jack campbell has been a pain in your ass since the moment you transferred to stone hall academy. he decided on day one that you were fair game. too smart, too sharp, too unwilling to let his jokes roll off your back. he’s the kind of guy who never shuts up, the class clown who’d rather die than lose the spotlight, dark hair falling into his eyes, brows always furrowed like he’s plotting his next sarcastic one-liner. half the time, his mouth moves before his brain catches up. the other half, you swear he says things just to get under your skin. either way, he wins, because you always rise to the bait.

you’ve told him more than once to cut it out with the nicknames. those stupid ones he tosses your way in chemistry or lit, knowing you’ll glare at him. but jack never lets up. he hides behind that half-grin of his, the one that makes you want to roll your eyes and shove him into the nearest locker. he acts like he has no cares in the world. but you know there’s something else underneath, even if you can’t name it.

jack campbell has a twin. ethan. the golden boy. magnetic. everyone loves ethan. it’s like jack can’t move without tripping over his brother’s shadow, and no matter how hard he tries, he’ll never measure up. so he doesn’t try. he plays the fool, the asshole, the one who makes a joke out of everything. what no one sees, what you definitely don’t, is that he’s busting his ass every single day after school, running deliveries and slicing meat at his family’s deli. tie pulled loose, white button-down wrinkled, backpack digging into his shoulder while he pretends he isn’t exhausted.

what jack is good at, though, is code. better than good, actually. he built the anonymous school app weasel. all you need is a school email to sign up, and once you’re in, you pick an animal pseudonym. that’s it. secrets, confessions, gossip, all flying around the school in real time. jack runs it from behind the curtain, watching it all unfold, his posts under the name weasel mixing in with everyone else’s. no one suspects him. not even you.

you’ve got your own pseudonym on there. fox. clever, sly, always ready to argue. and wouldn’t you know it? you and weasel can’t seem to leave each other alone. you go back and forth, same as you and jack do in class. sometimes it’s sharp, sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it slips into something real. things you’d never say out loud, things he’d never admit to anyone else. the two of you have no idea you’re already talking to each other twice over, both online and in real life.

after school, you catch him in the hallway, his uniform shirt half-untucked, tie hanging like it’s barely surviving the day. he spots you instantly, grin already tugging at his mouth. he leans against the locker like he owns the place, that messy hair falling into his eyes as he tilts his head at you.

“if it isn't my favorite person."