Sol woke up to the kind of quiet that didn't feel peaceful—just empty, like the house hadn't decided what it wanted to sound like yet.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the unfamiliar room settle over him. The beige walls were too clean. The window frame looked newer than the ones back in Texas. A few moving boxes were stacked in the corner, the black marker labels shouting CLOTHES, BOOKS, MISC like they had personalities.
Outside, pine branches swayed slow and steady. The air looked crisp, even through glass—like the world had been rinsed in cold water overnight.
Sol's phone sat on the nightstand with one lonely bar of signal, flickering like it was embarrassed. He checked his watch instead.
6:42.
He sat up, rolled his shoulders, and stretched the way he always did—small movements, controlled, like his body was something he needed to keep tuned. Old training habit. Reset the machine before the day tried to break it.
Today wasn't "real school," not yet. It was schedule pickup and a welcome orientation—a thing that existed purely to make everyone feel like they were back in a system again.
Sol dragged himself into the bathroom, washed his face, brushed his teeth, and stared at his reflection long enough to make sure his expression wasn't giving away how much he didn't want to be seen. His fade still looked clean. His eyes still looked like they belonged to someone who watched more than he spoke.
He pulled on clothes that made him feel normal: dark jeans, a plain black tee, a gray hoodie over it, and his denim jacket—because the air in Montana didn't ask permission before it got cold. Sneakers again. He knew Wade would roast him, but he didn't own boots yet and he wasn't going to show up on day one wearing his dad's work shoes like a kid playing dress-up.
He strapped on his watch. Grabbed his backpack. Then, because Kaylee would absolutely demand proof, he slid her "Cedar Ridge Survival Guide" into the front pocket like it was official documentation.
Downstairs smelled like toast, eggs, and cinnamon—warm, comforting, and unfairly effective at calming nerves.
His mom stood at the stove in leggings and an oversized cream sweater, sleeves pushed up, hoop earrings in like she refused to become "moving-day ugly." His dad sat at the table with a mug, posture relaxed but alert, sorting a small pile of tools like he couldn't fully relax unless something was being organized.
Sol stopped in the doorway, taking it in. For a second he felt that weird mix of gratitude and pressure—like he owed them a good attitude because they'd done all this for him.
His mom turned, eyes scanning him head to toe.
"You look like you listened," she said, approving.
Sol shrugged, casual. "I'm capable."
His dad lifted his mug slightly. "Debatable."
Sol's mom's eyes went bright in that way that meant she was about to tease him into the ground. "You going to see your friends today?"
Sol sat down and reached for his plate like it could protect him. "They're not my friends. I met them twice."
His mom slid a cinnamon roll onto his plate like it was evidence. "Ruth at the diner gave me extra. She said, 'Your boy's polite.'"
Sol froze mid-reach. "You went without me?"
His mom sipped coffee like she feared nothing. "I needed groceries. I needed caffeine. And I needed to see if the town was actually as nosey as Wade implied."
Sol narrowed his eyes. "And?"
His mom smiled sweetly. "Baby, they knew our names before I ordered."
His dad's mouth twitched. "Told you."
Sol muttered into his cinnamon roll, "This place is a surveillance state."
His mom waved a hand. "It's called community."
Sol chewed, swallowed, then tried to sound neutral. "Dad… can I take the SUV?"
His dad didn't hesitate. He slid the keys across the table like this had already been decided. "Be back before ten."
Sol blinked. "It's orientation."
"That's the rule," his dad said, calm. "The rule is about consistency."
Sol stared at him, then nodded. He couldn't argue with that. It was very on-brand Marine Dad logic.
His mom pointed her fork at him. "And if anything feels off—"
"I leave," Sol said automatically.
His dad added, "And if somebody wants to be stupid—"
"I let them be stupid alone," Sol finished.
His mom smiled, satisfied. "Look at us. A family of scripts."
Sol stood, slung his backpack on, and headed for the door before his mom could ask for names, phone numbers, and whether any of the girls "seemed nice."
He made it to the porch before she called after him anyway.
"Sol!"
He paused, half-turned.
His mom's expression softened. "Try to have fun, okay? Not everything has to be a mission."
Sol nodded once, small and sincere. "I'll try."
He stepped out into the Montana air and immediately felt the temperature bite lightly at his cheeks.
"Yeah," he murmured. "Okay."
---
Cedar Ridge High sat just outside town like it had been placed there on purpose—brick building, two stories, modest parking lot. The kind of school where the trophy case mattered, the gym mattered, and nobody pretended they were above any of it.
Sol parked and sat in the SUV for a moment with his hands resting on the steering wheel.
He breathed in for four, out for four.
Then he got out.
The second he stepped onto campus, he felt eyes find him—not sharp, not hateful, just… aware. Small-town awareness. People looked because they noticed everything, because new was rare, because curiosity had nowhere else to go.
Sol adjusted his backpack strap and walked toward the entrance like he belonged, even if the inside of his chest was doing that tight thing again.
The front office had posters about attendance, a banner that said WELCOME BACK, WOLVES, and a trophy case full of football and wrestling memories. A woman behind the counter looked up, glasses perched on her nose, sweater patterned with tiny pine trees.
"You must be Solomon Carth," she said, like she was greeting a package she'd been tracking.
Sol nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
She smiled like she'd already decided he wasn't a problem. "Schedule pickup is in the gym. Seniors on the left. Counselors will get you lined out."
Sol took the packet she slid toward him. "Thank you."
Her voice dropped slightly, friendly but conspiratorial. "And just so you don't ask out loud—yes, everybody knows you're here. By lunch, they'll know what you ate for breakfast too."
Sol's shoulders loosened a fraction. "Good to know."
She nodded like she'd given him a gift. "Welcome to Cedar Ridge."
Sol walked down the hall toward the gym, past bulletin boards and classroom doors, listening to the building's hum. A few students wandered around with parents, laughing, pointing, already claiming corners of the place like it was theirs.
Sol kept moving.
The gym doors opened and the smell hit him immediately: old wood floor, cleaning solution, and the faint ghost of generations of sweat. Folding tables were lined up by grade. Teachers sat behind them with clipboards like they were preparing for battle.
Sol found the senior table—
—and immediately spotted Kaylee.
Of course.
She was standing near the seniors like she'd been assigned there by the universe, wearing a cream sweater with sleeves that swallowed her hands, black jeans, ankle boots, and a bright plastic butterfly clip holding part of her strawberry-blonde hair back like she couldn't resist being extra even in a gym. The second she saw him, she lifted her arm and waved like she was signaling a helicopter.
"S O L!" she shouted, loud enough to make people glance over.
Sol stopped for half a second, then kept walking because pretending you didn't hear Kaylee would only extend your suffering.
Kaylee beamed as he approached. "You came!"
"It's school," Sol said.
Kaylee nodded seriously. "Some people treat school like it's a haunting. I respect your bravery."
Sol's mouth twitched despite him. "You yelled my name across a gym."
"Exposure therapy," Kaylee replied, cheerful. "You're welcome."
Noelle appeared beside Kaylee like a quiet counterweight—hair clipped back clean, face calm, wearing a fitted black long-sleeve tucked neatly into jeans and practical ankle boots. She held a tote bag like it contained her entire life plan.
"Morning," Noelle said, meeting Sol's eyes without flinching.
"Morning," Sol replied.
Sierra stepped in next—team jacket on, track pants, posture steady like she belonged everywhere she stood. Her hair was pulled up into a high puff, edges neat, small gold hoops catching light when she turned her head.
"You're early," she said to Sol, tone blunt like she wasn't wasting words.
Sol shrugged. "My dad is… intense."
Sierra's mouth twitched slightly. "Good."
Bri hovered behind them, quieter than the rest like she was trying not to take up space. She wore a soft olive cardigan over a long-sleeve henley, dark jeans, tan lace-up boots, and a knitted beanie that made her look even more sheltered and gentle. Her braid fell over one shoulder. When her eyes flicked to Sol's, she startled slightly and looked down, cheeks turning faintly pink.
Kaylee hooked her arm through Bri's like she was anchoring her. "Bri made it. I'm proud."
Bri whispered, "Kaylee…"
Kaylee whispered back—loudly—"It's fine. He's safe."
Sol blinked. "I'm safe?"
Noelle's calm voice cut in. "Kaylee means you're not… aggressive."
Sol deadpanned, "That's a very inspiring compliment."
Kaylee pointed at him. "See? You have 'would return a shopping cart' energy."
Sol stared. "How is that an insult."
"It's not!" Kaylee said. "It means you're trustworthy."
Sierra snorted quietly, like that was funny and she hated that it was funny.
Sol felt something loosen in his chest—the small relief of being around people who didn't demand he perform, even if they were loud about it.
Then the air shifted.
Sol didn't even need to turn at first. He felt it—like the room's attention tilted toward an incoming problem.
Braden walked into the gym with two guys at his sides, ball cap low, shoulders squared like he was entering a ring. He scanned the room like he expected it to accommodate him, and when his eyes landed on Sol standing with Kaylee and the others, his mouth curved into a smirk.
Kaylee's voice dropped. "Ignore."
"I am," Sol said, and he meant it.
Sierra's jaw tightened anyway. Noelle's eyes narrowed slightly—calculating. Bri shifted a half step closer to Sierra without realizing.
Braden didn't approach yet. He didn't have to. The look itself was a promise: I see you. I'll decide what that means later.
Sol exhaled slowly through his nose.
Okay.
This was real life, not a movie. There was always one guy who needed attention like oxygen.
Kaylee clapped her hands, snapping the group back into motion. "Okay, schedule time. Sol, you're coming with us."
Sol blinked. "Is that allowed?"
Kaylee waved a hand like rules were optional. "This is Cedar Ridge. Everything is allowed if you act confident."
Noelle sighed. "That's not true."
Kaylee shrugged. "It's spiritually true."
They moved together toward the counselor table like it was natural, like Sol had always been part of the cluster. He tried not to feel too grateful about it. He failed.
A counselor with a name tag that read MR. LAIRD looked up and smiled as they approached.
"Solomon Carth," he said.
Sol nodded. "Yes, sir."
Mr. Laird handed him a schedule sheet, scanning it quickly. "Senior year. American Lit, Government, Algebra…"
Kaylee leaned in toward Sol like she was narrating a documentary. "If you get Mrs. Danner for Lit, she'll make you cry."
Noelle whispered, "Kaylee."
Mr. Laird continued, unbothered. "Auto shop elective."
Sol stared. "That wasn't me."
Mr. Laird smiled politely. "It was on your transfer sheet."
Sol glanced at the paper like it had personally betrayed him. "I don't know anything about cars."
Sierra said flatly, "Welcome to Montana."
Kaylee lit up like Christmas. "Oh my God. Sol in auto shop is going to be legendary."
Sol muttered, "I just got here."
Noelle leaned slightly to look at his classes. "You have me in Government."
Sol looked at her. "Is that good?"
Noelle's expression didn't change much, but her tone softened. "It's useful."
Sierra checked her own sheet. "We share Algebra."
Sol's face fell. "I'm going to suffer."
Sierra's eyes flicked to him. "Don't say that."
Sol blinked. "Why?"
Sierra's delivery was dead serious. "Someone will hear you and start a fundraiser."
Kaylee burst out laughing. "She's not wrong."
Even Noelle's mouth twitched—the smallest crack in her composure.
Sol shook his head, smiling despite himself. "This town is insane."
Mr. Laird handed Sol his locker assignment. "Any questions?"
Sol looked at the locker number like it was a code. "Where do I go?"
"Main hallway," Mr. Laird said, pointing. "Upper lockers. Someone can show you."
Kaylee slapped Sol's shoulder lightly, casual but certain. "We got you."
Bri's voice was small, but it made it through. "Yeah."
Sol glanced at her and caught her eyes for a second. This time, she didn't snap them away instantly. Her gaze wavered—nervous, shy—then steadied like she was practicing being brave.
It was small.
But Sol had learned in three days that small things mattered here. Small looks. Small words. Small choices.
Kaylee started walking, and the group flowed with her. Sol followed, and for the first time since stepping into the gym, he stopped feeling like he was walking into the unknown alone.
They moved past trophy cases and bulletin boards, past faces that turned to look at him. Sol could feel the attention—he could feel the town trying to decide what story he was.
But now, when people stared, it wasn't because he was standing by himself.
It was because he wasn't.
And that changed everything.