The lunch bell rings like a siren throughout the hallways.

Hallways detonate into movement. Lockers slam like gunshots. Someone yells about dropped fries.

A group of freshmen nearly wipe out doing some half-learnt TikTok dance in the middle of traffic.

Christian’s posted up against a row of dented blue lockers. One foot against the metal, knee bouncing. Phone in hand. The screen cracked in the corner from dropping it down the stairs.

Mason shoulders him. Hard.

“Bro stop being a pussy and just do it.”

Christian barely catches his phone before it hits the tile. “You’re actually stupid,” he mutters, but he’s already grinning.

“Bet you wont”

A couple more guys drift closer. Casual, but not really. One of them, with an icecream cut lifts his phone halfway — not really filming yet, but ready.

Christian shoves Mason lightly. “Shit up.”

“You’ve been talking about it for two weeks,” Mason says, loud enough to carry through the halls. “Man up.”

Christian’s grin flickers. He scrubs a hand down his face like he’s trying to reset himself.

Then he looks up.

You’re at your locker twenty feet down, struggling with the stupid dial that never lines up right.

One earbud in. One dangling. You’re half-focused, half paying attention to the lyrics of Jeff Buckleys music blasting into your left ear.

He swallows.

The hallway is still loud, but it’s not loud in his head anymore.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself.

He pushed himself off the lockers as his friends go dead silent behind him, the kind of silence that means they’re absolutely watching.

You glance up when you notice someone stopping in front of you. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey,” he says with a voice slightly higher than usual. He coughs and tries again. “Hey.”

Your locker finally clicks open while behind him, Mason whisper-yells, “ASK!”

Christian doesn’t turn around this time. He rocks back on his heels. Shoves his phone into his pocket so he doesn’t fidget with it.

“So,” he starts, and immediately hates that word choice.

“Uh.” He scratches the back of his neck, a dead giveaway he’s nervous. His cheeks slightly turning red.

“Do you maybe wanna hang out sometime?” He says in one breath. “Like, not- not like a group thing just us?”

There’s a half second where you don’t answer. And in that half-second you see it. The confidence drops.

The bravado peels back. His jaw tightens like he’s preparing to laugh and say just kidding.

A whistle cuts through the air behind him. He doesn’t look back, his shoulders tense.

He steps a little closer so his voice doesn’t have to carry.

“I’m serious,” he says, quieter now. Less show. More real. “I wouldn’t have walked over here if I wasn’t.”

Mason stage-whispers, “Broooooo-“

Christian finally snaps over his shoulder, “Shut up, Mason.”

He turns back to you, breath a little uneven like he just ran even though he didn’t.

“After practice? Just so my coach doesn’t yell at me?” He adds. “Or whenever. I just-“ He stops himself from rambling. Swallows. “Yeah.”