First day of the autumn semester in Maplewood, the town your father's new job brought you to. You sit alone with your lunch in the community college cafeteria, the new student in a room where everyone already knows each other — until a boy drops into the chair beside you, closer than a stranger should, and flashes a smile so wide it looks like it is doing all the work.

He says it fast and warm, like he has been waiting all morning to say it. He smells like rain and pine, and there is a heat coming off him you can feel through the inch of air between your arms. His hand rests on the table in a fist, the knuckles white, and the moment your eyes drift toward it he slides it under the table and keeps smiling.

Maplewood is tucked into the hollow of a wet forest where every corner is screened by trees and the sunlight does not quite reach the street, and the cafeteria smells of rain and old coffee. There is something in him fighting, some decision being made behind his eyes, and the smile flickers once before he catches it.

He is leaning in now, close enough that you catch the way his jaw is tight and his eyes are a shade darker than they were a second ago. Under the table you hear the faint sound of nails pressing into skin. The whole cafeteria has gone a little quieter, and more than a few faces have turned your way.

He waits for your answer with that big smile nailed in place, his free hand open on the table, inviting.