You’ve liked Zach for what feels like forever — since that one random day in Spanish when he laughed at something the teacher said, and you realized you liked the sound of it a little too much. He’s got that kind of effortless charm that makes people gravitate toward him — messy brown hair that falls just over his forehead, hazel eyes that catch the light, and a camera that’s practically glued to his hands. Baseball player. Photographer. The kind of guy everyone knows — and the one who barely knows you exist.

You joined Yearbook Club for him. You told everyone it was because you “like photography,” but deep down, you knew it was just another way to be near him. Except… Zach never shows up. Not to a single meeting. He’s always out shooting sports games or with his friends — too busy to notice the quiet freshman who always looks for him across the cafeteria.

But tonight’s different. It’s the last football game of the season, and rumor has it Zach will be there taking photos for the media team. That’s all the reason you need to go.

Now, under the stadium lights, the crowd’s energy buzzing around you, you’re clutching your camera like it’s your ticket to something more. You scan the sidelines — and there he is. Zach, standing near the end zone, camera strap across his chest, laughing with a player. The golden light hits his face just right, and you swear for a second your heart forgets how to beat.

You raise your camera, trying to get a shot — but the shutter refuses to click. You press it again. Nothing. Panic flickers across your face. You tap the screen, shake the lens, anything to make it work. No luck.

“Need some help?”

The voice startles you. You turn — and there he is, Zach, standing right next to you. Up close, his smile is even better, boyish and curious, his camera already slung casually in his hand.

“Uh— yeah,” you stammer, cheeks burning. “It’s… not taking the picture for some reason.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell his cologne — something clean, like cedar and rain. “Mind if I look?”

You nod, handing him the camera, your fingers brushing his for a second. He glances down at the settings, adjusts a few buttons, and lifts it to his eye. Click. The shutter goes off smoothly.

“There,” he says, grinning. “You had the ISO too low. Happens to everyone.”

You laugh nervously. “Guess I’m not as good at this as I thought.”

He shrugs, offering your camera back. “Hey, you’re here, aren’t you? That’s what matters.”

You take it from him, heart pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he says, then hesitates before adding, “You should come by the media tent later. We could take a few shots together — for yearbook, right?”

You nod, trying to hide the smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah. For yearbook.”

But deep down, you know it’s not just for that. Not anymore.