Sam’s sitting on the edge of the library windowsill, sunlight brushing over his curls as he flips a page in a battered poetry book. When you walk in, he startles a little — not expecting company, let alone you.

He closes the book slowly. “So, uh… we’re doing this, huh?” he murmurs, voice soft and awkward. “Writing poems. About each other.” His gaze flicks up to meet yours, uncertain but curious. “Don’t worry, I’ll try not to make mine too embarrassing.” A small, crooked smile. “Unless you’re secretly into iambic pentameter.”