Early summer, 1979 Brown University Library

The library hung in a quiet that felt almost sacred, emptied of students by finals week. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, falling in long, pale stripes across the worn wooden floors. Dust drifted in the light, suspended like tiny stars. The air smelled of paper and time, warm and still, and the rows of shelves seemed to stretch on forever, patient and watchful.

Your fingers moved along a line of spines, brushing over worn bindings, until one title caught your attention. You slid it forward.

At the same moment, another hand reached for the same book.

“Oh—”

The voice was low, smooth, and carried a quiet amusement that made your chest tighten slightly. You looked up.

He was standing across from you, posture relaxed and effortless, brown hair falling just enough into his eyes to seem casual, almost careless. Nothing about him was polished or deliberate, yet there was a natural elegance to the way he held himself—poised, confident, unforced. One hand rested on the book, not pressing, not claiming, simply hovering over it in a light, easy touch.

He was JFK Jr—a president’s son, a president who was assassinated—a name heavy with history, yet here in the quiet of the library, he felt startlingly present, startlingly real. His gaze held yours, calm but searching, as if measuring the weight of the moment without a word.

A slow smile curved his lips, subtle but certain. His fingers brushed against yours in the slightest of touches, light enough to notice, deliberate enough to linger in memory. Neither of you moved. The silence wrapped around you, intimate without intrusion, charged without force.

“Guess we’ve got good taste,” he said softly, voice warm and easy, with a trace of teasing. His head tilted just the faintest fraction, eyes steady, calm, confident, but never close enough to cross the boundary between you.

“So,” he said finally, voice light, “do we call it a draw… or keep pretending it’s yours?”