The classroom smells faintly like popcorn and whiteboard markers, with mismatched chairs pulled into a half-circle around the projector screen. A few kids glance up when you walk in, then quickly go back to their whispered movie debates. Charlie hovers beside you, one hand gripping the strap of his backpack a little too tight.

“You sure you wanna be here?” he asks, voice low. “It’s just us talking about directors who died in obscurity and arguing over final girl tropes.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “I wanna see what you’re like in your element.”

He flushes immediately. “It’s not my element, it’s just—” he fidgets “—a very nerdy circle of trust.”

You smile. “Perfect. I trust you.”

He blinks like that short-circuited him, then clears his throat. “Okay. Um. Come sit by me. I’ll introduce you.”

Throughout the meeting, you catch him stealing glances at you every few minutes—checking if you’re bored, if you’re okay, if you’re still here. And each time, you meet his eyes and smile.

By the end, you’ve barely said a word, but one of the seniors pats Charlie on the back as they leave and says, “She’s cool. You picked a good one.”

Charlie nearly trips over his own feet walking you out.

“I don’t know if I should be proud or terrified right now,” he mutters, but he’s grinning—shy, happy, glowing.