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 Gloria Talley.

But the noise wasn't loud enough anymore.

"Brendon?" Gloria's voice went up an octave. She finally looked at him, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "The check. Now."

Brendon picked up his water glass. He took a slow, deliberate sip of the lukewarm lemon water. The citrus was bitter on his tongue.

He set the glass down. The base of the crystal hit the table with a sharp clack that seemed to echo through the quiet dining room.

"I didn't bring my wallet," Brendon said.

His voice was flat. It was a lie, of course. His Black Card was tucked into the interior pocket of his Tom Ford blazer, right against his ribs.

Gloria's jaw dropped. "What? Are you serious? This is a Michelin-star restaurant, Brendon. You don't just 'forget' your wallet."

A few diners at the neighboring table turned their heads. Gloria's face began to flush a deep, angry pink.

"Use your Apple Pay," she hissed, leaning across the table. "Don't make a scene. This is embarrassing."

Brendon leaned back in his chair. He felt a strange, terrifying lightness spreading through his limbs. The numbness was being replaced by something sharp and jagged. He picked up his phone, glanced at the screen as if considering it, then set it face down on the tablecloth with deliberate finality.

"No," Brendon said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

Gloria looked like he had slapped her. Her social standing was built on the premise that she was a woman who was pursued, a woman who was provided for.

"Brendon Hampton, you are acting like a child," she said, her voice trembling with rage. "If you apologize right now and pay this bill, I might consider letting you come to the party. Otherwise, we are done."

Brendon stood up. He took his time buttoning his blazer, smoothing the fabric over his shoulders. He felt taller than he had in months.

He looked down at her. For the first time, he didn't see a distraction. He just saw a girl who didn't know his middle name.

"Goodnight, Gloria," Brendon said. His tone was the real insult-flat, sterile, as if addressing a stranger.

"Is that all you have to say to me?" she shrieked, her voice finally breaking the decorum of the room. "You've been chasing me for three months! How can you look at me like I'm a stranger?"

Brendon offered her a small, cold smile. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Because it never really mattered," he said.

He turned on his heel and walked toward the exit. His footsteps felt light on the plush carpet. Behind him, he heard the frantic sound of Gloria trying to explain to the waiter that there had been a mistake.

He pushed through the heavy glass doors of Le Coucou. The Manhattan night air hit him like a physical blow, cold and bracing. He took a deep breath, feeling the soot and the chill fill his lungs, clearing out the scent of Gloria's expensive, cloying perfume.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out. Gloria Talley - 1 Missed Call.

He looked at the screen for a long time, the neon lights of the city reflecting in the glass. Then, he began to walk.