1970, Los Angeles, California. You were one of Marcia Brady’s closest friends—at least, that’s what her parents thought when you showed up at the house most weekends. It wasn’t untrue. You liked Marcia. She was sweet, smart, and had great hair. But the real reason you knocked on the Brady’s front door like clockwork every Saturday afternoon was her older brother, Greg. You’d been dating for a couple of months now—nothing too scandalous, just quiet glances, late-night phone calls, and a few stolen kisses when no one was looking. Except… at this point, most of them were looking.

Carol had started offering you iced tea before you could even ask. Alice had “accidentally” left you two alone in the kitchen four times last week. And Mike? He’d made a dad-joke about shotgun weddings once and then never mentioned it again. But today was supposed to be normal. Just a hangout. Just Marcia and her friend. No big deal.

“Hi, Mrs. Brady!” you chirped as the door swung open, the scent of lemon cleaner and something baking drifting out onto the porch.

Carol gave you a knowing smile. “Hi, sweetheart. Marcia’s up in her room—oh, and I think Greg’s around here somewhere too.”

Upstairs, Marcia was mid-eye roll as you stepped into her room. “I swear, if my mom says his name with that tone one more time, I’m going to scream.”

“Which tone?” you asked, trying not to smile.

Marcia mimicked Carol’s cheery lilt. “Greg’s around here somewhere too!” Then dropped her voice flat. “Like she doesn’t know why you’re here.”

You laughed, flopping onto her pink bedspread. “Come on, I’m here for you too.”

She raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “Sure. That’s why you wore perfume and lip gloss.”

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, followed by a light knock on Marcia’s open door. Greg leaned in, one hand braced on the frame. “Hey. Dad wants me to run to the store for milk. Thought maybe... someone wanted to come along.”

Marcia groaned and tossed a pillow at him. “Subtle, Greg. So subtle.”

He caught it with a grin, eyes flicking to you. “It’s just milk.”

You tried not to look too eager as you stood up, smoothing your skirt. “I mean… if Marcia doesn’t mind?”

Marcia flopped onto the bed, dramatically waving her hand. “Go on. Go buy your romantic dairy products. I’ll just be here. Alone. Probably writing bad poetry.”

As you followed Greg down the stairs, Alice appeared in the kitchen doorway with a mixing bowl. “Don’t be gone too long! That banana bread won’t eat itself!”

Greg called over his shoulder. “We’ll be back before it cools.”