The school bus wheezed to a stop at the end of the dirt road just as the sun crested the ridge, painting the frost on the grass a pale gold. Kai stepped out of the cabin at 7:25 a.m., breath fogging in the cold, wearing the only clean jacket he'd unpacked—a black hoodie under a worn denim coat. Marcus had already left for the garage at dawn, leaving a thermos of coffee and a note: Tools are in the shed if you need them after school. Stay sharp.
Kai slung his backpack over one shoulder and walked the quarter-mile to the stop. The bus was older than he was, yellow paint chipped, exhaust smelling like burnt oil. The driver, a gray-haired woman with a knit cap pulled low, gave him a once-over and a nod. "Thompson?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Back row's open. We pick up the ridge kids first, then head down to the school."
He climbed the steps. Maybe fifteen kids total, spread out like they each owned their own zip code. A couple of younger ones stared openly; the older ones pretended not to notice the new face. Kai took a seat near the rear window and watched the forest roll by.
Forty minutes later the bus lurched into the gravel lot of Hollow Ridge High. The building was one long brick rectangle with a gym tacked on the end—more middle school than high school. A hand-painted sign read HOME OF THE TIMBERWOLVES. Population: 120 students, K-12.
Inside smelled like floor wax and old radiator heat. The office lady—Mrs. Keller, according to her nameplate—handed him a schedule and a map drawn on copier paper. "Senior hall is straight down past the trophy case. Homeroom starts in five."
Kai found Room 108. Twenty-eight desks, eighteen occupied. Conversation dipped when he walked in, then picked up again, quieter. He took an empty seat by the window. The teacher, Mr. Harlan, a wiry man in a flannel shirt, glanced up from his coffee.
"You're Marcus Thompson's boy. Welcome. We'll do introductions later."
The bell rang—actually rang, an old-fashioned clapper in the hall—and the day began.
First period was English. Mr. Harlan assigned partners for a semester-long project on American voices. Kai's name came up with Lila Hayes.
She was already in the seat next to him when he turned. Slender, maybe 5'5", fair skin dusted with freckles across her nose. Long auburn hair fell in loose waves over one shoulder, tied half-back with a thin blue ribbon that matched the soft cotton sundress she wore—pale sky blue, thin straps, hem brushing her knees. The fabric clung gently to her narrow waist before flaring out, hinting at soft curves beneath. Hazel eyes flicked up from her sketchbook, curious but shy.
"Hi," she said quietly. "I'm Lila."
"Kai." He offered a small smile, trying not to stare too obviously. But he did anyway. Something about the way the morning light caught the freckles on her collarbone made it hard not to look. She noticed—of course she did—and her cheeks pinked, but she didn't look away.
Mr. Harlan gave them ten minutes to introduce themselves. Lila tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"You just moved here?"
"Yeah. Couple days ago. My dad inherited the old Grayson place up on the ridge."
Her eyes widened slightly. "That's… pretty remote."
"Tell me about it."
She smiled then, small and genuine. "You'll get used to the quiet. Or you won't."
Kai let his gaze drift for a second—down the line of her neck, the gentle rise beneath the thin dress fabric—then back to her face. He didn't hide it; he'd never been good at pretending he wasn't looking when something was worth looking at. Mom used to tease him about his "honest eyes."
Lila tilted her head. "You're staring."
"Yeah," he admitted, voice low. "Trying to guess your measurements. 34-24-34?"
A soft laugh escaped her, surprised and light. She glanced around—no one close enough to hear—then leaned in a little. "Close. 34-24-34 is exactly right, actually." Her cheeks went pinker. "How'd you even…?"
"Practice," he said with a shrug, grinning. "And you're not exactly hiding it in that dress."
She bit her lip, pleased rather than offended. "It's new. Thought I'd wear something nice for the first day back after break."
"It worked."
The bell rang before she could reply, but her smile lingered.
Second period was gym. The class met in the gymnasium that smelled like rubber mats and lemon disinfectant. Coach Ramsey—a thick-necked man in a Timberwolves polo—divided them into volleyball teams. Kai ended up opposite Sierra Blackwood.
She was taller, 5'7" maybe, long straight black hair pulled into a high ponytail that swung when she moved. Sun-kissed tan skin, sharp cheekbones, deep green eyes that sized him up without apology. She wore olive cargo shorts that hit mid-thigh and a fitted gray tank top that showed toned arms and flat stomach. A thin leather cord necklace with a small turquoise pendant rested against her collarbone.
They rotated serving. When it was her turn, she tossed the ball, jumped, and spiked it hard enough that Kai barely got a hand up in time. The ball rocketed off his forearms.
"Nice try, city boy," she called, smirking.
He served next, putting a little extra on it. She bumped it cleanly back.
After class, as everyone filed toward the locker rooms, she fell into step beside him.
"You're Kai, right? New guy from Chicago?"
"That obvious?"
"The way you block—elbows too high. City volleyball's different." She grinned. "I'm Sierra."
He let his eyes travel openly—down the long legs, the curve of hip in those shorts, back up. She noticed and lifted an eyebrow, amused.
"34-25-36?" he guessed, half-teasing.
Sierra laughed, a low, warm sound. "Dead on. You some kind of savant?"
"Nah. Just honest."
"I like honest." She adjusted her ponytail, the motion pulling her tank tighter for a second. "See you around, Kai."
Third period was study hall in the library. He was flipping through a textbook when someone dropped into the chair across from him.
Emma Whitaker—Em to everyone—leaned forward on her elbows, chin in her hands. Mixed-race, light caramel skin, wild curly brown hair with subtle gold highlights that caught the fluorescent light. Full lips curved in an easy smile. She wore a faded band tee (some indie group he didn't know) cropped just enough to show a strip of midriff, and high-waisted jeans that hugged generous hips and thighs. Amber eyes sparkled with mischief.
"You're the new kid everyone's whispering about," she said without preamble.
"Guilty."
"I'm Em." She stuck out her hand. He shook it—warm, callused from guitar strings, he guessed.
"Kai."
She studied him openly right back. "You've got good eyes. Bedroom eyes, my mom would say."
He chuckled. "Thanks?"
"Don't thank me yet." She leaned closer, voice dropping. "Word is you're already guessing girls' measurements in first period."
"Word travels fast."
"Small town." She grinned. "So hit me. What am I?"
He didn't even pretend to be subtle—eyes tracing the swell under her cropped tee, the hourglass dip and flare. "38-28-40."
Em's eyebrows shot up. She laughed, delighted. "Spot on. Okay, I'm impressed." She sat back, crossing her arms under her chest in a way that absolutely knew what it did. "You always this forward?"
"Only when it's worth it."
The librarian shushed them from across the room. Em rolled her eyes but lowered her voice. "There's a bonfire Friday night down by the lake. You should come."
"Maybe I will."
She stood to go, hips swaying just a little extra as she walked away. Kai watched until she disappeared between the shelves.
Lunch was in the cafeteria—long tables, smell of tater tots and canned corn. Kai grabbed a tray and scanned for a seat. A group of guys in the corner—camouflage jackets, muddy boots—watched him with flat expressions. One of them, broad-shouldered with a buzz cut, muttered something that made the others smirk.
Kai ignored them and took an empty table near the window. A minute later Lila appeared, tray in hand.
"Mind company?"
"Not at all."
She sat across from him, today's dress swapped for a soft cream sweater that draped over her chest and a pleated skirt that ended just above her knees. Simple, but it suited her perfectly.
"Gym clothes?" he asked, nodding at her outfit change.
"We're allowed to change after class. Most girls do." She tucked hair behind her ear again. "You met Sierra?"
"Yeah. And Em in study hall."
Lila's smile turned knowing. "They both mentioned you already."
"That a good thing or bad?"
"Good, I think." She picked at her salad. "Hollow Ridge doesn't get many new people. Especially not… ones who look at you like you do."
He met her eyes. "And how do I look at you?"
"Like you're memorizing me." Her voice was soft, but steady. "I don't mind."
Before he could answer, a shadow fell over the table. Buzz-cut guy from earlier—Travis, someone had called him—stood there with two friends.
"New kid," Travis said, voice loud enough to carry. "Heard you're from Chicago. You lost or something?"
Kai kept his tone even. "Found, actually."
Travis snorted. "Funny. Just don't get too comfortable thinking you belong here."
Lila tensed. Kai felt the familiar calm settle in—the same one he got before sparring. He didn't stand, didn't raise his voice.
"I'm pretty comfortable right now," he said.
Travis stared a second longer, then walked off with a muttered curse. The cafeteria noise picked back up.
Lila let out a breath. "That's Travis Hale. His dad owns half the logging land around here. He doesn't like outsiders."
"Noted."
She studied him. "You didn't even flinch."
"Dad taught me early—pick your fights, but don't back down from one that picks you."
She smiled faintly. "I think you're going to do fine here, Kai Thompson."
The bell rang. As they stood, she brushed his arm lightly. "See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah," he said. "Looking forward to whatever you wear next."
Her laugh followed him all the way to fifth period.
By the time the final bell rang and the bus dropped him back at the ridge, the sun was already low. Marcus was under the hood of an old Ford in the garage, country station playing low.
"How was it?" his dad asked without looking up.
"Different," Kai said. "But not bad."
Marcus grunted approval. "Good. Dinner in an hour. Then we'll run forms in the yard—keep you sharp."
Kai nodded, heading inside to drop his bag. He paused at the window, looking out over the darkening forest.
Four girls already circling his thoughts—Lila's shy smile, Sierra's bold grin, Em's easy tease, and the promise of Jazz tomorrow at the garage.
He felt that quiet tug in his chest, the one his dad's lessons had named years ago.
Stand up for what's yours.
They weren't his yet.
But something told him they might want to be.