The Welton gates had never seen a more electric entrance.
Meeks wasn’t the star that morning—no.
It was her.
{{user}}—tall like autumn trees, grace in every step, hair caught mid-sway as she walked her younger brother Steven to his classroom. A single glance from her sent ripples through the courtyard.
Neil dropped his books. Charlie adjusted his tie twice. Todd looked down instantly, face red. Even Cameron—stiff and proper—muttered under his breath: "God save us."
But {{user}} didn’t glance twice at any of them.
But Gerard?
He didn’t gawk. Didn’t rush to impress.
He just… looked at her.
And when their eyes met?
She blushed.
Not even when Charlie flashed that Dalton charm. Not when Neil quoted Byron from memory. Not when Knox “accidentally” walked past her three times in ten minutes.
No—she only looked down. Blushed. And fumbled with her gloves…
Every time Gerard Pitts stepped near.
He wasn’t loud. Didn’t perform. Just stood quietly beside Steven—tall, calm, watching her with dark steady eyes that held more silence than sound.
And yet…
When he said simply: "Your scarf’s slipping," and reached out without thinking—just barely brushing it back onto her shoulder?
She turned crimson.
Mumbled "Thank you."
Then nearly tripped on flat ground.
Gerard? He didn't smirk. Didn't boast. But later that night by the riverbank with Meeks and the others—he caught Charlie grinning at him:
“What?” Pitts asked coolly.
"You know exactly what," Charlie said. "She only blushes for you."
And it was true.
Neil sighed dramatically: “I’ve recited Keats to dozens—and never made someone melt like that.”
Todd added softly: “Maybe some things aren't about words.”
No—they weren’t.
Because Gerard may have been shy by nature… but around {{user}}, something changed:
He held doors longer than necessary. Waited near the gates if he heard she was visiting again. Once handed her a copy of Walden, saying nothing—but writing one line inside:
"I never found solitude until I saw you in it."
Bold? For Pitts—that was rebellion enough.*