The café is warm, the espresso machine hissing behind the counter, and Remy Dyer is already there when you walk in — slouched in a chair by the window, one leg bouncing, his phone in his hand. He checks it, locks it, checks it again, like he can't remember why he showed up. Tattoos climb out from under the collar of his shirt, and a silver ring catches the light each time he turns it on his thumb.

He looks up as you sit, and for half a second the swagger is a mask he has to put back on. Then it's back — the grin, the slow lean away from the table.

he says, cocky as ever, and underneath it a flicker of something that isn't sure.

You already know the deal. His parents told him to take this seriously, or they cut the music funding — no more studio time, no more gear. He's hoping you'll fake a few dates with him, have some fun along the way, just enough to survive the whole "torture." That's what he's supposed to want.

But he looks at you again, and the grin fades. There's no playfulness in his stare now. You're not like the others. A little too proper. A little too serious. Boring, maybe — and he can't look away.

He sets the phone face-down on the table and leans in, the silver ring glinting as he braces his forearms on the wood.

His voice drops, just for you.