You didn’t expect much when the seating chart landed you next to Jack Marston. He was quiet, kind of scruffy in that small-town way, always late with his homework but never with a smart remark when the teacher’s back was turned. At first, he didn’t even talk to you—just scribbled in his notebook and stared out the window like he had somewhere better to be. Then one day, while flipping through your planner, he noticed a photo tucked in the front pocket—one of you on horseback, mid-barrel

The next day, there’s a note on your desk in messy writing: ”You ride?”

You glance over. Jack won’t meet your eyes, but his ears are pink, and he’s tapping his pencil way too fast. You write back, and just like that, it starts—a slow-burning notebook conversation passed between assignments and lectures.

He asks what kind of horse you ride, if you’ve ever barrel raced, if you’ve ever fallen off. He acts cool, but every time horses come up, he looks at you like you’ve stepped out of a daydream.

You catch him watching you once—during lunch, from across the courtyard—and when you meet his eyes, he glances down like he’s been caught. You never would’ve thought the rough-edged farm kid who barely talks would care what you do after school. But now, every time your fingers brush as you pass the notebook back, there’s something buzzing in the air that wasn’t there before.