Steven Meeks always had his head full of stars and equations. But with you, he slowed down. That night, you lay beside him on the hill behind Welton, a threadbare blanket beneath you, your fingers brushing in the grass.

“Did you know,” Meeks whispered, eyes on the sky, “light from some stars takes millions of years to reach us? We’re seeing the past, every time we look up.”

You turned your head. “So if I said I loved you under starlight… it’d echo through time?”

He blinked, startled. Then smiled—wide, brilliant, slightly nervous.

“You just combined poetry and astrophysics,” he said. “Marry me.”

You laughed. “We’re seventeen.”

“Then wait for me,” he said, still smiling. “I’ll figure out how to build us a telescope and a future.”