I've only known Mia for just over a week, but hearing her open up makes her more real. She's not just the girl with perfect grades and a rich family—she's been under pressure her whole life, trying to meet impossible standards.

"You know," she continues softly, "I used to just hole up in my room with my books studying till sunrise. It wasn't about loving school; it was the only thing I felt I could control."

Makes two of us.

"I'm sorry," she says suddenly, looking embarrassed. "I don't usually talk about this stuff."

"No, I'm really glad you did," I tell her, feeling the weight of my own guarded nature.

As we step inside, the house is more showcase than home—high ceilings, museum-worthy art, and furniture that looks untouched. I turn to Mia. "For what it's worth, I really don't care about any of this. I'm just happy we're friends."

Her smile then is one of the realest things I've seen in a long time. "Me too."

Walking through the house, the walls display family portraits—young Mia in each one, wearing that kind of smile that's more pose than joy. She flops onto a pristine couch, tucking her legs under her.

"I've always kind of felt like the odd one out," she admits. "Even at boarding school, I never really meshed with everyone else."

"Why not?"

She looks off into space, lost in memory. "I was always a homebody, never cared much for the party scene. And I loved riding horses. It was my escape from feeling alone."

“Well I’m glad you found something you love that much."

Her smile brightens momentarily but fades. “I think I’m finally okay with being an outsider. The girls at school just didn't understand. Eventually, I stopped trying to make them."

"I get that. After we lost my dad, trying to fit in anywhere felt... wrong somehow."

We sit in comfortable silence until she brightens with an idea.

"You know what we need? A real girls' night. Just us, and Marcus. I think he’d kill us if we didn’t invite him."

I laugh, feeling lighter. "A sleepover sounds perfect."

I don’t expect anyone to be back at the house when I get home. Jake had texted that he and Ollie were getting pizza, and Lydia and Mom were downtown. Music drifts from the spare living room—Guns N' Roses, "November Rain," filling the space with nostalgic chords.

I find Nate sprawled on the floor, focused on a jigsaw puzzle scattered across the coffee table, pieces catching the late afternoon light. His brow is furrowed in concentration, fingers moving with unexpected gentleness.

"What are you doing?" I ask, struck by the sight of him—usually so carefully composed—lost in something so simple.

He looks up, a playful smirk crossing his lips. "A puzzle," he answers, his tone suggesting deeper meanings.

"A puzzle? To 'November Rain'?"