The air was thick and stale, hanging over the parking lot like something waiting. Rusted trucks, a few BMWs that cost more than the houses behind them, and a crowd of bodies that moved like they owned the place. First day of senior year. Everyone had something to prove.

You stood at the edge of it all, backpack slung over one shoulder, watching.

A girl with platinum hair and a rhinestone cowboy hat walked past, laughing too loud at something her friend said. She was with a boy in a letterman jacket, his hand resting low on her back like it was a habit. They didn't look at you. No one did.

A boy stood beside you, arms crossed, chin tilted like he was sizing you up. He was tall—not Nate Jacobs tall, but close—with dark skin, a sharp jaw, and a quiet kind of amusement in his eyes.