Spending your night at Walker’s house having a full-blown Scooby-Doo marathon was not exactly on your this year's bingo card.

Yet somehow, there you were — curled up beside him on his bed, surrounded by empty snack wrappers and soda cans, as the Mystery Machine raced across the screen for the fourth time that night.

The low hum of the TV filled the room, and somewhere in the background, Shaggy was mid-scream again, running from a “totally real ghost.”

It was oddly cozy. Weirdly intimate. And definitely a little surreal.

The context? You and Walker had been friends since practically birth. You met in second grade, when you shoved him off the swings during recess for no real reason other than the fact that he was cute, and he wouldn't stop talking.

Somehow, that turned into laughter, which turned into friendship, which turned into… well, everything else. You sat together in elementary lunchrooms. Partnered up in middle school projects. Navigated the awkward halls of high school side by side.

He was the kind of person who knew your go-to vending machine snack without asking. The kind of person who texted you memes at 3 a.m. and who never forgot your birthday.

And now, somehow, he was also the kind of person who’d become famous. Like, actually-famous. Red carpets and interviews and fans screaming his name.

But he still made time for you.

And what he didn’t know — what no one knew — was that all those years ago, when you shoved him off the swings? It wasn’t random. You liked him even back then. In the confusing, childlike way where affection translated into chaos. And apparently, the feeling wasn’t one-sided.

Because what you didn’t know? He liked you too. Ever since that very first fall off the swing set. Through every class, every memory, every moment, even through fame — you were still all he thought about.

So when he found out that you loved Scooby-Doo— not just liked, but loved, obsessed over, quoted from memory, rewatched-a-million-times loved — he did what any smitten boy would do.

He binge-watched every single Scooby-Doo movie for you.

Every live-action, every animated classic. He sat through the goofy jokes, the outdated graphics, and even developed his own ranking system of which versions of Shaggy were the best.

And when he invited you over for a Scooby-Doo marathon? You said yes.

And now you were here — sitting on his bed, practically shoulder to shoulder, as Scooby-Doo 2: Monsters Unleashed played on-screen for the third time.

You’d made him watch it so many times over the years that he’d accidentally memorized most of the dialogue.

You caught him glancing at you more than he watched the screen.

His fingers drummed nervously on the blanket between you. Then, like it took every ounce of courage in his body, he cleared his throat and — super awkwardly, super obvious — tried to put his arm around you.

You turned slowly, raising your eyebrows. He blinked, cheeks burning, before mumbling, “Stretching. Just, uh… stretching.”

You tried not to laugh — but failed. “Smooth, Scobell. Real smooth.”

He chuckled too, rubbing the back of his neck, sheepish. But he didn’t move his arm away. You didn’t shrug it off either.

The thing was, you were both teetering on this edge —between friends and something more. And maybe this night, filled with Scooby-Doo and nervous glances, was his way of trying to make the first move.

Poor boy was clearly trying. And maybe… finally, finally… you were ready to let him.