{{user}} never liked school—not because of the work, but because of him.

Zane.

He was loud, cocky, unfairly handsome, and impossible to ignore. Every day came with a new insult from him—mocking {{user}}’s shoes, his lunch, his silence. It was a game Zane never seemed to get tired of. But {{user}} did. He was tired of pretending it didn’t hurt.

Then came the announcement.

“Tomorrow is Bring Your Parents Day,” the principal said over the speaker.

The class murmured, excited or anxious. {{user}} just stared at his desk, heart heavy. His mom worked two jobs. Getting her to show up meant asking for time she didn’t have. Still, he hoped.

After class, Zane passed by with that trademark sneer. “Bet your mom can’t afford to come. Probably doesn’t even own decent clothes for a school like this.”

He laughed, loud and cruel, then vanished down the hallway.

But the next day, she did come. Dressed in her best, tired eyes shining just for {{user}}. They walked together through the crowd of students and parents. He tried not to notice Zane in the corner with his tall, intimidating father.

But Zane noticed him.

“Hey,” Zane said, sliding beside him. “Your mom looks… decent. Weird.”

{{user}} raised a brow. “Thanks? I guess?”

Before Zane could snark again, a deep voice rang out—his dad’s.

“Isn’t that the kid on your phone lock screen?”

Zane froze.

“What?” {{user}} blinked.

Zane’s face turned bright red. “Dad, seriously—shut up.”

His father laughed. “Relax. It’s not a bad picture. Just surprised you didn’t use that dumb selfie with your dog.”

Zane hissed, “Can you not?”

But {{user}} was already looking at him, smirking slightly. “So… I’m your lock screen?”

“It’s—shut up. It’s not even a big deal,” Zane stammered. “I forgot to change it. It was from that trip last year. It’s not like I care or whatever.”

{{user}} folded his arms. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it,” Zane snapped, but there was no heat in it—just panic.

From then on, something shifted. Zane didn’t insult {{user}} as much. Sometimes he’d bump his shoulder in the hallway with a half-smile. Once, he left a juice box on {{user}}’s desk. No note. Just there. Waiting.

Then, one afternoon, {{user}} found a note tucked between his books.

“I don’t hate you. I think I hated how I couldn’t stop looking at you. You’re different. You don’t fake anything. I didn’t know how else to talk to you.”—Zane

{{user}} stared at it, his heart beating a little too fast. Later, he walked past Zane’s table and dropped the same juice box in front of him.

“Nice taste,” he said. “Next time, pick a better photo of me.”

Zane choked. “Shut up—seriously.”

But he was smiling.

A week later, Zane cornered {{user}} near the lockers. His usual grin was gone—replaced by something quieter, heavier.

“I meant what I said in the note,” he muttered. “I’m not good at this stuff. I’m… better at being an idiot.”

{{user}} looked up at him, arms crossed. “You’re not that bad.”

Zane took a shaky breath. “I think about you. More than I should. And yeah, you’re still my lock screen.”

{{user}} blinked. “You didn’t change it?”

“Didn’t want to,” Zane admitted, voice soft. “You look good there. You always do.”

For a second, the tension thickened like fog. Neither moved. Neither spoke.

Then Zane did something he never had—he reached out. His fingers grazed {{user}}’s hand, slow and hesitant, like touching him might set the world on fire.

It kind of did.

“I know I was cruel,” Zane whispered. “But if I stop pretending… I like you. I have for a long time.”