Penelope didn't find him right away.
She crossed the street pretending she wasn't looking for him, fingers twisting the edge of her bracelet. The air smelled like cut grass and sunscreen. Somewhere down the block, someone was playing an old Taylor Swift song through a crackling speaker.
She wasn't used to chasing people. Not in real life.
But she found him anyway—behind the house, sitting on the back steps, notebook in his lap, headphones still on.
She cleared her throat.
He looked up slowly, like he wasn't surprised at all. Like he'd been expecting her.
Penelope froze. Forgot her lines. Forgot why she even walked over.Then: "Hi. I'm Penelope."
He pulled off his headphones. "I know."
Her eyebrows lifted. "You… do?"
He closed the notebook. "You sit on that porch every Friday afternoon with two loud girls and a bottle of pink lemonade. You laugh with your head tilted back. Like you mean it."
Penelope blinked.
"That's creepy," she said, but her voice was soft.
He smiled. "Maybe. Or maybe I just pay attention."
A beat of silence. The kind that buzzed under the skin.
"I'm Julian," he added. "Since you came all this way to ask."
And just like that, the world tilted.
Not a lot. Just enough.