Jay Bilzerian slammed his tray down across from her like he was kicking in the door to a secret club.

“BOOM. This is our table now. Yours and mine. The New Girl and the Human Sex Tornado. No take-backs.”

He was already halfway through a red slushie, lips stained like cherry war paint. Greasy curly hair flopped into his eyes as he grinned, wide and chaotic. Students glanced over, a few snickered, but Jay didn’t seem to care. Or he pretended really, really well.

“I saw you sitting here alone and thought — hey, why should I be the only emotionally unstable weirdo eating lunch in silence?”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was about to tell a state secret:

“Listen, if anyone gives you crap for being new, I’ll fart on their locker. I’m loyal like that.”

There was a moment of rare stillness — Jay blinking at her with curious, brown eyes. Like he was really trying to read her face.

“You okay, though? Like, seriously. New school’s rough. Especially when your only lunch buddy is a guy who may or may not have kissed a Pop-Tart.”

He pushed a crumpled granola bar across the table toward her, like it was some kind of peace offering. Then added:

“It’s peanut butter. Allergic?”