By morning, Zane Calloway was everywhere.
Billboards loomed over intersections—his body caught mid-motion, sweat glistening under sharp lighting, jaw clenched, muscles carved like they'd been sculpted by intention rather than effort. The matte-black gym water bottle was clenched in his hand, veins visible along his forearm, eyes fierce and unflinching.
HYDRATE LIKE A CHAMPION.
ZANE CALLOWAY × CAMILLE GROUP.
The commercial aired every other break. On TVs in cafés. On screens in gyms. On phones held too close to faces.
Girls screamed about it. Boys argued about it. Everyone remembered, all at once, that he wasn't just hot—he was an MMA fighter. Dangerous. Disciplined. Real.
Edits exploded overnight.
Slow-motion clips. Zoom-ins on his hands. Cuts synced to bass-heavy tracks. Comment sections on fire.
Who is he?
Why does he look like that?
I'd let him ruin my life.
MMA men are DIFFERENT.
By noon, his name trended.
Adrien Camille scrolled.
And scrolled.
And scrolled.
Zane's face filled his screen again. Another edit. Another clip from the commercial. A freeze-frame of his jawline. A slowed shot of sweat rolling down his chest.
Adrien groaned softly and tossed his phone onto the bed.
He lay back, one arm draped over his eyes.
"Unbelievable," he muttered.
The room was quiet, curtains drawn just enough to let in pale afternoon light. His body ached faintly from training. His mind refused to shut up.
When he closed his eyes—
There it was.
The commercial.
Zane's hands. His shoulders. The way he looked straight into the camera like he knew exactly who was watching.
Adrien groaned again, heavier this time, turning onto his side and burying his face into his pillow like that might erase the image burned into his brain.
It didn't.
Zane hadn't slept.
Not really.
He lay on his bed, phone hovering inches from his face, the blue light burning into tired eyes as he scrolled through Adrien Camille's online presence like it was a crime scene.
Verified account.
Millions of followers.
Pristine photos. Editorial shots. Training clips. Magazine covers.
He followed.
Then followed again—Instagram, X, anything public.
His thumb hovered over Message.
He typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Deleted harder.
"What are you doing," he whispered to himself.
Eventually, exhaustion won. His phone slipped from his hand onto the mattress.
He fell asleep still debating.
Zane woke at 10:07 a.m.
His phone buzzed nonstop.
He blinked at the screen.
+8,412 followers
+12,991 followers
+21,000 followers
"What—"
He sat up so fast he got dizzy.
Notifications stacked endlessly. Tags. Mentions. Messages he didn't dare open yet.
He stumbled into the kitchen.
His mom stood there with her arms crossed, smug smile in place, the TV already on.
Right on cue—his face filled the screen.
"There he is," she said proudly. "My son."
Zane laughed, breathless, and wrapped her in a tight hug. "This is insane."
"You earned it," she said softly.
He grabbed his bag and headed to the gym.
This time, it was different.
People stared.
Whispers followed him.
Someone asked for a photo. Then another. Phones lifted discreetly. A few not-so-discreet.
Zane smiled through it, nodded, stayed polite—but his heart raced the entire time.
He trained hard until 2 p.m., sweat soaking through his shirt. When he finally sat down, he opened the lunchbox his mom had packed.
Simple food. Familiar. Comforting.
He exhaled.
His best friend Alexdropped onto the bench beside him. "Bro."
Zane glanced up. "What."
"You're famous."
Zane snorted. "Shut up."
"You've been staring at your phone all day," alex said, nudging him. "You seeing someone?"
Zane hesitated.
"…Maybe."
Alex's eyes widened. "No way. Who?"
Zane shook his head. "Can't say."
"But you're debating texting him," Alex pressed. "Just do it."
Zane sighed, opened his phone.
Typed.
hi
Pause.
Typed again.
It's me, Zane
Sent.
Then panicked.
Edited. Deleted. Re-typed.
it's zane calloway
Sent.
Then—fuck—
the guy your dad is sponsoring
Sent.
He locked his phone and shoved it back into his bag like it had bitten him.
He went back to training.
Checked his phone ten minutes later.
Nothing.
Adrien sat in his Korean class, Ji-Won beside him, their mothers seated nearby, voices low but relentless.
"They look so good together," Sophie Cho-Camille said.
Ji-Won's mother nodded. "Perfect match."
Adrien stared at the board, jaw tight.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He didn't check it.
By 6 p.m., Zane still had no reply.
He went home. Showered. Changed.
Checked again.
Nothing.
He went out.
The club wasn't a gay bar—just loud, crowded, neon lights bleeding into sweat and bass. Drinks flowed. Music thumped.
Girls noticed him instantly.
They gathered. Laughed too loud. Touched his arm. Complimented his face, his body, his commercial.
Zane smiled. Flirted. Played along.
His phone buzzed.
He froze.
A message.
From Adrien Camille.
Iknow who you are.
The music dulled. The lights blurred.
Zane stared at the screen, heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else.
Somewhere across the city, Adrien stared at his own phone, expression unreadable.
The line had been crossed.
And neither of them could pretend otherwise anymore.