She made him a mixtape. An original, low-quality mixtape.
At first, she gave him this high, stuttering, nervous chuckle, and Sam thought that maybe he had offended her by remaining quiet. But then she grabbed the tape from his hands and popped it in.
He didn't know the song, but Jess wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned in close to him and they danced to it. "It's my favorite." She told him quietly. And she nustled her head against his chest.
Sam smiled and pressed her closer, because right now, nothing was better than this. They moved in harmony, complementing eachother perfectly. The words to the song were a mere blur to Sam. He only heard the rich voice, the jazz-like instruments in the background. And it fit Jess. It fit her perfectly.
He found the mixtape in the bottom of his duffle a week after the apartment fire. He didn't know why he'd taken it with him, but he had, and part of him was glad he did. It smelled like smoke, and the front of it was scratched up, Jess's handwriting faded and chipped. When he popped it in, though, it worked just as well as it had before.
But the song didn't sound the same anymore.