Smooth, Isobel.
Dakota laughs beside me. “Get used to it. They compliment like it’s a competitive sport.”
“We just speak the truth,” Tammy says, tossing her hair.
I reach for my coffee to hide the heat creeping up my neck. Compliments aren’t something I know what to do with. I spent most of high school trying to be invisible.
Dakota notices. She leans in just a touch and says under her breath, “You’re doing fine. Just eat your toast.”
I glance at her, grateful, and take a bite. The toast is buttery and warm. The tension in my chest starts to loosen, just a little.
“You have a schedule yet?” Brynn asks, spearing a piece of melon.
“Yeah,” I say between sips of coffee. “It was preloaded on my tablet.”
“Ooh, let’s see.”Callie leans in, eyes bright. “What do you have first block?”
I pull the school tablet from my bag and wake the screen. I scroll to the timetable.
“Advanced Literature.” I look around the table.
Callie leans in again, glancing at my tablet.
“Wait—first block is Mr. Carrick’s Lit class?”
“Yeah. Room 204?”
“Oh my god,” Tammy groans. “You got Carrick? I’ve heard he assigns a five-page essay after every unit and calls them ‘casual reflections.’”
“It’s not that bad,” Brynn says, stifling a smile. “Unless you forget to annotate. Then it is that bad.”
“Don’t listen to them,” Dakota says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Carrick’s intense, but he’s fair. And he actually loves what he teaches, which helps. You’ll be fine.”
“Anything I should watch out for?” I try to calm the hoard of butterflies in my stomach.
“Poetry Unit.” Rowen snorts.
“It’s emotional warfare,” Callie adds.
Laughter ripples around the table, and I find myself smiling. The noise of the dining hall swells around us—cutlery clinking, low conversations, the occasional laugh echoing off the stone arches. I look around at the table, at Dakota next to me, at the faces watching me not with suspicion, but curiosity and… welcome.
It’s new. It’s weird. It’s overwhelming.
I’m halfway through my juice, listening to Brynn and Callie argue over some celebrities and who is better looking when Callie stops mid-sentence, her mouth hanging open.
Silence seems to spread around us. I follow Brynn’s gaze over my shoulder.
Four of them.
They move with the kind of presence that can’t be faked—like the world tilts slightly wherever they go. Every head turns. Conversations cutoff mid-sentence. Chairs scrape as people scramble to get out of their way.
The first one leads the pack. Tall, fit, with a face carved from stone and eyes like polished frost. His hair is nearly black with a cool, ashy undertone. Smooth, sculpted waves, brushed back, not a hair out of place. His uniform is immaculate. His expression is cold, his jaw sharp.
Next to him, a boy with lazy confidence in every step, his tie loosened like he couldn’t care less about rules. His grin isn’t aimed at anyone in particular, but it feels like a dare all the same. He runs a hand through dark, tousled hair, laughing under his breath like he knows something we don’t. A glint of a lip ring on his lower left side. He’s definitely not as intimidating as the first one.
Behind them, the largest of the group walks with a kind of quiet menace. Shoulders broad, jaw tight, hands shoved in his pockets like he's holding himself back from cracking knuckles or necks. People clear out of his way like he’s a wildfire in a uniform. He doesn’t walk so much as prowl. His hair is a light blond, shaved close on the sides, messy on top.
And trailing a step behind is a lean, almost lanky one. A tablet in his hand, earbud in one ear. He doesn’t bother posturing. Doesn’t need to. His gaze flicks over the room once—over round, silver rimmed glasses—before going back to his screen. Brown hair falling back over his eyes.
