You were both studying on the library floor—books spread out in uneven piles, your knees almost touching. Meeks pushed his glasses up for the hundredth time. They slid right back down, like always.

You watched him struggle with a soft smile. “You know you’re allowed to get new ones, right?”

He sighed dramatically. “But these are perfectly fine. Just… slightly crooked and perpetually rebellious.”

You leaned in, gently slid them off his face.

“Hey!” he whispered, surprised, blinking at you through a blur.

You turned the glasses over in your hands. “They’re held together with tape, Steven.”

“Strategic engineering,” he defended, cheeks pink.

You cleaned the lenses with your sleeve, careful, and slipped them back on. But your hands lingered a moment longer—adjusting them, fingers brushing his temples.

He went quiet. Very still.

“Thanks,” he said, voice soft now. “You, uh… you made everything a lot clearer.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “That’s what I’m here for.”

And maybe it was your hands still so close, or the way he looked at you then—glasses slightly crooked again, heart on full display—but something clicked into focus. He leaned in, just a little.

And you met him halfway.