He had always been like this too quiet for his own good, too careful with the way he looked at you. Back when Robin was still alive, Ernesto would tag along whenever Finney went over to their house, pretending he was just there to “keep his brother company.” But you knew better. He’d always find some reason to talk to you instead. Some excuse to hang around longer than he needed to.

When you were younger, it was little things. A flower he picked off the sidewalk. A folded paper star. A stick of gum with a note that said don’t tell Finney. You told yourself he was just being nice. That it was normal for a boy to be kind. That he didn’t mean anything by it.

But now, standing at your locker in a hallway that smelled faintly like old textbooks and floor polish, you knew better.

You were swapping out your books when a shadow fell across the metal door.

“Hey,” Ernesto said, his voice soft but steady.

You looked up. Same glasses. Same dark hair falling over his forehead. He still hadn’t learned how to stand still; one of his hands fidgeted with the strap of his backpack while the other held something wrapped in gold foil.

“What’s that?” you asked.

He hesitated, then held it out to you — a small box of chocolates and two folded concert tickets tucked beneath the ribbon.

“I uh— I got these,” he said. “They’re playing at the civic center this weekend. Figured you might like it.”