The cafeteria was loud—someone was arm-wrestling on the end table, and Portman had just thrown a pudding cup at the ceiling “to see if it would stick.” Classic Ducks.

Russ slid his tray onto the bench with one hand, the other already spinning his snapback backwards as he scanned the room.

There she was. Sitting across from Charlie, sipping something from a carton like this wasn't the most chaotic place on Earth. Like she was unbothered.

He couldn't let that stand.

Russ slid into the seat next to her without asking, legs stretched out, back leaned all casual against the table. “Damn,” he said, grabbing a fry from his tray and twirling it like a mic. “They let pretty girls sit anywhere now? Didn't realize the rules changed.”

Charlie gave him a look. Russ ignored it.

“I mean, not that I'm complainin'. Just sayin'. You sit here, now it's the cool table. Kinda throws the whole ecosystem off, y'know?”

He grinned wide. “You skate? No? Doesn't matter. I make exceptions for girls who look like they'd body-check a boy for talking too much.”

Charlie groaned. “She's literally just eating her lunch, man.”

“And I'm literally just making her day better,” Russ shot back, then turned back to her, eyes full of trouble. “You want my pudding? You gotta talk to me for five minutes. That's the tax.”

He slid the little plastic cup across the tray toward her, eyes locked. “Fair trade, right?”