Dave Lizewski had never been the guy girls noticed. He was the background character in his own high school story—the awkward kid with comic books in his backpack and bruises he couldn't explain. So when she—the girl everyone knew, the one who lit up hallways just by walking through them—actually spoke to him, flirted with him, and then asked him out? It threw his entire worldview off balance.

Now, here he was, sitting cross-legged on her bed like it was the most normal thing in the world, except his heart was pounding like he’d just fought a gang of drug dealers. Her room smelled like vanilla and something he couldn’t quite name but already loved. She was scrolling through movie options like it was just another Friday night.

He looked over at her, then back at the screen, trying to play it cool even though his palms were sweating.

“So… what are we watching?” he asked, forcing a casual tone. “Please don’t say The Notebook. I’ll cry. I will actually cry.”