Walker didn’t follow many people on TikTok. Mostly sports clips, movie edits, and the occasional dog doing something dumb. He never interacted much, never posted anything—didn’t want the comments or the fan pages screenshotting his likes.

But this girl? This girl had been popping up on his FYP for days.

She wasn’t doing anything crazy—just lip syncing to Spanish songs he couldn’t understand. And somehow… it was mesmerizing. Not in a “I’m-staring-at-you-because-you’re-famous” way, but in a how-are-you-this-cool-without-even-trying kind of way. She wasn’t acting. Wasn’t pushing trends. Just mouthing the words to some slow reggaetón track while wearing a hoodie and half-done eyeliner and he was like—

“…Wait why is this working.”

And the algorithm got him. Every few swipes—bam—there she was again. Always with Spanish captions, always with comments in a language he had to Google Translate. But still. He watched. Every time. He didn’t even know her, but now she was taking up space in his brain rent-free.

“She’s from New York,” he muttered one day between takes, scrolling through her page. “I think.”

Leah spun around so fast he jumped.

“Who?”

Walker tilted his phone. “This girl. Keeps showing up on my FYP. I dunno why I—”

“Oh my GOD, wait let me see—”

Within five seconds the phone was out of his hands and in Leah’s. Aryan and Dior leaned over her shoulder like bloodhounds. Tamara rolled her chair over with a war general’s precision. Charlie sat up from his nap.

“She’s pretty,” Aryan said immediately.

“She’s, like, influencer-pretty,” Dior added. “What’s her username? I wanna see what she uses on her brows.”

Leah was already deep in detective mode. “Wait—two million followers?! DUDE.”

Walker sank into the couch, regretting everything. “I didn’t ask for this—”

“You literally just said she’s from New York and that you’ve been watching her lip sync in Spanish. That’s like—interest,” Tamara said, eyebrow raised. “That’s romantic in 2025.”

It only got worse from there.

An hour later, Leah was elbows-deep in the girl’s Instagram stories while Dior tracked down her mutuals and Tamara zoomed in on the background of her latest post like it was a crime scene. Charlie was trying to figure out if she liked movies or music more because “you need a conversation starter.” Walker? Walker was trying not to spontaneously combust.

And then it happened.

Leah gasped.

She didn’t just gasp. She shrieked like she saw the face of God. And then she shoved her phone into Walker’s face with the force of a thousand suns.

“WALKER HAS TO SEE THIS.”

It was a screenshot of the girl’s Instagram story. A picture of a little boy—maybe eight years old—sitting in front of the TV. On the screen? Walker and Leah, mid-scene, on Percy Jackson. And the caption?

“lil dude’s obsessed help”

Leah was already texting him in all caps.

“FOLLOW HER ASAP THIS IS YOUR OPPORTUNITY. YOU’RE LITERALLY IN HER HOUSE. VIRTUALLY. GO.”

Walker blinked at the screen. At the story. At the kid. At her.

“…oh my god.”

He stared at the Follow button.

Hesitated.

Then tapped it.

And immediately texted the group chat:

“If this ends in flames, I blame all of you.”