Chapter 2

Her face carried the kind of pleasant symmetry people might describe as "cute." A youthful look, soft and round around the edges, with deep green eyes that rarely caught light the way others' did, her hair the most common of brown.

Despite her small chest, she recognized that her curves were her one asset, long legs and a slender figure, forged by years of intense running training — her muscles were toned and in excellent shape. But they were for most of the time hidden under baggy jeans and t-shirst 3 sizes bigger. God forvide a girl for being into streetwear and hip hop for her fashion style.

Nothing else about her stood out. Not in a way that made people stop or stare. She wasn't the mysterious girl in the corner or the stunning one who made heads turn as the walks down in the hallway. She was the one who made people laugh. The one who kept the energy up. The funny, comfortable one.

And she liked that part of herself—she really did. But sometimes it hurt that no one ever looked at her the way people looked at those girls.

It wasn't insecurity, either or envy. She understood that a person's worth didn't hang on their appearance, even if the world around her seemed to disagree. She was just being realistic.

The people, or at least all the boys she had the bad luck to meet, didn't fall in love with the girl who made everyone smile and wore chunky sneakers as formal shoes. They fell for the girl who looked like she deserved to be adored.

Also, she encountered a more difficult adversary.

She knew how to make herself "prettier" if she wanted to—she'd seen enough tutorials to understand the formula—but the process exhausted her.

She hated makeup. Hated how mascara made her eyes itch and how foundation made her skin feel oily.

Tight clothes felt suffocating. Lip gloss annoyed her. She knew her hair looked better loose, everyone told her so, but she preferred it tied back, away from her face, where the wind couldn't touch it.

It wasn't that she didn't appreciate beauty. She just couldn't find joy in performing it.

Besides, it wasn't like there was anyone she wanted to impress. Not now. Maybe not ever.

And so she came to her quiet conclusion—the kind that didn't sting right away, but sank slowly, settling deep in the chest where all quiet heartbreaks go.

She wasn't beautiful. And worse, she didn't even want to be.

That truth broke her heart more than any rejection ever could.

Sloane was pretty sure Laura didn't really understand the mental gymnastics behind her whole "I'm not beautiful" conclusion.

Laura was one of those girls—the type who actually enjoyed looking stunning. Makeup wasn't a burden to her; it was a talent and a hobby. So, despite being a good friend, she had declared war on Sloane's bare face for the night.

"Just—please," Sloane had begged, "keep it simple. Like... survival mode simple."

Laura had agreed, which, in hindsight, should've been her first red flag. Within minutes, Sloane found herself stuffed into one of Laura's glittery, form-fitting tank tops that shimmered with every breath she took, accompanied by a push bra that made her small chest look existent.

The only mercy Laura granted was letting her wear her favorite baggy jeans—apparently "they're in style again," Laura had said, like she was doing Sloane a charitable act.

With frightening precision, Laura got to work. Brushes, palettes, powders—the girl was a machine. When she was done, she stepped back and looked pleased enough to sign her work. Sloane glanced at her reflection and immediately scowled.

She did look good. That was the annoying part. Her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, her usually sleepy green eyes looked almond-shaped and dramatic with eyeliner, her cheeks glowed with just the right touch of blush, and her lips—painted a soft, burnt rose—looked effortlessly kissable.

"Ugh. Disgusting," she said flatly, forcing a smirk.

Laura smacked her lightly on the head with a makeup brush. "You're welcome, ungrateful peasant."

They both burst out laughing, the sound filling the tiny cabin, until a knock on the door cut through their giggles.

"Come in!" they said at the same time.

The door swung open, revealing none other than Oliver King—yes, King, as in his last name. Sloane's best friend and Laura's public enemy number one.

He leaned against the doorframe like he was in some indie film, wearing a vintage bomber jacket he'd "borrowed forever" from his dad, faded jeans, and sneakers.

His chestnut hair was pushed back, just messy enough to look intentional, and his sharp features softened when he smiled. Basically, he was the poster boy for "effortless college athlete."

"You two ready? We're leaving in, like, five min—" he stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening as he actually looked at them.

Sloane instantly convinced herself he was looking at both of them. Definitely both.

Which was not weird since Laura looked stunning and she, just so different to her regular self.

"Yeah, we're ready," she said quickly, standing up—then instantly regretted it. The top Laura had put her in felt criminally tight. She tugged at it, trying to adjust her bra, which was digging into her ribs like medieval armor.

"Arg, this thing's stabbing me," she muttered, shimmying uncomfortably.

Which, of course, only made the neckline dip lower, pushing her breast up.

Oliver's gaze snapped to literally anywhere else—the wall, the ceiling, possibly another dimension—as a flush crept up his neck.

Laura, on the other hand, was losing it. She doubled over laughing, watching Sloane fumble around like a baby deer on ice. If she didn't know Sloane so well, she'd swear she was doing it on purpose.

Sloane shot her a bewildered look. "What? What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Laura said, biting her lip, still giggling. She grabbed her purse and glided toward the door, but as she passed Oliver, her entire expression switched—smile gone, eyes cold.

"Oliver," she said, her tone somewhere between a greeting and a threat.

"Laura," he replied, half-apologetic, half-teasing, like he'd long accepted his place on her hit list.