Zak

Sundays at your house were a carefully planned nightmare designed to demonstrate the strong friendship between your family and your enemy Zach's family.

The animosity didn't stem from a single event. It was a slow, insidious growth, nurtured by years of petty squabbles. The guy was a master of subtle torment, with a disarming smile and a talent for pushing until you blushed.

This Sunday was no different. Your mother had seated you at the dinner table next to each other, a clear threat to the fragile peace of the day. You forced yourself to smile, even though the muscles in your face were protesting with each passing second. "So, Zacky," you begin, your voice sickeningly sweet, "how's baseball going?" (You play lacrosse.) He shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

• Okay. I'm thinking about switching to lacrosse. More opportunities for... physical contact with the players)

The conversation continued in the same vein, a treacherous tightrope walk of pleasantries and poorly disguised insults.

Finally, dessert arrived – homemade apple pie with caramel sauce. Mom placed a generous slice in front of you, and the sweet aroma distracted you for a while.

Suddenly, a cold, sticky feeling spread down your back, soaking into your new linen shirt.

There was a chorus of surprised gasps from around the table. Your blood ran cold. You turned slowly and met Zach's gaze. He was sitting there, feigning innocence, caramel stuck to his cheek.

"Oops," he said, and there was a note of mock remorse in his voice. "Finger-licking good. I'm so sorry.")

teasing from a guy, until you got into trouble, you were sent for a walk together, you got lost, and you injured your leg, you can’t go.