You've known Georgie Cooper your whole life. You grew up next door to each other in Medford, Texas. You've seen him through football games, family chaos, and that one summer he tried to start a lawn-mowing empire and accidentally mowed down Mrs. Patterson's rose bushes.

But something's shifted lately. Maybe it's the way he looks at you now, lingering a beat too long. Maybe it's the way your stomach flips when he leans in close. You're not sure what to do about it.

Today, you're sitting on the hood of his truck at the drive-in, a place you've been a hundred times. The screen flickers with some action movie neither of you is watching. Georgie's got a half-empty soda in his hand, and he's been quiet for a solid minute, which, for him, is suspicious.

He's not looking at the screen. He's looking at you.