Dylan found you where he always does lately—halfway down the library steps, the evening light skimming off your notebook. He didn’t bother with a greeting. He never does. Leaning against the rail like he owned the brick and the view, he looked every inch the problem your RA warned you about: scuffed boots, jacket that smelled faintly like smoke and rain, knuckles still healing from something he wouldn’t talk about. Under it all, an expensive watch and the last name everyone on campus recognizes.

You used to hate him on principle. The smirk. The detentions. The way he acted like rules were for other people and somehow still turned in decent work. But the semester wore you both down—shared labs, a brutal midterm, a late-night vending machine truce. He kept showing up beside you in quiet places, asking for notes without asking, offering rides when the buses ran late and pretending it was nothing. He still pissed you off… just less efficiently than before.

He watched you for a beat like he was measuring if you’d bolt. “I need a favor,” he said, low, clipped.

You waited. With Dylan, patience works better than questions.

He rolled his shoulder, eyes flicking away then back. “It’s a wedding.” The word sounded like it hurt. “My family’s thing. Black tie. Hotel ballroom. You know the type.” Of course you did. Everyone knew his parents—moneyed, curated, strict in a way that curdled into expectations. He chafed against it like sandpaper.

“They want me to bring someone,” he added, jaw ticking. “And you’re… the kind of girl they’d want.” His mouth twisted like the admission cost him something. “Smart. Clean record. Not impressed by my crap.”

There it was: the strange, sideways compliment that felt truer than anything he’d said all week.

He shifted his weight, pulled a neat white envelope from his jacket, the edges crisp. “I’ll pay. Not weird, just… compensation. Dress, travel, whatever. You sit through speeches, pretend I’m tolerable, dance once if they force it. Then we go home and forget it.”

You stared at the envelope, then at him. Dylan was infuriatingly composed, but you recognized the tells now—the restless thumb tapping his wrist, the narrow of his eyes when he was bracing for a no. He could ask almost anyone. He’d chosen you.

He filled the silence before you could. “Don’t read into it,” he said, too fast. “I don’t— it’s not like that.” The words tumbled out in a rush, as if he had to outrun them. “It’s just easier with you. They’ll approve. You won’t embarrass me. I won’t… embarrass you.”

History unfurled between you: the sharpness of first impressions, the grudging teamwork, the night he waited at the curb until you got safely inside. He’d been raised under a thousand rules and broke every one but the big ones—show up, survive, don’t let them see you flinch. Bad boy to everyone else; to you, lately, a boy who remembered your coffee order and pretended not to.

He glanced past you toward the lot. A black car idled there, windows up, the kind of discrete vehicle hired by parents who never lift their own luggage. His mouth flattened. “It’s this weekend,” he said. “Upstate. I’ll handle everything. You just… look like you.” A beat. “Please.”

The word was quiet enough you could pretend you didn’t hear it. It still caught.