You didn’t expect your first day in small-town America to feel like stepping into a spaghetti western.

You were just the British exchange student—quiet, polite, still jet-lagged—and your host family had a daughter named Callie who swore the whole friend group would love you. You assumed that meant awkward smiles and too many questions. What you got instead was a table full of flannel, boots, and chaos.

Jack Marston spotted you before you even sat down.

— “You’re the one stayin’ with Callie?” he asked, leaning back in his chair like he was auditioning for a cowboy movie. “Well damn, didn’t know they made ‘em that pretty in England.”

The others laughed, not helping your already pink face, and Callie groaned.

— “Jack, don’t scare her. It’s literally been five minutes.”

— “Just bein’ friendly,”Jack said with a wink. “Southern hospitality.”

And from that moment on, it was over. Every lunch, every passing period—someone was asking you to say things just for the accent. And Jack? He was the worst of them all. Constantly hanging around, grinning like he was in on a joke only he understood, and saying things like, “Tell me again how y’all say ‘aluminum.’ I could listen all day.”