𝙼𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚘𝚞𝚜 [Miles Fairchild x Reader]

Nero Forte

"Nothing is as endearing as a handwritten letter scribed by the person who holds your heart spellbound." – Alfa Holden.

"So, I kind of met the boy you were talking about... Miles," you had informed your aunt when you were dismissed from all your classes for the day. You sat on your bed, a little shaken about the whole thing, but you tried not to make it known to her. She already worries so much about you that you didn't want to put more on her plate. "He's in my class. I didn't even realize that he was till it was my fourth period."

"Oh." She paused, and you could tell by the silence that the thought of that concerned her. You hadn't even said anything about how he stared at you with such an unreadable expression that it kind of scared you, nor how Caleb had expressed how he found him 'creepy'. "How was he to you?" She asked after a moment, and you could practically hear the furrow in her brow.

Not wanting to give your dear aunt a conniption, you lied. "He was nice. We didn't talk too much or anything, he just asked me if I knew how to play when I picked up one of the acoustic guitars." You felt bad for fibbing to her, but the sigh of relief she gave you made you feel as though it was the right thing to do.

The next day, when you open your locker, a note flutters out of it and onto the floor. You raise an eyebrow curiously and bend down, grabbing the slip of paper. You carefully tear off the piece of tape that kept it shut, making sure not to rip any piece of the paper off, and unfold it. You blink at the handwriting – it's immaculate, neat and in perfect cursive. You wouldn't be surprised if the person who wrote this spent hours on it.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

Your cheeks feel hot as you finish reading the poem. You recognize it being a famous one by Lord Byron, an English romantic poet that died in the 1800s. You look around the hall, trying to find an indication of who wrote you such a beautiful note, but you find no one. Everyone is immersed in their own conversations with one another, paying you no mind at all. You fold the note up once again, a feeling of giddiness swarming in your tummy, and put it in the breast pocket of your blazer.

You nearly shit yourself when Mrs. Collins informs your class that today will mark the first day of the horsemanship program for the year. You've never been near horses, let alone ridden on one. You've always considered people that rode horses to be living on farms or having more money than they know what to do with and, well, you're neither of those things! Seeing your perturbed expression, she pats your shoulder in a comforting manner.