Liverpool, 1959.

Another note crept its way onto your desk, once again unnoticed by Mr Durband, but not by your friends, who shyed away to giggle at one another. You didn't have to look over your shoulder to know where it came from; you could see his lanky figure in the corner of your eye, skulking away back to his seat like a badger to its sett.

Ignoring your friends, you moved to open the note, hands jittering with excitement as you fumbled to unfold the paper. A wide grin crossed your features as you looked at the smudged, somewhat rushed, yet entirely adoring handwriting— none other than George's. My house at— you noticed he had written a six, though it was obscured under a heavy cover of scribbles. fife, more scribbles, and then, five tonight love?

You whipped your head around to look at him, a lopsided, toothy, and hopeful grin on his face.