The Montana air hit harder than you expected—cold, sharp, and unfamiliar. The move had been your mom’s idea, a fresh start for a “simpler life.” She’d always supported your choices, from your septum piercing at 15 to your belly button piercing at 16, and even tattoos when you turned 17. “As long as you’re safe, you do you,” she’d always said. But here, in a small town where cowboy boots and ranch life were the norm, you felt like an outsider.

West Haven High was tiny, the halls crowded with rodeo kids and farm talk. You found a quiet spot in the cafeteria, sketchbook in hand, trying to ignore the noise around you. The conversations were a blur of barrel racing, cattle prices, and rodeos, topics that felt like a foreign language to you. But then, one name kept popping up: Jacob Evans.

He was impossible to miss—black hair, sharp jawline, and a quiet confidence that seemed to draw everyone’s attention. Unlike the others, he didn’t wear the typical cowboy gear; he had a simpler style—fitted jeans, a plain tee, and well-worn boots. Girls giggled and watched him from across the room, but when his eyes flicked toward you, they lingered for a second longer than expected. You didn’t think much of it at first—just a passing glance—but it stuck with you.

By the end of the week, it was clear where you stood. The rodeo kids ran the school, the outcasts kept to themselves, and you floated somewhere between, unsure of where you fit. Jacob, though, started noticing you more—half-smirks in the hallway, lingering glances during lunch. You couldn’t help but wonder what it meant, though you didn’t expect much. Still, there was something about the way he looked at you that made you think there was more beneath the surface.