g ⋆˙⟡

Saturday starts slowly. The kitchen smells of coffee and toast, and you're half-disheveled, wearing an oversized T-shirt of his, obviously, while you're scrambling eggs in the pan.

Braeden is behind you, still half-asleep, his forehead resting on your shoulder and his arms wrapped around you like you're his favorite pillow.

"You smell good," he murmurs against your neck.

"It's coffee. And deodorant."

"Well, you should bottle it. I'd buy it forever."

"Shut up, cheesy."

He laughs softly, in that way that makes your spine tingle. And just when you think he's going to continue his koala-like mood, he blurts out:

"Hey, love... will you join me today to look for a vinyl?"

"Which one?"

"I don't know."

"So how do we look for it?"

"All I know is I want one that sounds like us."

You turn to look at him. There he is, disheveled, his eyes shining even though he still looks sleepy. And you can't help but laugh.

"Braeden, are you asking me to find a vinyl version of 'our song'?"

"Exactly. And if we don't find it, well... we'll make it up."

"You're going too far."

"I'm going too far, but with you."

You put the spoon in the pan, give him a peck on the nose, and say,

"Okay. Let's go find that vinyl that sounds like us. But you do the dishes."

"Deal."

He lifts his pinky finger to seal it with a pinky promise. You look at him like he's the dumbest, most adorable boyfriend in the universe... because he is.

If someone had told you, when you started dating Braeden, that you were going to become a VIP customer at every record store in town, you would have laughed in their face.

Now you don't laugh anymore. Now you sigh every time you see a "Vinyls & More" sign.

Because the truth is, yes, you love your boyfriend. But you hate going vinyl shopping with him. Not because you don't like music. Obviously you do.

But because Braeden is the equivalent of going clothes shopping with your girlfriend

He can spend HOURS pawing at covers. He gets excited over every "rare" vinyl as if he's struck gold. And, worst of all, he often leaves without buying anything.

You even have PTSD from the famous Record Store Day, when he dragged you camping out from the wee hours to buy a limited-edition vinyl of More by Wallows.

Yes, from his own band. As if HE weren't one of the members of Wallows.

"Love, understand," he told you, wrapped in blankets outside the store, with cold coffee in hand and his eyes shining,

"it's not the same. This vinyl is special, it has a different pressing, a different texture, a different vibe..."

"Braeden, you're literally the one who recorded it, the one who wrote it."

"But not the one who pressed it."

Since then, every time you see him get emotional at the mention of the word "vinyl," you know you're in for at least three hours of your lost life.

And yet... you go with him. Because, in the end, you love seeing that smile of his that only appears when he's surrounded by records.

The record store smells of old cardboard, wood, and that magical scent of a place where records seem like relics.

And Braeden walks in like it's Disneyland. Literally. He lets go of your hand only to run straight to the front row of vinyl.

You follow him, resigned, with that face that says, "I've had enough, I'll spend three hours here."

He, on the other hand, is ON. He starts pawing at covers as if they were rare trading cards

"Look, love, this is a German pressing of Abbey Road. The bass feels warmer."

"Uh-huh."

"This is The Bends by Radiohead, Japanese edition, comes with a bonus track that's never been released anywhere else."

"Mhm."

"No way! This is Marquee Moon by Television, original cover, what a gem!"

"Sure, yeah. Absolutely gorgeous."

You're standing with your arms crossed, kind of bored, but looking at him with that little smile because you really love how excited he gets about things that to you are pure cardboard.

Suddenly, he turns to you, holding a cover. A strange, dark album, with cursive lyrics.

"Does this sound like us?"

"I don't know, Braeden, I haven't heard it."

"I have. Very depressive. We're not that depressive."

"Speak for yourself."

"Well, I'm not like that with you."

Keep digging. Pull out a Fleetwood Mac one.

"This could be it, but it's pretty obvious. Everyone wants their relationship to sound like Fleetwood Mac."

Pull out a Cure one. "This one sounds like when I get intense with my feelings... but it might still work."

You're already raising your eyebrow.

"Braeden, stop using the vinyl hunt as an excuse to ask me to dance."

"What if that was the idea all along?"

He laughs, winks at you, and goes back to digging into the vinyl drawers, happy as a kid in a toy store.

And even though you swear you hate this, your little heart knows you could spend hours watching him be this geeky and you'd still love every second.

You've been watching for at least 40 minutes now as Braeden pulls vinyl out of a drawer, sets it aside, puts it back, sighs, smiles, gets excited, and then discards it. It literally feels like a vinyl reality show.

You're leaning against a shelf, watching him with your arms crossed.

"Brae... what are we looking for?" "I already told you."

"No, but seriously. What are you looking for? A specific album? An artist?"

"I. already. told. you."

"So what did you say?"

"Something that sounds like us."

You raise your eyebrows, almost laughing. "So what does 'us' sound like?"

"Like you're laughing in the middle of a sad song."

"...what?"

"Like when you tell me to shut up but kiss me so I don't get mad."

"Braeden…"

"Like the silence in the morning when we have breakfast. Or like the sound of water when you join me in the shower even though there's no room."

You look at him with your mouth half open. This guy just launched into a mini poem in the middle of a record store while he continues to pump out vinyl records as if it were nothing.

"Honey, do you realize you sound crazy?"

"Yes, but I'm your crazy one."

"Oh, shut up," you say, hiding your smile behind your hand. He glances at you quickly, with that stupid little smile that says,

"I know I won you over even if you say I didn't." And he dives back into the sea of vinyl, muttering to himself:

"I don't know which one it is, but I know when I see it... I'm going to feel like it sounds like us."

And you, even if you don't understand it, let yourself be infected by that silly, beautiful faith he has.

Your mental clock has been ticking for over an hour at the record store. Your feet are starting to hurt, and Braeden is still just as excited, pawing at covers like an archaeologist searching for a lost relic.

Suddenly, he stops, holding a vinyl record, and says, "Love, tell me the truth. To you... what album does love sound like?"

You blink, surprised. "What do you mean, what album?"

"That's it. If you had to name a record for the feeling... what would it be?"

You cross your arms, half blushing. "I don't know if you want to hear my answer."

"I do."

"You're going to call me basic." "I would never call you basic because of how you feel." You bite your lip.

Braeden is looking at you with those attentive little eyes, as if your opinion were the key to the entire universe.

And even though the answer is swirling in your throat, you don't say it yet. You just laugh nervously, looking down at the boxes of vinyl.

"I'll tell you later."

"Later when?"

"Later, when we're home."

"Why not now?"

"Because you'll upset to me."

"I promise not to."

"You promised we'd only be here 'a few minutes,'"

He bursts out laughing, that laugh that fills the entire aisle. And you, even though you hide, end up laughing too.

"Okay, I won't insist. But... I want to know, okay?" he says as he puts the vinyl back on the shelf.

"You'll find out."

"And if it's one of Taylor's, I'm going to kiss you right here in the middle of the store."

"Braeden!"

"What? You never know."

And yes, you never know. But your little heart is already trembling because you know exactly what album you're going to tell him next...

Braeden has been leafing through boxes for a while, almost oblivious to the world, when suddenly… there it is.

A shiny black vinyl record, with that cover that screams a mile away: Taylor Swift — Reputation.

He holds it up like it's a sacred relic. "Just look who showed up," he says with a small smile.

You laugh softly, because in your head you're already preparing your confession.

"So you want to know what album love sounds like to me?"

Brae watches you, curious, leaning the vinyl against his chest.

"Of course. You've already got me in suspense." You swallow and blurt out:

"Reputation."

The silence that follows is minimal, because Braeden immediately grins from ear to ear.

"Really?"

"Really. I don't know, I feel like… it sounds like that kind of love that people don't understand from the outside, but that means everything to us. It sounds like that mix of drama, intensity, but also silly laughter. And at the same time, it's as if everything is against us, but we're fine with it."

Braeden looks at you as if you'd just told him the most romantic poem in the world.

"You know what, love?" He holds up the vinyl.

"So this is our record. We bought it." You try to stop him with a nervous laugh.

"Oh Brae, no need, I was just answering you."

"It's absolutely necessary. If you said love sounds like Reputation, then we're going to get the soundtrack to our relationship."

He takes your hand, still holding the vinyl, and plants a quick kiss on your forehead.

"Besides, when we play it at home, I'll say 'this is the record that sounds like us,' and you won't be able to escape how cheesy I am."

You just laugh, lowering your face, while he walks toward the checkout as if he's found a treasure.

And the worst, or the best, is that yes, for you, too, it feels like a treasure.

Back in his apartment, Braeden puts the vinyl on the turntable. The needle drops and the first echo of “Dancing With Our Hands Tied” fills the room.

He looks at you with a small smile, the one you already know: the “come on, I’ll make you feel like you’re in a movie” kind of smile.

He takes you by the waist, pulls you slowly, and you start moving right there, between the living room and the kitchen.

“Look how corny we are,” you murmur with giggles. “Not corny. Perfect,” he replies against your ear.

And just as the song starts to climb, Braeden blurts out, “Wait for me.” He approaches the window, opens it wide, and the cold rain blows in.

Then, without giving you time to protest, he grabs your hand and pulls you out onto the balcony. Droplets begin to soak his eyelashes, his shirt, your hair.

And there, with the city flooded and the music in the background, he hugs you again.

Your arms wrap around his neck as you move clumsily on the wet balcony, laughing because you feel ridiculous and at the same time as if nothing else matters.

The verse hits the air: “But we were dancing, dancing with our hands tied…”

And even though you're both dripping, you feel Braeden holding you as if you're the only certainty on the planet.

He caresses your wet cheek, pressing his forehead to yours. “Just look, love… the whole world can fall apart, but you and I are going to keep dancing.”

And you believe it. You believe it because he tells you so with that absolute faith that only Braeden knows how to give. The song continues, and you laugh, kiss, stumble a little.

It had always been like that with Braeden. One of those relationships everyone envies because it's clear that you truly love each other, but also because you organize yourselves like functioning adults.

No crazy impulses, no impulsive decisions. You had a plan, well-planned, as if life were a checklist:

Save up for an apartment together.

Travel a little.

Get married after everything was pretty stable.

Kids (maybe) many years later.

Everything in order. Everything clear. All with that certainty that gave you peace of mind. And honestly, you loved it.

Because, even though your heart always told you to take the plunge, your mind told you that with Braeden it was different.

That it was real love. That with him it was worth the wait, because you were going to have everything. Time, stability, patience, a future.

One night, you were lying in his apartment, each with a cup of cold coffee on the table, your laptop open with travel plans "someday," and he, lying on your stomach with his hair disheveled, said to you

"I like that we have everything planned."

"Yes?"

"Yes. It gives me peace. Like... I don't need to rush, because I know I'll always get to you."

You stroked his hair, smiling softly. Because that phrase was so Braeden calm, certain, zero drama.

But at the same time, inside, you felt that tingling of "what if one day we just throw everything to hell and just live without thinking about it too much..." He looked up at you. Those pair of green-colored eyes that seemed to read even your most hidden thoughts.

"What?" he asked, with a slack smile.

"Nothing."

"That's a lie. You're thinking about something."

"I just thought... we always put everything off."

"Well, yes. Because later will come to us anyway, right?"

That was Braeden's logic. Confident, solid, calm. And you, with your head on his chest, closed your eyes, thinking: yes, everything has its time... But without knowing that very soon, they were going to break their own rule.

The day started out normal. Too normal. Coffee in the same cup, the same playlists, a familiar routine. You were on the couch, half checking emails, half stalking Airbnbs for "some future trip," and Braeden was wandering around, softly playing his guitar, as if he didn't care.

Until suddenly, the silence became heavy. As if they had both realized the same thing: what a drag all this routine is.

"Hey..." he said, breaking the air.

"What?"

"What if we go on a trip?"

"Where?"

"I don't know. Anywhere. You grab a backpack, I grab the keys, and that's it."

You looked at him as if he'd just proposed a bank robbery. Because Braeden was never like that. He was the one who "made everything in its own time," the one with the lists, the one who always thought ten steps ahead. But that day... that day, he had that mischievous little light in his eyes.

"Braeden... we have work, things to do, things to do."

"Everything can wait."

"What if we don't find a hotel?"

"We'll sleep in the car."

"What if we get lost?"

"Then we'll find each other."

You started to laugh nervously, covering your face with your hands. Because what's the deal with him? Because he was so out of character, so unexpected, so exactly what you'd always wanted to happen.

"Are you serious?"

"More than ever."

"What if it goes wrong?"

"Waiting for you for so many years has already worked out, right? Then going wrong doesn't exist."

Braeden stood up from the couch, pulled your hand, and, without giving you a chance to think about it any longer, planted a kiss on you. One of those kisses that tastes like "I didn't plan anything, but I swear it's going to be awesome."

When he pulled away, still smiling with his forehead against yours, he murmured: "Fuck it, let's go."

And you, who had always been the sane one, the rational one, looked into his eyes and felt that spark that burned in your chest. "Okay. Let's go."

Ten minutes later, you were throwing a couple of changes of clothes into a backpack, he was frantically searching for chargers, and the two of you were laughing like teenagers running away from home.

And so, without a map or itinerary, the road trip that would change everything began.

The car was parked in front of the apartment, backpacks slung into the trunk like ticking time bombs.

You stared up at the sky, still processing the madness they were about to commit, as Braeden circled around the corner.

"What are you doing?" you asked, watching him bend down.

"Checking the oil."

"Seriously? We're going on a road trip, but you at least want the engine to stay quiet?"

"Yeah, yeah. What do you prefer? Dying on the highway or fucking at a motel?"

"Braeden!"

"Hahaha, okay, okay, but I don't want the car to abandon us halfway there."

You watched him close the hood with that proud little smile that said, "I'm responsible, but I'm also your favorite chaos."

Once inside, he took the driver's seat, and you fastened your seatbelt, still giggling.

On your lap, you saw a bunch of CDs. Yes, CDs. The old ones, scratched, with covers all bent.

"Did you bring all our CDs?"

"Of course. This road trip deserves a decent soundtrack."

"What if I want Spotify?"

"No. This is retro, love. If the signal goes out, the CD never fails."

He put the first one in: a mix you'd recorded together years before, with a black Sharpie on the cover that read "Just Like A Movie."

Music filled the car. The engine roared. And Braeden, with his usual calm, placed his hand on your leg as he started it.

"Where are we going?" you asked, the most logical question in the world.

"Where it takes us."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. With gas and love, we'll have enough for a while."

Your laughter came out naturally, soft, contagious, and he turned to look at you with those sparkling eyes.

The guy who never strayed from the script was now breaking it all with you.

Kilometers began to slip away. The air entering through the open windows, hair becoming disheveled, the two of you belting out the lyrics as if it were a private concert.

Suddenly, plans didn't matter. Neither the checklist, nor the routine, nor the "someday." That's what mattered: him, you, and the endless road that had just begun.

The road was a long, drawn-out sigh, as if the whole world had stopped for the two of you.

The stereo was playing softly, playing that indie song you both always had in the background, almost like a shared secret.

And in the car… there was nothing but laughter. The kind of silly laughter that comes out of nowhere.

Because Braeden would make a stupid comment and you'd double over laughing.

Because you'd imitate him in a strange voice and he'd almost crash his head from laughing so hard. Everything was simple. Everything was gentle. Everything was one of those moments that seem like nothing to the world, but to you, they feel like a before and after.

He was driving with one hand on the wheel and the other on your leg, gently squeezing every time he laughed, as if he needed reassurance you were there.

And you were looking at him out of the corner of your eye, the sun streaming through the window, illuminating his profile as if it had been drawn just for you.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, without taking his eyes off the road.

"Because I don't understand how the hell I got so lucky."

"Well, neither do I, but I'm not going to complain."

You let out a small laugh, and he accompanied it with another, as if they were echoes of each other. And it was there, amid laughter and soft songs, that you felt it more clearly than ever: that man was your soulmate. There was no need to talk about future or plans.

No need to think about the future. What was there, in that car, was enough: pure connection, pure certainty that the universe had done its job right in bringing you together.

A comfortable silence settled in for a few minutes. He began to hum the song, softly, as if he were lulling the road to sleep.

And you just closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself be carried away by the perfect mix: the engine, the music, and Braeden's laughter. That was the sound of home.

Night was already falling. The headlights on the highway turned into flashing headlights that illuminated their tired but happy little faces.

The stereo was still low, but now there was no longer a comfortable silence: there was a parade of memories.

It all started with a laugh from you, one of those that just comes out on its own. Braeden looked at you out of the corner of his eye, with an automatic smile.

"What are you laughing at?"

"At yourself."

"Again?"

"Remember when I hit you in the eye with on the golf course and you said you were already blinded by love?"

He doubled over with laughter, hitting the steering wheel with his palm.

"No way! How could I forget! I had a black eye for three days, and you still told me, 'Oh, my human panda is cute.'"

You both laughed until youcried.

“Okay, okay… but do you remember when we were smoking in the apartment and I started philosophizing and called you “Beutiful little worm”?

“HAHAHA, yes. What a fucking ugly nickname! And you weren't even high when you said that”

“Hey! “Little worm” was meant affectionately, I swear.”

The car filled with those silly giggles that only come when you love so much that you don't care about anything anymore.

"Let's see, let's see, another one..." he said, biting his lip like someone searching a memory. "Remember when you gave me a lap dance on the tour bus?"

"Braeden, shut up!"

"No, no, no. I was sure I was going to die happy."

You covered your face, dying of embarrassment and laughter.

"And you? What do you remember?"

"Mmm... when you serenaded me with "Losing My Religion."

"Oh, no, don't remind me! Cole and Dylan carried me and I ended up on the floor, remember?"

"Yeah, Babe, you fell on your butt and still kept singing."

"Anything to impress my beautiful little worm."

They laughed again, long, unbridled, almost in tears.

"Okay, last one," you said, with a mischievous look. "Do you remember when you took me to Garibaldi... on the subway?"

"HAHAHA, that mariachi was the cheapest and most beautiful thing I've ever given you."

"Cheap? The tequila they gave us was ethanol."

"But admit it: it was perfect."

Silence. Not from discomfort, but from a pause. That pause where laughter gives way to something deeper. Braeden looked at you again, with sparkling eyes and a small smile.

"Do you know what all those 'remember's' have?"

"What?"

"Is that each one makes me love you more."

And again, you laughed softly. With those silly giggles that were no longer just play, were pure certainty.

The car already smelled of nostalgia. That kind of nostalgia that doesn't weigh you down, that doesn't hurt, but feels like being safe in an eternal memory.

After so much laughter, after so many "do you remember when?", silence returned. A soft silence, with the stereo barely playing a guitar note and the road stretching out as if it had no end.

Braeden kept glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, with that little smile that trembled between nervousness and determination. You knew that expression. It wasn't just any old thing: he was about to open his mouth and change everything.

He did it without warning. "If you agree, then I think it's time to go."

You turned to him, blinking. "Go where, babe?"

Braeden took a deep breath, one hand firmly on the wheel, the other reaching out to find yours, squeezing it warmly.

When he spoke, his voice came out with an edge of emotion, as if he were struggling to hold it in his chest. "I don't wanna wait, not anymore."

The whole world stopped. The roar of the engine, the headlights of passing cars, even the song on the stereo softened, as if the universe had understood the magnitude of those words.

You looked at him with wide eyes, somewhere between disbelief and overwhelmed. "Are you saying…?"

Braeden smiled, that smile that was all mischief and all certainty at the same time. "I'm saying we've had enough plans, enough 'later'. I want 'later' to be now."

Your throat tightened, emotion rising like a tidal wave. He tightened his grip on your hand, his thumb tracing circles on your skin.

“I want it to be with you. I don't care if it's in a remote town or Las Vegas, if we wear sneakers or suits. I just know I don't want to wait another day for you to be my wife.”

Your lips trembled. Your heart was beating so hard it felt like it was going to burst through your chest.

And instead of responding, you kissed him, with such pure urgency that Braeden had to slow down to stay on the road. When you broke apart, still laughing with tears in your eyes, you whispered, "Fuck it... let's go."

And you both laughed again, but now with a different sparkle the sparkle of those about to do the craziest thing of your lives.

The road took them where it wanted. A thoughtless detour, a rusty sign that read "Chapel of Love," and a bumpy dirt road made them both laugh with nervous excitement.

"I can't believe we're doing this," you said, your voice shaking, but your eyes sparkling.

Braeden looked at you with that mischievous little boy grin. "What about me? I'm sure my mom's going to kill me!"

The chapel appeared like an impromptu miracle: white, small, with Christmas lights still hanging even though it was past season.

Outside, an old woman calmly smoking on a bench watched them arrive. "Wedding?" she asked in a raspy voice.

"Wedding," Braeden answered without hesitation.

You looked at him, almost expecting him to back down, to say he was joking. But no: he was convinced, with that firm, brilliant gaze that disarmed you.

Inside, everything was kitsch: a tiny altar, plastic flowers, an out-of-tune organ.

But in that instant, it became the most beautiful church in the world.

Braeden took your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. His skin was warm, sweaty, nervous. "Hey, little worm," he whispered, with that low chuckle.

"What?"

"I didn't bring a ring." "Me neither." "Do you want these?"

He held up a pair of little plastic rings he'd taken from the counter at the entrance, the ones that came in gumball machines.

You laughed so hard a tear escaped. "Yes, babe. Exactly those."

The officiant, a man with a painted-on mustache and a crooked tie, began the impromptu ceremony.

Braeden kept looking at you, laughing nervously, squeezing your hand as if you were the only real thing in that moment.

When you said "I do," Braeden burst out laughing in the middle of the kiss. That kiss that knew no formalities, no protocols, no "life plans."

It only knew urgency, certainty, two souls saying "I Don't Wanna Wait No Anymore."

You left the chapel laughing, your plastic rings sparkling in the yellow lantern light. The air smelled of freedom. Of madness. Of love.

Braeden held you for a second, reeling from emotion, and whispered in your ear

"You're mine now. Mrs Lemasters Official. Even if it's with a crooked priest and plastic flowers."

"And you're mine, Mr Lemasters"

You kissed again, in the middle of the empty parking lot, laughter pressed into your hearts.

That was the beginning of everything. The beginning of you, without plans, without timing, only with love and the certainty that fuck it, nothing had ever been so perfect.

"And now it's real, just like a movie," he says, his voice cracking in the middle, the sentence sounding as ridiculous and perfect as it has all day.

You laugh; your laughter comes out low and tearful at the same time. "What movie?" you ask him.