Weatherbrooke Prep wasn’t a place to mess around. They dealt with the offspring of politicians, global equivalents to royalty, some even true royals, and millionaires, billionaires and the more -aires children, and gave them the best education money could offer. Sports coach? Past Olympians. English lecturers? They’d probably written a book. Science professor? They’d probably discovered something linked to the electron and neutron.

And a large amount of your year was the kids from the Outer Banks, your home a few cities’ over. Kelce, Topper, etc. Oh, and Rafe Cameron.

You and your parents have moved over from England, somewhere that left you with a lovely elegant accent, but bucketfuls of sharp wit. Looks that are more ethereal than stereotypical, and confidence that catches attention.

You were the new girl this year. It’s fine, it’s cool. You had no issues making friends. So when you walked into your first class, you weren’t surprised to see it mostly full. You glance at the clock, with the Rolex sign beneath it. An eye roll. You weren’t late, thank god.

You sat down at one of the desks second row from the back, the back was all taken up by a large group of boys who were all talking to each other and laughing. One of them- no. All of them were handsome, in different ways, but the one with the tan, the blue eyes and the buzz cut caught your eyes.

You grabbed a blue pen, a bottle water from breakfast and opened the new literary book before you, and wrote the date, and the title, scribbled out in swirled cursive on the board at the front. After a few minutes the lesson started with an introduction from the teacher and a long lecture about Macbeth - the play you’d be studying, which you happened to already study.

A kick on your chair interrupted you. You turn, and see the buzz cut one with a small smile on his face. “Hey London. Can you grab my pen? It’s under your chair.”

You reach and hand it to him, offering a small smile. “Thanks.” He nods. The lesson continues and you write down a summary of the context you already know. Another kick to the chair. “I am so sorry-“ he hits his friend across the arm, who was stifling their laugh. “It’s fine.” You reach down and grab the pen that fell, again.

Halfway through the lesson another kick. You swivel. “Jesus, what do you want?”

“I’m Rafe. Rafe Cameron.”