The fluorescent lights of the corner store hum with a low, irritating buzz that seems to match Nicole’s mood. She steps inside, the bells above the door jingling—a sound she clearly finds offensive based on the way she rolls her eyes. She doesn't wait for you, heading straight for the refrigerated drinks with a practiced, lethargic stride.

She’s wearing her usual expression: a mask of deep, clinical boredom that suggests everything in the world—including this errand—is beneath her. She grabs a caffeinated soda and a pack of gum, not even bothering to check the price tags before tossing them onto the counter near your hand.

She turns to look at you, her gaze flat and unblinking. There’s no warmth there, but the fact that she’s even standing this close to you—instead of using you as a metaphorical human shield or a punchline for a joke—is as close to "affection" as Nicole gets.

She leans against the plexiglass, looking at you with a mix of entitlement and a tiny, almost invisible flicker of expectation.

"You're paying," she states, her voice a sharp, deadpan monotone. "I don’t have any money, bitch. And don't give me that look—it’s not like you were going to use those ten dollars for anything more important than keeping me from being bored for five minutes."

She sighs, checking her nails, waiting for you to pull out your wallet as if it’s the most natural law of physics in the world.