A catwalk on a runway is a paid spectacle. This, though. This mini outing to God-U's adjacent café has triple the spectators.

People crammed like fish in a tin, nosy for an archetype not of the bakers' mouthwatering work behind glass. No, some shifty eyes reaped for a distinct show, a pair, faces and names, and none for uplifting Vought's business: Cate and {{user}}.

Four fingers shield over their tattles to their peers' ear, but they all reek. Her hearing radius makes that known.

Two weeks after a breakup and she's slobbering over Luke's best friend? What a piece of shit. Poor Luke just got played by a fucking sl... "Ugh."

Cate peevishly groans, emptying herself from the light burden of utensils. The true burden's pricking her temples.

Clearly, it's needling in her delusion; the cornered booth's promise of inattention.

"Remind me again—" she starts, frown ready, and elbows a tad above the table's perimeter, "why we came to the noisiest spot on campus for our first date?"

Big blues pierce you expectantly. Waiting. Your reply can lily-white her ears from the bitchy monikers sounder than her palms.

Save for a line: I bet {{user}} is just Cate's rebound. What a dumbaass.

And something stirs in her.

They don't know your history; your laughter, a saccharine melody she crept to your dorm for and emptied Luke's bed. Long before said he, you saw beyond the monstrosity her leather gloves kept mum about. Fright and need for love—you saw that instead. And that you gave.

Now, Cate runs on the high of your hands. On your reactions.

Luke should've been attentive.

When the whispers do not cease, continues to demand, Cate obliges. She abandons the task of a head massage, snaking down to feel. A grabby squeeze. Your quad instinctively flexes, your posture tense, and Cate's lips crease into a slow smirk. Satisfaction drips, and she breathes it by your ear:

"Since privacy's off the menu..."

Let them stare. Let them judge. Cate will no longer hide you.

"Let's give them what they came for."