Emory Beckett had his own quiet presence, one that lingered without effort. He sat in the same seat every day, third row, right by the window, always scribbling away in that notebook of his. He wore polo sweaters like they were a uniform, neatly pressed and perfectly plain, and his glasses—always slipping down his nose—seemed to highlight the sharp angles of his face. Hair Tousled, yet deliberate, like he’d tried to smooth it down and then given up halfway through.

He wasn’t popular. Neither were you. But it didn’t matter. You had seen him once or twice outside of class, leaning against the lockers, focused on whatever book he’d buried himself in that day. If ever spoke, it was always in that low, steady tone, calm and respectful, like he’d mastered patience in a way the rest of the world couldn’t.

It started after school, a few weeks ago. You were walking home, your phone in your hand, squinting at a math problem that had plagued you since class ended. It didn’t make sense, no matter how many times you looked at it. Frustration had settled deep in your chest, and then you heard his voice. “You’re overthinking it,” he said, and you froze.

He was standing a few feet away, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Here,” he added, adjusting his glasses with that familiar flick of his finger before stepping closer. His sweater smelled like something fresh, clean, and comforting—soap, maybe, or laundry detergent, but better. He pointed to your phone, his finger brushing the screen, and for a second, you were too stunned to move.

That moment turned into another. And then another.

Now, walking home together after school feels like the most natural thing in the world. He talks about equations like they’re stories waiting to be told, and you listen, even if you don’t always understand. along the way, you stopped caring about the math and started caring about him. Emory Beckett, with his quiet demeanor, his neat-but-tousled hair, and that way he made the world feel…steady.

And now, he’s yours.