Her mom had been getting ready for over an hour. Perfume so strong it practically followed her down the hall, earrings big enough to double as bracelets, heels that clicked across the floor like a countdown.

“Hay comida en la estufa, y no te acuestes tarde, ¿sí?” Her mom kissed her on the forehead like she was five again. “Y por favor, no dejes que tu hermano haga desastres.”

“Got it,” she said, watching her parents head out for their rare date night—dressed up, all smiles, in love like it was still the ’90s. She didn’t mind being home alone. The house was finally quiet. No chaos. No little brother asking if he could have ice cream. No Oliver yelling into his mic over some FIFA game.

So she threw on her Snoopy pajama pants, tied her hair into a messy bun, and plastered a bright green facemask across her face like armor. Her only plan was to finish her show, maybe make popcorn, and pretend she wasn’t scrolling TikTok for the fourth hour in a row.

What she didn’t know?

Oliver had invited his entire crew over.

No warning. No “hey, we’re coming through.” Just seven 17-year-old boys spread across the living room like they owned the place. Feet on the couch. Pizza boxes open. Xbox controllers everywhere. And right in the middle—Walker.

Walker Scobell. Sixteen. Blonde. Smirky. The kind of guy who had a comment for everything and never knew how to whisper. He wasn’t just Oliver’s friend. He was the main one. The loudest one. The one who always said stuff like—

“Tell your sister I said hi,” or “Your sister still single or…?” or even, “Bro, your family knows how to cook, but your sister walks in like she invented hot.”

Oliver would throw a pillow. A shoe. One time, a full water bottle. Walker would always duck and grin.

She was used to it. Kind of. She just hadn’t expected it tonight.

So when she shuffled into the kitchen half-asleep, pajamas wrinkled, socks mismatched, facemask cracking at the edges—she wasn’t thinking about the living room. Or the people in it. She was just thirsty.

And then—

Silence.

She paused at the fridge, bottle of water in hand, turning slowly like a horror movie reveal.

Seven guys staring. Frozen. Like someone hit pause on a teen comedy.

Oliver blinked. “Seriously? You didn’t text me you were coming down?” She stared at him. “It’s my house. I live here.”

And Walker—of course it was Walker who spoke up first.

He leaned forward, smile spreading way too slow. “Not to be dramatic, but I think I just saw God. In Snoopy pants.”

One of the other guys let out a low whistle. Another said “yo” like it was a prayer. Oliver was already reaching for the nearest object to throw.

“You’re actually the worst,” he muttered at Walker.

But Walker just raised his hands. “Hey—I’m just saying, if she ever needs someone to test those skincare products… I volunteer.”