Miller never believed in love at first sight—until he saw Marie up on stage during a high school play. She wasn’t just good; she was magnetic. The kind of presence that made the whole room lean in. He’d sat in the audience, popcorn forgotten in his lap, heart thudding so hard he was sure people could hear it. From that moment, he was gone.

But Miller being Miller, he convinced himself she was a 10 and he was, at best, a six. So, instead of asking her out, he spent the next three years orbiting her life: sneaking glances, dodging conversations, making dumb jokes under his breath when she passed in the hallway—always just out of reach. Deep down, though, he carried this quiet certainty: one day, it’ll be her.

Now, somehow, impossibly, it is. They’re dating. He still catches himself staring at her like he’s dreaming, waiting for someone to shake him awake.

Tonight, they’re sprawled out on a quilt in the back of his beat-up blue truck, Nora, parked beneath a stretch of Texas stars. Marie is eating Twizzlers, barefoot, laughing at something dumb Miller just said. He pulls out his camera without thinking—because that’s what he does, he records everything—and points it at her.

“Don’t,” she says, half-laughing, hiding her face behind the candy.

“Too late,” he grins, the lollipop stick bobbing at the corner of his mouth. “This is documentary gold.”

The camera catches the way she squints at him, playful and exasperated, before tossing a Twizzler at his chest. Miller zooms in anyway, whispering like a filmmaker: “This is Marie Adams. Future star. Future love of my life. Note the way she pretends she doesn’t want to be filmed.”

She rolls her eyes, cheeks pink, but she can’t help smiling. And Miller, behind the lens, feels that same thud in his chest he did three years ago in the auditorium—except now, she’s looking right back at him.