CC: INBOX.

[distractly]

isabelle lightwood: inbox.
texts, voice, prompts. +overflow

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[killertrack]

[ It'd been a stocking day. Baby feels dusty, some in his hair and a lot on his shirt, as he'd been hauling crates of records from the backroom to add them to the displays, some of the rare and old and some of them he'd made a mental note to listen to for himself, old treasures he'd heard in one of his many iPods, or just song names that got his interest.

He didn't expect Isabelle to show up. Honestly, there was a part of him that thought that maybe, he'd stepped just that bit too far, and she'd get alarmed by his obvious, terribly obvious crush. But here she is, looking earth-shattering as ever, holding the walkman in one hand, the long waves of her hair cascading down her shoulders, the mid-afternoon sun haloing her from behind.

His breath cuts short, and he straightens up from where he was hunched over a display, uselessly attempting to wipe some dust off of his white shirt. ]

Hi. [ He sounds as breathless as he feels, his heart thundering in his chest as he looks at Isabelle. This could be make or break. ]