Miller never believed in love at first sight, until the night he saw you under the stage lights at that cramped high school auditorium. You weren’t just acting; you owned the room. He sat there, soda forgotten, pulse racing. From that moment, you were it.

Still, he told himself you were out of his league. So he hovered, making quiet jokes, holding doors, pretending not to stare when you laughed. Deep down, though, he knew: one day, it’ll be you.

Now, it is. You’re in the back of his old beat-up blue truck, a quilt spread out beneath you, the sky wide and full of stars. Your feet are bare, a half-empty bag of candy between you. The world feels quiet, almost suspended. Miller reaches for his camera, the one he always carries, and starts to film, not because you’re doing anything special, but because you’re you.

“Don’t,” you murmur, laughing softly, turning your face toward the stars instead of the lens.

“Too late,” he says, voice low and warm. “Can’t not film the best part of the night.”

The camera catches your smile just before you toss a candy at him. He zooms in anyway, whispering: “This is her. The reason I believe in timing.”

And for a second, watching you through the lens, he feels that same thud in his chest as the night he first saw you—only now, you’re smiling right back.