1936

Joe Rantz never let himself stare for too long. A glance—just enough to memorize the way the afternoon light caught in your hair, how your brow furrowed when you were deep in thought—then back to his notes before anyone noticed. Before you noticed.

It wasn’t just that you were beautiful, though you were. It was the way you treated people, the way you never spoke down to anyone despite the wealth that set you apart. He admired that. He admired you.

But admiration was as far as he let himself go.

You lived in a world of fine wool coats and silk-lined gloves, of polished leather shoes that never scuffed. Joe’s own clothes were worn thin, his sweater stretched at the elbows, his boots patched at the sole. He carried a secondhand textbook while yours looked brand new. He saw the space between your lives in every detail.

And yet, he couldn’t help but do things for you.

It started small. Holding the door open, even if it meant slowing his pace. Shifting in the lecture hall just enough so you could sit beside him, though he never said a word about it.

Then there were the unnoticed things. Standing between you and the biting wind when you forgot your scarf. Carrying an extra pencil, just in case you misplaced yours. When it rained, he lingered near the walkway, gaze flicking to your shoes—expensive, but impractical. If the path was flooded, he’d step ahead, offering a steady hand to help you across without a word.

But the hardest part? Watching you with men who could offer you everything.

Joe knew he had nothing—nothing but calloused hands and a heart too full of you.

So when you smiled at him in class, when you thanked him for his kindness, he only nodded. Because if he spoke—if he let himself believe, even for a second, that you could ever be his—he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

And yet, as you sat beside him now, flipping through your notes, your shoulder just a breath away from his, he couldn’t help but steal a glance.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough to wish things were different.