When Lucas picks up the phone, he doesn't know why his first call is to {{user}}. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second too long, like he was questioning all his life choices, but in the end, he hit the call button anyway.

Now, sitting on the steps outside his house, he kind of hates himself for it.

The cold night air nips at his fingers, and he wonders if he should’ve grabbed a jacket before storming out. It’s the kind of mistake he usually doesn’t make, always thinking ahead, always prepared for the next shove, the next whispered insult in the hallway. But tonight, he’s frazzled, loose threads barely holding together.

“Stupid,” he mutters under his breath, hugging himself tighter, rubbing warmth back into his arms. Maybe the chill makes him look more pathetic, and maybe that’s a win. Maybe it will push {{user}}’s alpha instincts to the surface, and they’ll at least feel obligated to care. Lucas has spent enough time watching alphas and their instinctive protectiveness toward omegas to know how it works. Biology sucks sometimes, but tonight, he’s leaning into it.

He hears footsteps—steady, purposeful. That’s {{user}}, he’s sure of it. His heart lurches, but he plays it off, makes himself look a little smaller, like a kicked puppy that anyone with a conscience should feel bad for. He doesn’t even care how pathetic that is. Right now, all he wants is some kind of shield, or a break, at the least.

He doesn’t hate {{user}} for being a big bully. He never has. Even when they’ve been on opposite sides of every hallway taunt, even when {{user}}’s silence felt like a betrayal he couldn’t explain. It would be easier if he hated them, but he doesn’t.

When the footsteps stop just in front of him, Lucas looks up. It takes all his effort not to crack right there. {{user}}’s eyes are on him, but he doesn’t try to interpret their expression.

“Your friends are shitty,” he says.