Chapter 3

As soon as she disappeared down the hall, Oliver looked back at Sloane, thumb pointing toward the door. "So... what's her deal again?"

Sloane grinned. "She hates you."

He laughed, running a hand through his hair. "Yikes."

"Wanna know what she calls you?"

"Oh, please. Enlighten me."

"'Flirty Motherf^cker.'"

Oliver's jaw dropped in mock offense. "Excuse me?"

Sloane was already grabbing her bag, fighting a laugh. "Come on before they start ordering fries without us."

"Flirty Motherf—hey, I heard that!" he called after her as she darted down the hallway, laughter echoing off the wooden walls.

𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡・

The drive to the tavern was short but absolutely chaotic—in the best way. Someone had connected their phone to the van's Bluetooth, and within minutes, the entire track team was belting Britney Spears like a traveling choir of unhinged pop stars.

By the second chorus of "Oops!... I Did It Again," they were already yelling, laughing, and fully aware that the night was headed straight into disaster territory. In their defense, it was technically a warm-up—for karaoke later. Realistically, though, it was just an excuse for the guys to yell "It's Britney, bitch!" at full volume.

And honestly? Fair. It was cathartic.

When they arrived, the place was already humming with music and the low chatter of locals. The tavern smelled faintly of cedar, beer, and fried something—an intoxicating combo. The moment they walked in, the team scattered like they owned the place, splitting into clusters that kept rotating every few minutes as people bounced from table to table.

Sloane and Laura, however, stuck together as always. They grabbed a booth with their friends Lynn and Uriah—who were technically dating, though you'd never know it. They were that kind of couple who acted like best friends 99% of the time, except for the occasional hand-hold or the rare, suspicious disappearance behind the bleachers after practice. Everyone pretended not to notice.

Conversation flowed easily, slipping from random campus gossip to the latest viral videos, and then somehow into a deep dive on SpongeBob memes. Each joke built on the last until Laura nearly choked on a french fry, and they had to pause the laughter long enough to make sure she didn't actually die.

Once she caught her breath, the four of them dissolved into uncontrollable giggles again, tears rolling down their cheeks, the kind of laughter that made your ribs ache and your face hurt.

For a moment, Sloane thought—yeah, this was exactly what she needed. No overthinking, no heartbreak. Just fries, friends, and Britney.

Just when it seemed like the night had already given them everything it could—bad singing, greasy fries, and too much laughter—Uriah suddenly stopped mid-sentence. His gaze flicked past Laura and Sloane toward the door, his eyes lighting up like someone had just walked in wearing a winning lottery ticket.

"Oh, look who actually made it!" he said, straightening up.

"Huh? Who?" Lynn leaned around Sloane to follow his line of sight, curiosity written all over her face.

"It's the new exchange student," Uriah said, grinning. "I ran into him before camp. He wasn't sure he could come because of some paperwork mess. He's chill, though—be nice, okay? Don't make him feel like the new kid at the lunch table."

The girls nodded in unison, and conversation picked back up. Sloane absentmindedly grabbed another fry, chewing slowly, half-listening. Her social battery was already blinking red, and she silently prayed this newcomer wouldn't be the overly talkative, performative kind of guy who'd drain the last of her will to live.

"Hey man, Julian! Over he—" Uriah started waving him over, but his expression faltered midway into a confused half-smile. "Wait... is he already—? Oh. Yep. He's coming straight here. Did he see me, or...?" He glanced at Lynn, who only shrugged.

Julian? Sloane thought, turning just as a tall figure rounded the booth, moving with the easy grace of someone who had never once doubted he belonged anywhere. And, without hesitation, before she could even process what was happening, he slid into the seat beside her—wedging himself between her and the wooden wall like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She barely had time to blink before she found herself practically pressed against him, shoulder to chest, warmth spilling through the thin fabric of her shirt.

Oh. It was him.

Julian Bianchi.

The new exchange student everyone had been talking about—the track prodigy from overseas. The one whose arrival had half the athletics department collectively losing their minds. Supposedly training for the world championship circuit.

A nineteen-year-old literal phenomenon with records under his belt and to anyone in athletics, he wasn't just a new student; he was practically a celebrity.

And now he was sitting right next to her.

"What's up, U?" Julian greeted, his voice smooth and low, the kind of tone that carried lazy confidence. He leaned across the table to shake Uriah's hand with an easy, street-style flick that made him seem effortlessly cool.

He wore a loose black T-shirt that read "It's not a phase, Mom!" and a backward cap that let strands of dark, wavy hair spill out. His skin had that warm bronze tone that caught the light just right, and he smelled faintly of some perfume and something clean—like rain.

"Dude! Glad you made it!" Uriah said, finally breaking free of the shock.

"Yeah," Julian replied with a grin that could only be described as reckless. "Finished my paperwork just in time. The student office finally let me escape—bureaucrats, man."

And then without warning, he draped an arm over Sloane's shoulders.

Just like that.

"Oh, hey all, I'm Julian Bianchi. Pleasure," he added with an easy nod to the rest of the group.

The table went dead silent.

Sloane froze so completely she half-expected to merge into the booth. Her pulse skipped, then raced, betraying her calm façade. Maybe if she stayed perfectly still—didn't move, didn't breathe—she could pretend this wasn't happening.

His arm was warm and heavy. Comfortably casual. Her bare shoulder brushed against his skin, and every neuron in her body decided to misfire at once. She could feel his heartbeat—or maybe that was hers, galloping out of control.

No such luck keeping her cool.