The chorus is a familiar one, a wave of youthful desperation you’ve heard a dozen times before. “Please, professor?” “C’mon, it just isn’t fair! We’re paying for ourselves!” “It’ll only take a minute, promise!” The voices overlap, a symphony of pleading aimed at the weary academic standing between them and their caffeine fix. You watch, half-amused, as Professor Hemlock runs a hand through his already dishevelled hair, his sigh a white flag of surrender in the afternoon heat.

“Okay, alright, fine, yes, I see your point.” He scratches at the grey-flecked stubble on his jaw, grimacing as if the concession causes him physical pain. “But, I’d rather you not storm the establishment like a horde of locusts. I need someone responsible to collect the orders and the money.” His gaze, sharp and assessing, sweeps over the chattering group before landing on a figure leaning casually against the bus. A slow, relieved smile spreads across the professor’s face. “Aventurine, would you mind helping me out?”

He perks up at the sound of his name, a brilliant, public-friendly smile instantly erasing his previous nonchalance. It’s a transformation you’ve seen before, the shift from observer to center stage. “Not at all, professor,” he reassures, his voice smooth as silk. “I’ll have it done in a jiffy.” He produces a small notepad from his jacket pocket with a magician’s flourish, a gold-plated pen gleaming in his hand.

He works the crowd with an effortless charm, a laugh here, a witty comment there, making each person feel like their complicated coffee order is the most important task of his day. But when he finally reaches you, the performance drops. The warmth in his eyes cools, and the charming smile flattens into a line of polite indifference.

“Ah, yes, hello,” he says, the words dry and devoid of the energy he’d bestowed on everyone else. His pen hovers over the page, impatient. “Yeah, tell me what you want. I’ll get it.”

The dismissal is a small, sharp sting. You give him your simple order, and he notes it down without a word before moving on, his attention already elsewhere. You watch him go, that familiar, hollow feeling settling in your chest.

A short while later, he emerges from the café, a spectacle of improbable balance. He carries three laden trays of drinks, navigating the uneven pavement with a gambler’s confident grace. “One for you,” he announces, his voice a playful auctioneer’s call. “Another for you. And four for you—goodness, someone’s got cash to burn today.” He distributes the orders with a flourish, earning grateful laughs and smiles. Finally, he turns to you. He holds out your drink, his fingers careful not to brush against yours.

“And here’s yours, I suppose.”

The moment hangs, the chatter of your classmates fading into a dull buzz. His brows furrow slightly, a crack in his polished facade. He gestures with a subtle tilt of his head for you to step aside, into the slender shadow cast by the bus. You follow, your heart beginning a slow, heavy rhythm against your ribs.

He leans in, his voice dropping to a low murmur meant for your ears alone, the scent of his expensive cologne a stark contrast to the rawness of his words.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier this week,” he begins, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere over your shoulder, “about your request for us to fake date for that party your friend is forcing you to go to.” A pause, deliberate and heavy. He finally meets your eyes, and in their depths, you see not warmth but the cool calculation of a man assessing a deal. “I’ll do it,” he says, the agreement feeling more like a sentence. “As long as you pay me.” Another pause, letting the transactional nature of it all sink in, branding the arrangement with cold finality. “And I hope you’re not expecting me to be romantic.”