Greg was leaning against his locker, notebook in hand, meticulously scribbling what looked like a plan for surviving the rest of the day. He looked up just as you walked past, surrounded by your usual entourage, effortlessly cool and completely untouchable.

His stomach did backflips. He wanted to say something—anything—but froze.

Chris, naturally, was standing next to him, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed by everything in the hallway.

“Chris,” Greg whispered, jabbing a finger toward you, “how do I… I mean, I like {{user}}. I’ve liked her forever. But she’s… well… you know.”

Chris squinted, eyebrows knitting together. “Greg… you’re Greg. You’re… weird. And everyone hates me too. What exactly are you asking me for?”

Greg’s pencil twirled in his fingers. “Advice! I need advice. What do I even do?”

Chris groaned. “Fine. First rule: don’t act desperate. She’ll laugh at you, maybe even ask why you’re staring. Second: find something she likes and… casually mention it. Third: don’t let Caruso see you.”

Greg’s pencil jittered in his hand, and his notebook almost slipped. “O-okay, okay, I think I can do that.”

“See?” Chris whispered, nudging him. “Already freaking out. Breathe. Count to ten. And for the love of everything, don’t start listing your superhero pajamas or your trivia facts. She doesn’t need to know about that.”

Greg nodded, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. “Right. No pajamas. No trivia. No panic. Easy.”