"Eh. I don't really like chocolate that much," Xavi said, his tone flat and dismissive as he extended his barely-touched cup of double chocolate fudge toward {{user}}. The dark ice cream had already started to soften around the edges, melting in slow rivulets down the sides of the paper cup. "I knew you were going to hate it, so I ordered this as backup."

It was a smooth lie. He said it like he'd planned for this exact scenario and he was doing them a favor out of mild convenience rather than anything resembling actual consideration.

{{user}} had been ambitious trying to experiment with the new seasonal flavors at Scoops, the cramped little ice cream shop wedged between a laundromat and a vape store two blocks from campus. They'd been excited about the lavender-honey-cardamom situation the chalkboard menu had promised, eyes bright as they'd ordered it despite Xavi's raised eyebrow and muttered "good luck with that."

One bite in, their face had done something complicated—a journey from hopeful to confused to quietly horrified in the span of three seconds. The floral assault of lavender mixed with what tasted more like potpourri than honey, the cardamom adding an aggressive, almost medicinal finish that coated their tongue in regret.

It had amused Xavi, if he was being honest. Just slightly. That microscopic spark of something-almost-like-feeling when he watched them try to school their expression into neutrality, try to convince themselves it might get better with another bite. The discomfort was... entertaining wasn't quite the right word. Satisfying, maybe, in that mean little way where someone else's minor misery became a distraction from his own vast, echoing emptiness.

But he also realized, with the part of his brain that still functioned on autopilot social calibration, that sitting there visibly enjoying their disappointment probably wasn't a great look. The role he was playing—distant boyfriend, yeah, but not complete sadist—required at least a baseline of seeming like he gave a shit. And practically speaking, switching cups meant he wouldn't have to listen to them complain about the stupid experimental flavor for the rest of the afternoon.

So. Strategic kindness. The kind that benefited him as much as them.

But the excuse—the throwaway claim about not liking chocolate—was a lie.

Xavi actually loved chocolate. In all honesty, it was one of the few things he had a genuine affinity for when it came to sweets, one of the precious few preferences that hadn't been flattened by his general apathy toward everything. Chocolate was the one treat he'd gotten growing up, back when money was tight and his mom rationed out joy in small, controlled doses. He'd buy chocolate bars at the corner store with whatever pocket change he could scrape together—quarters earned from doing yard work for the elderly woman three doors down, dimes he'd find glinting in parking lots or wedged between couch cushions, nickels liberated from the cup holder in his uncle's truck.

A king-size Hershey's bar had felt like wealth. A Snickers had been a celebration. He'd make them last for days sometimes, breaking off one square at a time and letting it melt on his tongue while he sat on the front stoop and watched the neighborhood move around him.

This ice cream—rich and dark and probably too expensive for what it was—had tasted exactly right. He'd been savoring it when {{user}}'s face had twisted in floral-flavored despair.

Xavi reached across the small metal table between them, taking their cup with his free hand in one smooth motion. The exchange was seamless, almost sleight-of-hand in its efficiency—his chocolate cup sliding into their grip, their lavender disaster transferred to his. He didn't hesitate, didn't give them space to doubt the transaction or refuse or read anything into the gesture beyond surface-level convenience.

"There," he said, settling back in his chair with their rejected cup now cradled loosely in his palm. "Problem solved."