Okay. So maybe Tatum didn't expect to fall in love ten seconds after landing in Brisbane.

She expected humidity. Maybe a few nice accents. The classic "ooh, California girl" whispers as she walked by. But not a gay spiral in the middle of homeroom.

And yet—

Here she was. Standing just inside the doorway of her new classroom, surrounded by faces she didn't know, clutching her timetable, smile practiced and calm—until she looked left.

And saw her.

Back row. Hoodie on. Headphones around her neck. Legs crossed. Big brown eyes. Scowling. Like Tatum had personally insulted her bloodline just by existing.

And for some reason? That was the moment Tatum's brain short-circuited.

"Oh. Oh no. She's hot. She's mad at me. She's hot and mad at me. I am so in trouble."

She blinked. Quickly looked away. Then looked back. Yep. Still glaring. Still hot.

Her hair was a messy kind of perfect—like it wasn't trying. Shoulder length. A wolf cut, maybe? Some cute fringe pieces falling around her sharp cheekbones. And her mouth. God, her mouth was set in the most perfectly unimpressed pout Tatum had ever seen.

And of course—of course she was the only one not whispering about the New Girl. Tatum had seen this kind of girl before. Quiet. Moody. Mysterious. The type who only liked, like, three people on Earth. And Tatum wanted to be number four so bad it physically hurt.