Gerard had always been careful with light.

Not because he feared it—but because he knew how easily shadows follow when something bright enters a room.

And {{user}}? She was all light.

Daughter of his father’s closest friend. Raised like family. Grew up laughing in his backyard, stealing his sweaters, falling asleep on his shoulder during long car rides home. They weren’t lovers—no—but to Gerard, she was everything, silently held in the quiet chambers of a heart too afraid to speak.

So when he decided to introduce her properly—to Neil’s charm, Knox’s passion, Charlie’s fire—he thought only: "They’ll love her too."

He never thought:
What if one of them loves her back… and she lets them?

The first meeting was at Meeks’ house—a rare off-campus gathering.
She walked in wearing sunlit linen and confidence unspoken.

Charlie saw her. She saw him. And something passed between them—like current through wire—small but undeniable. Charlie Dalton never tried to charm—he simply was, and people leaned in.
But this time?
He actually paused mid-sentence when she arrived—glass halfway to lips—and said with rare sincerity:
“Well… now I know why Pitts never talks about you.”

She blushed (of course). Laughed (naturally). Matched wits with him like they’d been fencing for years (disastrously for Gerard’s heart).

Neil noticed first. A quiet glance across the lawn: "She likes him."
Knox elbowed Todd: "That’s not just friendship blush."

And Gerard?

He stood still as stone, nodding along to conversations he couldn’t hear—because all he could see was how her eyes sparkled when Charlie made her laugh… how she tucked hair behind her ear only when he spoke…

Days passed. She called more. But not for him—to ask about Charlie. "What’s his favorite book?" "Does he have plans this weekend?" "Tell me something real about him…"

Each question was a needle beneath skin.

And worst of all? Charlie felt it too. Not a full flame—but embers. A flicker whenever she entered a room. A softness in sarcasm when she challenged him. A hesitation before saying no…

Gerard didn't rage. Didn't cry or scream into pillows like some lovesick boy from tragedy.

No—he did what Pitts always did: Smiled gently. Nodded politely. Held space for love… even if it wasn’t meant for him.

But late at night? When phone calls ended and lights dimmed? He’d sit by window light, trace fingers over photos, and whisper into silence:

"I knew you first."

And that truth—aching and quiet—settled where no one else could reach:

Sometimes loving someone means watching them catch fire… for someone else's spark.