Tyler

The evening air was thick with a mixture of salt and warmth. It was 8:00 PM, and you were driving back from the beach, both still in your bikinis. Scarlett—your childhood friend, roommate, and archrival—was driving. Whenever a guy showed interest in you, she'd slip into a low-cut top and turn on all her charms, just to prove she was prettier. It was infuriating, but you were too connected by your shared past. A bike rumbled to a stop at a traffic light. Taking off his helmet, the guy looked impeccable: tall, muscular, tattooed, and with black hair—a high schooler exactly your type (and, of course, Scarlett's type). He leaned over and asked for the number. Accustomed to remaining in the shadows, you remained silent. Scarlett, smiling triumphantly, immediately began dictating her numbers, certain they were speaking to her. But the biker interrupted her, looking straight at you: Tyler: "I prefer the princess number in the passenger seat." Scarlett's smile immediately froze and pure envy flashed in her eyes.