supposed to guess which one’s poisoned?"

"No, that one’s mine." I handed him the other cup. His fingers brushed mine, and I ignored the warmth that momentarily unsettled me.

He took a sip, his eyes lingering on me a little longer than necessary. I settled onto the stage beside him, and for a few minutes, we drank our coffees in silence, side by side, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"You’re here early."

I lowered my cup into my lap. "I spent the first part of the morning looking for an apartment. I need to borrow the printer, so I can get my employment verification for the property manager."

That made him pause. "Do you need help moving your things?"

I stared down into my coffee, watching the swirl of cream fade. "I don’t have anything to move. I don’t own a vehicle, I always used Sullivan’s. That’s next on the list."

"Take the night off."

"I couldn’t do that to you guys," I shook my head. "Gina’s talented in a lot of ways, but she’s a terrible DJ."

He chuckled, his shoulder brushing mine. I didn’t move. "You’re allowed to take time off, you know."

"I’m not used to people giving me permission."

He gave me a half smile. "Then get used to it."

I looked at him, really looked at him, at his quiet confidence, the way he never pushed. I wanted to say thank you. I didn’t.

Sighing, I slid off the stage. "I need to get going."

He said nothing, and I walked quickly up the stairs to the break room. A row of computers lined the back wall, set up for employees who needed pay statements, manage their PTO, or watch mind-numbing state-mandated training videos.

Minutes later, I was cursing under my breath as the printer jammed again. On the floor, one leg folded under me, I tried to pry a rogue page free without tearing it in half.

"You know," Asher’s voice came from the doorway, "I think this place is actively trying to ruin your life."

I didn’t look up. "If I die here, make sure they play a remix of my last set at the funeral."

He laughed as he approached me. "Need backup?"

"Only if you’re trained in printer CPR."

He crouched beside me, close enough that I felt the warmth of him along my arm. "Let me."

"You’re not going to fix it," I warned, sitting back slightly as he took over.

"Confidence, Rory. Confidence."

The silence stretched as we knelt there, shoulders brushing, breathing the same dusty air and the faint scent of printer ink and cologne. I shifted slightly, the small space growing smaller.

"This is kind of cozy," I muttered, voice too light to be casual.

He looked at me, eyes steady, unreadable. "Yeah, it is."

His hand was inside the printer, but his body had shifted toward mine. Our legs were pressed side by side now, warmth bleeding through denim. My hand rested beside his on the floor, fingers curled tight to stop myself from doing something stupid.

I looked at his mouth, then I looked away.

Asher pulled the paper free with one clean tug. "Mission accomplished." He stood, offering his hand. I hesitated a beat too long before taking it. He pulled me up and didn’t let go right away. His hand lingered in mine.

"Um, thanks."

He lifted his hand slowly, deliberately, and reached for a loose curl that had fallen over my cheek. He brushed it back behind my ear, fingers trailing across my skin. My breath hitched. His hand dropped, but his gaze stayed locked on mine.

"I should try to print those forms again," I whispered.

Neither of us moved. His eyes dropped to my mouth. "Probably."

I withdrew my hand from his and took a step back, turning to face the computer.

He exhaled through his nose. "Rory." I stopped, back turned. "Tell me I’m not imagining this."

My breath caught. I wanted to turn around and say something bold. I remained where I was, staring at the computer screen in silence, afraid to look anywhere else.

Without another word, he walked out.

I sagged into the desk chair. I hit Print and almost cried in relief as the printer worked perfectly, the papers sliding easily into the tray.

Two days later, I was in the break room at Euphoria, warming up takeout, scrolling through my phone like it was any other quiet moment, until the notification popped up.

Sullivan Masters Confirms Breakup with DJ Fetish.

My thumb hovered. I tapped the link. The quote that appeared next was polished, probably drafted by a PR rep in under ten minutes without a thought to the fact that real humans were involved.

"After a lot of reflection, Rory and I have decided to end our relationship. It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was a necessary one. I have the deepest respect for her and the time we shared. We kindly ask for privacy as we both move forward."

I snorted under my breath, closing the article, and almost childishly, I tossed my phone onto the table, the thud breaking the silence of the room .

Gina stepped into the break room, raising an eyebrow as she eyed my phone. She sat down beside me at the table. "You okay?"

I turned my phone around to show her the headline.

She winced. "Damn. You didn’t know that was dropping?"

"Nope." I set the phone face-down on the table.

"Want me to go unplug the router and start a fake fire?"

"Tempting, but I’m fine, truly." I was, but it didn’t stop the burn in my chest. I hadn’t realized how final it would feel seeing it in print.

She watched me carefully. "You know they’ll be waiting to see how you respond."

"I’m not going to post anything."

"Nothing at all?"

Shaking my head, I picked at the label on my water bottle. "I don’t care what anyone thinks about it. Let him have the narrative. He’s a celebrity. I’m just a DJ, and that’s the only thing I care about right now, getting back to that."

She nodded, quiet for a second. "You sure you’re okay?"

I wasn’t, not completely, but I was done bleeding for a narrative that didn’t care about the truth. "I’m sure."

"You’re not just a DJ, you know," Gina studied me, her gaze soft with understanding. "You’re a wonderful person who took a chance on love, and it didn’t work out."

I gave her a small smile. "Thanks."

She bumped her shoulder against mine. "Don’t thank me for telling the truth."