The late bell hadn’t rung yet, but the hallway already buzzed like it always did—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, voices stacking on top of each other until it was just noise. You were leaned back against your locker, half-listening to Randy Meeks go on a passionate rant about horror sequels while Casey Becker laughed and pretended to fact-check him.

Then there was the familiar thud-thud-thud of someone jogging up way too fast.

“Babydoll!”

You barely had time to brace before Stu Macher slid into your space like a human exclamation mark, hands landing on either side of you against the locker. His grin was all teeth and chaos. “You will not believe—okay, you might believe—but still. Cafeteria pizza? Criminal. I’m filing charges.”

“You say that every Friday,” you said, laughing.

Behind him, Billy Loomis rolled his eyes in that dry, long-suffering way that said he’d heard this speech a hundred times. “He’s not filing anything.”

“Not with that attitude,” Stu shot back.

You felt it before you saw it—the subtle shift in the air when someone was staring. Down the hall, leaning a little too casually against a locker that definitely wasn’t his, stood the new guy. Clean shoes. Too-carefully messy hair. He straightened the second your eyes flicked his way.

And smiled.

Not a normal smile. A performance.

He pushed off the locker and walked over like he’d rehearsed the path. “Hey,” he said to you, completely ignoring the rest of the group. “You’re in my chem class, right? I was thinking maybe you could—”

Stu turned his head slowly. Too slowly.

“Whoa,” he said lightly. “Bold strategy, man. You just walked into a group conversation like DLC content.”

The guy chuckled, missing the warning entirely. “I’m new. Just trying to make friends.”

“You found some,” Sidney Prescott said evenly, stepping closer to your side. Her tone was polite, but her eyes were sharp. “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

“Yeah,” Randy added. “A very important debate about pizza crimes.”

The new guy barely glanced at them. His focus snapped right back to you. “So… chem notes?”

Stu’s arm slid around your shoulders, easy but deliberate. Not tight. Just there. A flag planted. His grin returned, wider this time.

“Bad news,” Stu said. “She’s allergic to random dudes asking for notes.”

You snorted. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” he insisted. “Very rare condition. Super tragic.”

The guy’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second. “Right. Cool.”

He backed off, but not before throwing you one last look—like he expected you to follow. You didn’t.

The moment he disappeared into the crowd, Stu leaned down slightly. “You okay?” he asked, voice quieter now, the joke dial turned down.