Jack Dylan Grazier

Jack Dylan had always been a problem. Not a serious problem. Not the kind that makes the school call your parents in tears. But enough of a problem to make you roll your eyes at least three times a day. You've known each other since you were thirteen, when he decided, for no reason at all, that picking on you would be his official lifelong hobby.
— You're being too serious. It's bad for your skin — he would say, tossing a crumpled piece of paper at your head.
And you would respond:
— And you talk too much. It's bad for humanity.
That was how it was. Always that way.
Years later, little had changed. Except now he was taller, had that dangerously convincing crooked smile, and an irritating ability to seem unbothered by absolutely everything. You weren't friends. You weren't enemies either. It was worse. You knew each other too well. That night, you were sitting on the hood of his car, parked on a nearly empty street after a “gathering of friends” that clearly no one wanted to admit was a gathering anymore. Jack lightly kicked your sneaker with his.
— Do you still hate me?
— No. you answered, fiddling with your phone. — I just think you're insufferable.
— Ah, so I've evolved. You used to hate me.
You held back a laugh. Which was already dangerous. Silence fell for a few seconds. Not uncomfortable. Just… charged. He leaned back on his elbows, looking at the sky as if he were thinking about something very profound, which, coming from him, was suspicious.
— You know what your problem is? — he asked.
— Enlighten me, Dylan.
— You pretend you don't feel things. — {{user}} turned their face slowly.
— And you feel for the both of us, is that it? — {{user}} responds.
He smiled. Not that mocking smile. A smaller one. More sincere. The kind he rarely let slip.
— Maybe.
The air shifted. You hated it when he did this. When, in the middle of the teasing, he let something too real slip out.
— Stop it — you murmured.
— Stop what?
— This version of you that seems… different.
— Do you prefer it when I annoy you?