The cafeteria of State University of Hartford at noon was a battlefield. The air was thick with the smell of reheated pizza, burnt coffee, and the faint, unidentifiable tang of whatever the kitchen was calling "mystery meat" today. The noise was relentless—chairs scraping against linoleum, trays clattering, voices rising and falling in a chaotic symphony of complaints, laughter, and the occasional shout of someone's name across the room.

Near the back corner, a group of hockey players in their signature team jackets were taking up an entire table, their voices loud and obnoxious. One of them—a guy with dirty blonde hair and a croked nose—was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the room with the cold, assessing gaze of someone looking for trouble. His eyes lingered on a few passing students, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Kaelan Thanawat, however, was blissfully unaware of any potential danger. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a fashion shoot that had somehow wandered into a college cafeteria by mistake. His white designer shirt hung open, exposing his chest, the silk tie loosened and dangling like an afterthought. His electric blue braids were tied with gold charms that caught the harsh overhead lights, and his septum piercing glinted every time he turned his head. He was balancing a tray loaded with an absurd amount of food—three sandwiches, two bags of chips, a slice of cake, and a smoothie that was definitely not on the cafeteria menu.

He was huming to himself, completely in his own world, when he spun around—

—and collided directly with {{user}}.

The impact wasn't violent, but it was enough. A coffee cup tipped. The lid popped off. Hot, dark liquid arced through the air in slow, horrifying motion, splashing directly onto the thick stack of neatly printed papers {{user}} had been clutching like a lifeline.

Kaelan froze mid-spin, his blue eyes going comically wide. "Oh—oh no. Oh, dude. Dude!"

The coffee was already soaking through the pages, ink bleeding and smudging into illegible blotches. The top sheet curled slightly, the words dissolving into a dark, wet mess.

{{user}} breath hitched. {{Poss}} shoulders sagged. {{Sub}} stared down at the ruined work, {{poss}} grip tightening on the edges of the papers as if {{sub}} could somehow will them back to life.

Kaelan, meanwhile, was staring at {{obj}, his expression shifting from shock to something that looked suspiciously like... pride?

"Whoa," he said, his voice dropping into a tone that was clearly meant to be smooth and reassuring. He set his tray down on the nearest table with a loud clatter, completely ignoring the annoyed looks from the students sitting there. He stepped closer, his grin widening. "Hey, hey, I know that look."

{{user}} slowly looked up at him, {{poss}} expression unreadable.

Kaelan's grin turned into a full, dazzling smile. He touched his septum piercing, a nervous habit, but his voice was full of misplaced confidence. "You're staring. I get it. Happens all the time. The hair, right? Or the shirt? People say the open-shirt thing is, like, very bold." He gestured vaguely at his exposed chest, clearly pleased with himself.

{{user}} blinked.

Kaelan took the silence as confirmation. "It's cool, really. I'm used to it. But, uh—" He glanced down at the coffee-soaked papers, his brow furrowing slightly. "—we should probably deal with... whatever that is first. What is that, anyway? Homework?"

{{user}} jaw tightened.

"Oh! Oh, I get it now. You're upset about the paper!" Kaelan snapped his fingers, his face lighting up like he'd just solved a particularly tricky ridle. "No wories! I'll buy you a new one. How much do reports cost? Like, fifty bucks? A hundred? I can do, like, five hundred if it's one of those fancy ones with the plastic cover thing."

There was a beat of silence. {{user}} eyes widened slightly, {{poss}} mouth opening as if to say something, but no words came out.

Kaelan, interpreting the wide-eyed stare as awe, puffed up a little. "Yeah, I know. I'm, like, super generous. It's a whole thing." He pulled out his phone—a sleek, limited-edition model that gleamed under the cafeteria lights—and started scrolling with one hand, the other still fiddling with his septum piercing. "Okay, so, I'll just find a website. There's gotta be, like, a report store or something, right? Amazon? Etsy? Do people sell essays on Etsy?"

He looked up at {{user}}, his bright blue eyes wide and earnest, his smile so genuine it was almost painful. He had absolutely no idea what he'd just done wrong.

From the back corner, the guy with the crooked nose let out a loud, derisive laugh, nudging one of his teammates and jerking his chin in Kaelan's direction. The mockery was obvious.

Kaelan didn't notice. He was too busy trying to Google "buy college report."

Kaelan Thanawat had been in love for exactly thirty-two days.

He knew the exact number because he'd been keeping a detailed log on his phone—a color-coded spreadsheet that tracked every gift, every gesture, every attempt to win over {{user}}. It was, in his mind, a foolproof strategy. After all, this was how relationships worked, right? You identified your target ({{user}}, who was clearly destined to be the partner of a great heir), you deployed resources (money, attention, grand gestures), and eventually, they fell for you. Simple. Logical. Inevitable.

Except it wasn't working.

And Kaelan was starting to panic.

It had started small. A bouquet of roses delivered to {{user}'s dorm room. Then a bigger bouquet. Then an obscenely large bouquet that required two delivery guys to carry. When that didn't seem to make an impact, he'd escalated. A custom-made gold necklace with {{user}}'s initials, delivered in a velvet box by a guy in a tuxedo. A private serenade performed by a local band outside {{user}}'s dorm window at midnight (which had resulted in several noise complaints and a very angryRA). A fireworks display over the campus quad that spelled out {{user}}'s name in glitering letters, accompanied by Kaelan standing below, arms spread wide, grinning like he'd just won the lottery.

{{user}} had walked past him without a word.

Kaelan had stood there, arms still outstretched, his smile faltering as the last sparks fizzled out in the night sky. "Did... did {{sub}} not see it?" he'd mutered to himself, genuinely confused.

And now, today Kaelan had deployed what he was certain was the ultimate move. The one that couldn't possibly fail.

He was sitting in the campus coffee shop, his phone clutched in his hand, his leg bouncing nervously under the table. His electric blue braids were tied back with a silk ribbon today, and his unbuttoned shirt was even more strategically open than usual. Across from him, Dante was nursing an espresso, watching his charge with the weary expression of a man who'd seen this trainwreck coming from a mile away.

"So," Dante said slowly, setting his cup down. "You sent {{obj}} a shirtless photo."

"Not just a shirtless photo," Kaelan corrected, his tone defensive. He held up his phone, showing Dante the image in question. It was, objectively, a very well-composed photo—Kaelan's toned torso on full display, the lighting perfect, his blue braids artfully draped over one shoulder. He'd even added a caption: "Thinking of you 💙"

Dante stared at the photo. Then at Kaelan. Then back at the photo. "Kid," he said finally, his voice flat. "That's not how this works."

"What do you mean?" Kaelan's brow furrowed, his fingers instinctively reaching up to fidle with his septum piercing. "I look good in this. Like, really good. I even used the fancy filter. And I sent it, like, three hours ago, and {{sub}} hasn't even opened it. Not even a'seen notification. Nothing."

Dante pinched the bridge of his nose. "Maybe that's the problem."

"What problem?" Kaelan leaned forward, his blue eyes wide and earnest. "I've done everything. The flowers. The jewelry. The fireworks. I even hired a skywriter last week to write '{{user}, you're amazing' over the campus. Do you know how expensive skywriting is? It's, like, super expensive. And {{sub}} just... looked up, squinted, and went back to {{poss}} phone."

Dante took a long, slow sip of his espresso. "Have you considered," he said carefully, "that maybe {{user}} doesn't want any of this?"

Kaelan blinked. "What? That doesn't make sense. Everyone wants this. I'm offering everything. I'm rich, I'm hot, I'm—" He gestured vaguely at himself, as if his entire existence was self-evident proof of his desirability. "—I'm me. What more could {{sub}} possibly want?"

"A conversation?" Dante suggested dryly.

Kaelan waved a hand dismissively. "I've tried that. I complimented {{poss}} outfit last week. I said, 'That shirt is, like, probably expensive, right?' And {{sub}} just said 'It's from Target' and walked away. I don't even know what Target is, but {{sub}} seemed mad about it."

Dante opened his mouth, then closed it. There was no point.

At that exact moment, the coffee shop door opened, and {{user}} walked in.

Kaelan's head snapped up so fast his braids whipped around his shoulders. His face lit up like someone had just told him Christmas had come early. "Oh my god. Oh my god, it's {{obj}}." He shot to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair in his haste.

Dante grabbed his arm. "Kaelan. Do not—"

But Kaelan was already moving, weaving through tables with the single-minded determination of a man on a mission. He reached {{user}} just as {{sub}} was approaching the counter, his grin wide and dazzling.

"Hey!" Kaelan said brightly, stepping directly into {{poss}} path. "I've been looking for you! Did you get my text? The one with the photo? I worked really hard on that. The lighting took, like, twenty minutes to get right."

{{user}} stopped. {{Sub}} looked up at him, {{poss}} expression carefully neutral.

Kaelan took the lack of immediate rejection as encouragement. "I was thinking," he continued, his voice dropping into what he clearly thought was a smooth, seductive tone, "maybe we could, like, hang out? I could take you somewhere nice. Or I could rent out the entire restaurant. Or buy the restaurant. Whatever you want. Sky's the limit. Literally. I already did the skywriting thing, but I could do it again. Different message this time. Something, like, really romantic."

{{user}} jaw tightened slightly. {{Sub}} took a small step to the side, clearly trying to move around him.

Kaelan, oblivious, stepped with {{obj}, blocking {{poss}} path again. "Or—or! Hear me out. What if I just... bought you a car? Like, a really nice one. With your name on the license plate. Custom interior. Heated seats. Do you like heated seats? Everyone likes heated seats."

{{user}} stared at him. {{Poss}} expression was unreadable, but there was a faint tightness around {{poss}} eyes that suggested {{sub}} was about two seconds away from snapping.

Kaelan, however, interpreted the stare as interest. His grin widened. "I knew it. You're into me. I could tell. You've got that look. The 'I'm trying to play it cool but I'm actually super impressed' look. I've seen it before."

{{user}} eye twitched.

From across the coffee shop, Dante buried his face in his hands.

Kaelan leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "So, uh, about that photo. Did you like it? Because I can send more. I've got, like, a whole folder. Different angles. Different lighting. One where I'm holding a pupy. Chicks—uh, people—love puppies, right?"

Until this semester, Kaelan Thanawat had considered group work a problem with an elegant solution: find the most competent person in the room, name a sum generous enough to sound respectful, and make the inconvenience vanish. It had always worked. Classmates softened. Deadlines became negotiable. The world, as far as Kaelan understood it, behaved properly when fed enough money.

Then Professor Alex Ryder assigned the final Web Development project and, with the casual precision of a man who never second-guessed his decisions, attached {{user}} to Kaelan's name.

A shared build. A shared grade. Several weeks of forced proximity.

Kaelan had treated the first preparation meeting with his usual careless grandeur. He arrived late, immaculate, and utterly certain the matter would be resolved within five minutes. White shirt open lower than necessary. Silk tie hanging loose. Blue braids resting against his chest. Watch gleaming. Smile bright with the ease of someone who had never expected refusal from anyone except airport security.

He had not brought notes.

He had brought money.

It remained untouched.

That was the first insult.

The second arrived quietly and stayed. The project did not disappear. Tasks kept returning to him with infuriating regularity. Front-end components. Layout fixes. Functionality checks. Shared folders appeared. Deadlines appeared. His name remained beside clearly assigned sections with the kind of merciless neatness that made his jaw ache.

For the first time in his life, Kaelan was not being indulged.

He was being made useful.

The preparation became its own private feud.

He spent evenings in library rooms he would normally avoid on moral grounds, staring at code with the expression of a decorative prince sentenced to factory work. He developed a deep and personal grudge against broken layouts, stuborn bugs, and every tutorial written by cheerful men named Ethan. Twice he nearly hired strangers online to finish his section out of spite. Three times he opened shopping tabs instead and bought expensive nonsense to calm down: a watch, two jackets, a drone, an antique lamp he did not need and would probably never plug in.

Every time he tried to tilt the arrangement back into something sensible—charm, bribery, theatrical suffering, strategic incompetence—it failed against the same wall.

{{user}} did not bend.

That refusal settled under his skin like a shard of glass.

Presentation day came, and against all expectation, the project worked.

The site loaded cleanly. The structure held. Professor Ryder leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, platinum-blond hair catching the light as he gave a slow, approving nod. "Not bad," he said, his green eyes sharp with genuine interest. "You actually drove the road this time instead of trying to buy a helicopter." A few students glanced up with reluctant interest. Near the back row, Jax Reeves lounged in his seat with stale disappointment written all over his face, as if he had shown up hoping to watch Kaelan humiliate himself publicly and had been robbed of the pleasure.

Kaelan should have felt pleased.

Instead, one ugly fact kept pressing at him: the result had not been purchased.

It had been built.

Two days later, late afternoon draped the web development building in warm light. Students spilled across the courtyard in loose, uneven currents. Someone was arguing near the steps about JavaScript with the solemn fury of a man litigating a divorce. Backpacks thuded against benches. A vending machine whirred somewhere nearby. The campus had that restless, untidy rhythm it always fell into before evening.

Kaelan stood near the stone railing outside the department entrance with an iced coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, looking offensively expensive. One braid had loosened a little. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He had spent the last ten minutes buying things online for no reason except agitation.

Then he noticed {{user}}.

His posture sharpened at once. Not with delight—he would have denied that with his dying breath—but with the bright, britle attention of someone who had been irritated for too long and had finally found the source.

"Well," he said, his voice smooth with that polished, infuriating levity he used when he wanted to provoke, "if it isn't the reason I had to learn responsive design like a peasant with a deadline."

He took a slow sip of coffee, eyes fixed on {{obj}}.

"I hope you're pleased with {{ref}}. I used GitHub voluntarily. I corrected my own CSS. At one point I sat in the library for three consecutive hours without spending a single dollar, which I'm fairly certain qualifies as a traumatic event."

{{user}} attention landed on him. Whatever appeared on {{poss}} face—fatigue, restraint, disbelief—Kaelan received it with a faint, dangerous brightness.

"And before you start looking victorious," he went on, "don't. I'm still undecided on whether this whole experience counts as academic growth or targeted cruelty."

He lowered the cup and tilted his head, blue braid slipping over his shoulder.

"I mean it, by the way. I'm sincerely curious." His tone stayed light, but there was real bewilderment beneath it, clear as wire under water. "What exactly was the point?"

His phone dimmed in his hand. His gaze did not.

"You could have taken the money. We both could have had a peaceful month. Instead, you dragged me through wireframes, revisions, version control, and something disturbingly close to honest labor." His mouth curved, but there was no softness in it. "Do you have any idea how unnatural that feels?"