The night was chill, one of those casual, thrown-together hangouts that always ended with someone asleep on the floor and someone else claiming the comfiest couch. Walker had shown up late, hoodie over his head, hair a mess, no makeup or cameras—just him, slipping into the friend group that had always treated him like he wasn’t the kid from the movies.

He liked that.

She was there too, part of the same circle. She always was. He knew her, obviously. She was funny, laid-back, cool in that effortless way that made people listen when she talked. But they’d never really talked talked. Not past the quick jokes and group banter. Still, he noticed her—of course he did. Who wouldn’t?

When the group realized they forgot drinks, chaos broke out. Arguments over who would go. Someone yelled rock-paper-scissors. Someone else cheated. And somehow, they all agreed Walker and she should be the ones to walk to the gas station two blocks away.

He didn’t mind.

The night was crisp, air buzzing with leftover summer and streetlight glow. The gas station was quiet, shelves humming under fluorescents, and they made fun of the weird chip flavors before grabbing two bottles of Coke. On the way back, it started.

At first, small talk. “You always come to these things?” “You like spicy chips?” But then she mentioned something—Deadpool. And he lit up.

“Wait—you actually like Deadpool?”

That led to Marvel. Then Percy Jackson. Then movies and music and things he didn’t expect her to say because people usually didn’t say them. Not to him. Not without changing their tone once they remembered he was that guy. But she didn’t. She was just… normal. And cool. And knew exactly how to rank the Marvel movies without missing a beat.

They kept going, interview-style, bouncing questions back and forth. It was easy.

He looked at her as they turned the corner back onto their friend’s street, Coke bottles in hand, her laughter still echoing from something dumb he said. And he didn’t really think—he just asked:

“Do you wanna keep walking for a bit?”