Caleb returns her glance just a beat too late for eye contact; this is tactical, as that accidental meeting of the eyes usually signals conversation inevitable and usually awkward, and there's just no reason to shoot social interaction in the foot before it even happens. He takes one earbud out and inclines his head toward the CD in her hand without pointing, a look that's friendly, but not especially aggressive in making her his conversational partner.
"Great record," he comments offhandedly, which is A) true B) not at all pretending not to be just a reason to say hi, "But you might as well say The White Album's a great record, right? Not exactly showing off my obscure musical taste."
He shrugs, insouciant. "Anyway, they've probably got it on vinyl if you're into that." The levels above their heads get a wry glance; organization at the Vault is sometimes ...thin. "You know, somewhere."