Walker Scobell was an actor. A very attractive one. The kind of guy who made teenage girls stutter and giggle the second he walked into a room. So naturally, it’d be easy to say you liked him back. That you returned his feelings.

Right?

Not exactly.

You liked someone else—Max. And God, Walker hated that.

Walker was your best friend. The one who had to sit through your giddy rants whenever Max so much as breathed near you. The one who nodded and smiled when you lost your mind over the fact that Max played football. That Max had “perfect” hair. That Max was “a genius at math.” Like that mattered.

Walker couldn't understand it. Why couldn't you see him? He was famous. Charming. He actually cared. Max didn’t even know your favorite color. Hell, Max barely knew your name.

Today was especially brutal.

You dragged Walker to one of Max’s football games, claiming it’d be “so fun.” He didn’t like Max. Obviously. But he came anyway—for you. Because he always said yes to you.

You showed up with your digital camera—because of course you did. Everyone was obsessed with “documenting everything” lately, and you were no different. You said you wanted memories of the game. Memories of Max.

You sat on the bleachers, camera in hand, practically glowing. Walker took the seat next to you, close enough that your elbows brushed.

“I’ll take some,” he said, reaching for the camera. “I’ve got a better view from over here.”

You didn’t argue. Maybe he did have a better angle.

You kept your eyes glued to the field—glued to Max—while Walker quietly snapped a few shots.

A few minutes later, he handed the camera back to you.

You scrolled through the screen eagerly, expecting zoomed-in shots of the game. Of Max mid-throw, mid-smirk, mid-glory.

But that’s not what you saw.

They were pictures of you.

Candid, soft, and weirdly beautiful. You were laughing. Focused. Glowing.

Walker leaned in, pretending to glance at the photos like it was nothing. But his pulse betrayed him. You looked... perfect—effortless and glowing in a way that made it hard to breathe. And yet, his chest tightened with that familiar ache, knowing your smile wasn’t because of him. You were looking at someone else. Happy because of someone else.

He shifted slightly beside you, fingers fidgeting on his lap. It was slight, but you noticed it.