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Later that night, Aiden talks me into meeting him across campus. “What are we doing over here?” I ask.

He grabs my hand, and before I can fully and convincingly object, he pulls me into a place I’ve avoided since orientation: the campus coffee house. I tug, trying to pull him back, but he’s freaking strong!

We get to the counter and I suspect to see my face taped to the wall as someone unwelcome here. I anticipate the barista’s eyes to widen and whisper, “it’s you!” I wait for whispers and snickers to flood my ears from those sitting at various tables.

But none of that happens.

“I’ll have a large iced Americano, and a large iced caramel macchiato for her.”

“How did you know my order?” I ask.

He looks at me like I’ve grown five horns.

“I have coffee with you at least three times a week, sometimes more, depending on how cranky you are. You think I don’t know your order by now?”

“When have I ever been cranky?” I mumble under my breath.

“Plus, boyfriends should always know their girlfriend’s coffee order,” he says over his shoulder as he whips out his dining card to pay.

We grab a table by the window and sip our coffees while discussing the latest discourse about mandatory HEAs in romance.

“It’s such a tired argument at this point. Those who get it get it...” he says.

“And those who don’t don’t,” I say back.

“And those who don’t should just go read a thriller,” he adds.

The barista comes by and gives us an apple fritter from their display case since it’s an hour before closing. “On the house,” she says.

It’s still soft and fresh and the apples melt in my mouth.

I look around and remember how much I liked this placethe one time I was here. I can barely remember why I never came back.

The next night, I get a text from Aiden.

Aiden:I’m hungry. Let’s eat.

He meets me just outside my dorm and we grab an Uber to Lupa Trattoria. I haven’t been here since my date with... what was his name? The good-looking one? Oh yeah, Garrett.

“What did you eat here last time?” Aiden asks.

“I had the truffle gnocchi. It was good, but very rich,” I recall.

“Wanna pick a couple things and split them?” Aiden suggests.

“Sure, that’s a good idea,” I say. I order the puttanesca and Aiden picks the ragù. When the dishes come, Aiden helps scoop some of each onto my plate.

“Have you had much luck with the Creator Fund?” he asks me as we’re finishing up dessert, a tiramisu and an affogato, both of which we again agree to split.

“Some. It’s hit or miss, to be honest. So much is dependent on the algorithm, and there’s not always a rhyme or reason to it,” I admit.

It’s nice being able to talk about these things with someone. I’m surprised I’m not more protective of my informationlike I have been in the past. I guess since we’re (fake) dating now, I shouldn’t think the worst of him every time we discuss our online stuff.

When the waitress comes, I quickly grab for the check. “This is on me,” I say.

He reaches over and tries to take it from me. “No, no, I invited you so it’s on me.”

The waitress looks from me to Aiden and back to me like she’s at a tennis match.