The scream that left your throat in the backseat was not dignified.

Your mom nearly swerved into the next lane, hand flying to her chest. “Oh my god—what? Are you hurt?!”

You shoved the book toward her with shaking hands. “NO—LOOK.”

She glanced at the page, then at you, then back at the page again. There it was, written just below his signature in slightly messy handwriting, like he’d been in a rush but still careful:

—Walker text me :) (###) ###-####

Your mom raised an eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline. “…Is that a phone number?”

You nodded so fast you might’ve gotten whiplash. “HIS phone number.”

She let out a slow laugh, half shock, half disbelief. “Okay. Wow. I see why you screamed.”

You sank back into the seat, heart pounding so loud you were convinced the car could hear it. Your brain immediately started spiraling.

He was probably just being nice. Celebrities do that sometimes, right? Maybe it’s a fake number. Or maybe he gives it to everyone—

But then you remembered the way he’d looked at you when you told him you loved him. Not rushed. Not distracted. He’d paused, smiled softly, and said it back like it actually meant something.

And then—the number.

You stared at it the whole drive home like it might vanish if you blinked too hard.

That night, you sat on your bed with your phone in your hands, book open beside you. You typed the number in once. Deleted it. Typed it again. Deleted it again.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

What do you even say to Walker Scobell? “Hi, you probably don’t remember me” — except he clearly did. “Thanks for the autograph” — boring. “Sorry if this is weird” — definitely weird.

Your mom knocked lightly on your door and peeked in. “You okay?”

You groaned and flopped backward onto your pillows. “I don’t know if I should text him.”

She smiled in that knowing, gentle way. “You don’t have to decide tonight. But… if he didn’t want you to text, he wouldn’t have written it.”

That stuck with you.

An hour later—after pacing, overthinking, and rewriting the same message about twelve times—you finally sent something simple:

*Hi, this is the girl from the Percy Jackson meet-and-greet today. Thanks again for signing my book :) *

The seconds after you hit send felt longer than the entire wait at the pier.

One minute passed. Then two.

Just as you were about to throw your phone across the room and declare yourself doomed forever, it buzzed.

Your heart leapt.

Hey! Of course I remember you :) I’m glad you texted.

You stared at the screen, cheeks burning, a smile slowly spreading across your face.

Maybe he was just being friendly.

Or maybe—just maybe—this was the start of something you never saw coming.