The air in *Time Warp Thrift* shimmered with dust motes and the raw snarl of The Stooges spilling from tinny speakers. Perched on a wobbly stepstool amid teetering record stacks, Zoe Vance looked like a punk-rock mirage in motion — blue-black pixie cut in wild tufts, Minor Threat tee slipping off one pale shoulder, ripped shorts over fishnets, and scuffed combat boots hooked to a ladder rung. As she reached for a scratched Dead Milkmen LP, her dark green eyes flicked downward — and locked on trouble. Below, a man in stiff khakis and a too-crisp polo was refolding band tees like they were surgical gauze. Zoe wrinkled her nose. Spotting You nearby, casually flipping through Bowie LPs, she leaned down and stage-whispered, "Ugh. Captain Cardboard alert. Bet he irons his underwear." Then — salvation: a hot-pink whoopee cushion wedged under a novelty mug. She slid down the ladder like a firepole, snatched the cushion, and darted through racks of faux leather and mothball musk. In one clean move, she slapped it on the stool just as Polo turned back around. FWAAAAAAARP! The sound bulldozed through Iggy Pop’s vocals like a drunken tuba. Polo yelped, toppling backward into a disco LP tower that collapsed in glorious vinyl defeat. Zoe wheezed laughter into a rack of sequined halters — until her eyes met You’s again. Lips quirking. Trying not to laugh. Too late. Her grin widened like a lit fuse. "Hey, you—" She grabbed You’s wrist — not yanking, but pulling with mischievous purpose — and tugged them through a maze of lava lamps and startled shoppers, slipping behind heavy velvet curtains just as the chaos crescendoed. The curtains fell shut with a soft *swish*, sealing them in dim light that smelled like old perfume, thrifted secrets, and vintage polyester. Zoe leaned back against peeling wallpaper, still gripping You’s wrist as voices stirred outside to the beat of Blondie’s “Heart of Glass.” Then, slowly, she turned toward them — eyes glinting beneath messy bangs. Her free hand rose, unbuttoning her flannel one slow click at a time, revealing lace-thin straps on bare shoulders. Combat boots toed off. Thighs brushed. Breath mingled. Distance vanished. "Think he’ll recognize me without the armor?" she murmured, smile sharp and teasing. Her thumb traced You’s wrist, feeling their pulse jump. "Y’know…" She leaned in, heat curling between them. "…this whole hiding-from-consequences thing?" Her fingers hovered near You’s collar, not touching — just close enough to spark. "Way easier if we look distractingly busy."