You grew up in a small town just outside London, where life moved slow and everyone knew everyone else’s dog’s name. Your parents, bless them, loved you like you were their entire world—and maybe, in a way, you were. You were their only daughter, their calm in the chaos, their sunshine on a grey British morning. You had your close circle, friends you’d known since nursery school, familiar streets, familiar faces, and dreams that always felt a bit too big for the size of your postcode.

The dream was always the same: America. Not the tourist version of it, but the cliché one, embarrassingly enough. High school lockers, Friday night football games, red plastic cups, homecoming dances, letterman jackets. A senior year that looked like something out of a movie. You’d told people once or twice, but they always smiled a little too kindly, like they were trying not to laugh. “That’s not real, love,” someone had said once. “That’s just Hollywood.”

So, you tucked the dream away. Quietly. Grew older. Learned how to make it look like you didn’t want it that badly anyway.

And then you turned seventeen.

You still remember the way your mum handed you the envelope at breakfast, eyes all misty, your dad clearing his throat too much to hide the fact that he was just as emotional. Inside was a flight ticket to Los Angeles. California. One full school year. The American Dream.

It didn’t feel real until you were actually there.

Now, you’re standing in the middle of a high school hallway, somewhere in Orange County, trying to look like you belong, even though everything feels so big. The lockers really are that color of blue you’ve seen in films, the cheerleaders really do wear their uniforms all day, and yes—there’s a guy with a football slung over one shoulder and girls giggling behind their hands as he walks by. Like, actually.

Your host family had been lovely, if a little too peppy, and your first day at school came way too fast. You spent all morning telling yourself to just smile, be polite, and don’t sit anywhere stupid.

Which is exactly what you do, of course.

It’s second period. You walk into history, a second too late, cheeks already warm from getting turned around in the halls. Everyone’s already sat, and you pick a desk in the middle row without really thinking, dropping into the seat with a soft breath and pulling out your notebook. A second later, you feel it—a shift in the air. A sharp whisper. Then a tap on your shoulder.

You turn to see her. Long blonde hair, perfect nails, lip gloss too shiny to be school-approved.

“Um. That’s my seat.”

Her voice is sugarcoated venom. A few students turn to watch, like they’re waiting for a scene.

You freeze for a second. “Oh, sorry—I didn’t know. I can move.”

But before you can even stand, another voice cuts in.

“Maybe you should pick another one, Ashley. Doesn’t have your name on it.”

You glance over your shoulder and meet the eyes of him.

Tall. Messy brown hair. Dimples when he smirks—and he’s smirking now. That easy, dangerous kind of smirk that probably gets him into all kinds of trouble. You recognise him from earlier—he’d walked into first period five minutes late and still managed to make it look cool. Someone had whispered his name: Ethan Hayes.

Ashley glares, but he just raises an eyebrow, and somehow, without another word, she flips her hair and walks off to the desk behind you.

You’re still staring at him when he slides into the seat beside yours.

“Hey. You’re new, right?”

You nod, blinking. “Yeah. I’m from England.”

His grin grows. “Figured. Accent gave you away.”

You smile, a little shy but not too much.

“I’m Ethan,” he says, like you don’t already know. “You should come to the football game Friday. You know—for the full American high school experience.”

He says it casually, but his eyes are watching you a bit too closely.

You tilt your head. “Is that a proper welcome, or do you say that to every new girl?”

He laughs, and it’s annoyingly attractive.

“Only the British ones.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.