The Roommate Pact: No Strings Attached

"Tilt your head to the left, Brendon. The lighting in here is literal trash, and you're casting a shadow over my contour."

Gloria Talley didn't look at him when she spoke. She didn't even look at the three-hundred-dollar plate of Coq au Vin that sat untouched between them. Her eyes were locked on the screen of her iPhone 15 Pro, her thumb hovering over the saturation slider on a photo she'd just taken.

Brendon Hampton did as he was told. He leaned left, his neck stiffening. He felt like a piece of furniture-a high-end, custom-made mahogany side table designed to hold Gloria's handbag and provide a pleasant background for her digital life.

The restaurant, Le Coucou, was filled with the low hum of Manhattan's elite. The clink of silver against porcelain was the only music. Brendon stared at a small, circular wine stain on the white tablecloth. It looked like a bruised eye.

For a year, he had been doing this. Or some version of it. He had been the "Simp." The last three months had been dedicated to Gloria, the latest and most expensive distraction. The guy who waited outside sorority houses with bouquets. The guy who paid for the five-star dinners while the girl across from him ignored his existence.

Gloria finished her edit and tapped the screen with a manicured nail. "There. God, I look amazing. I'm going to caption it 'Dinner with my favorite,' but I won't tag you. It creates more engagement if people have to guess."

Brendon didn't respond. He just watched the way her eyes lit up at the first notification. He felt a familiar numbness, a cold, heavy weight in his chest that had become his only constant since Kiera left.

Kiera wouldn't have cared about the lighting. She would have been laughing so hard at a joke that she'd forget to eat. She would have insisted on splitting the bill, her chin tilted up in that stubborn way that used to make Brendon want to kiss her until she went breathless.

"Brendon? Are you even listening?" Gloria snapped her fingers in front of his face. "I said we need to leave in ten minutes. Hettie is hosting the pre-game at her penthouse, and I need to be seen there before the club."

A waiter approached, sliding a leather bill folder onto the table. It was a discreet movement, almost silent.

Gloria didn't even glance at it. She just waved a hand toward the folder, a gesture of dismissal. "Handle that. And make sure you leave at least twenty-five percent. The server told me my earrings were 'exquisite.' He deserves a reward for having taste."

Brendon looked at the folder. He didn't reach for it.

His stomach felt like it was full of lead. The "performative degradation," as he called it in the dark hours of the night, had reached its limit. He had spent months trying to punish himself, trying to bury the memory of Kiera under the shallow noise of