It happened after a Dead Poets meeting—late, the cave glowing with candlelight, everyone drifting out in twos and threes, laughter echoing into the trees. You and Meeks lingered behind, walking slowly back toward the dorms. The night was cool and quiet, stars blinking through the branches above like tiny secrets.

He kept glancing sideways at you, his hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets.

You smiled. “You look like you’re calculating something.”

He shrugged, cheeks pink. “Trying to decide if it’s too soon to try something… astronomically risky.”

You stopped walking. “Like what?”

He hesitated. Then he reached out, shy and steady, and gently took your hand in his.

Warm. A little clammy. Perfect.

You both looked down at your joined hands, then at each other.

“I’ve wanted to do that for weeks,” he said quietly.

You squeezed his fingers “You could’ve done it in class. I wouldn’t have minded a public scandal.”

He laughed—nervous, happy, completely smitten. “Next time I’ll pass you a note and ask.”