Forni’s was the kind of place that didn’t put its name on a sign because if you didn’t already know what Forni’s was, you weren’t getting in. The valet took one look at the watch on my wrist and didn’t ask for ID. ’Apparently this is how the rich exist. Nobody questions you. They just defer.’

The host walked me to the lounge without me telling him a name, which meant Mira had called ahead, which meant of course Mira had called ahead. Tarek was already at the bar nursing something brown in a short glass.

He turned when he heard footsteps and froze. "...Holy shit."

I waved my hand at my old acquaintance. "Hi, Tarek."

"Lukas. Lukas. No." He mumbled to himself.

"What?"

"Come closer. Stand in the light." He scanned me from shoulders to shoes and back, his face doing the re-evaluating-an-entire-person-in-real-time thing. "When I called you, I had in my head the version of you that wore that one navy hoodie to every social event for three years. You... what is this? Did you join a cult? Are these biceps?"

"I started lifting." I shrugged. "Nothing much."

He scoffed. "You started lifting. Sure. The suit is a coincidence. The watch. Okay."

"I came into some money."

He laughed. "Oh, you came into some money. You’re radiating, Lukas. I’m getting Bond villain at a charity gala."

"I don’t own an island."

"Yet."

"...Yet." I coughed, because I definitely had that plan.

"There it is, but whatever, I won’t delve into your secrets." He grinned. "Drink before we go up?"

"Whatever you’re having."

He ordered me the same. I took a sip. It was very good and very strong, and I had a sudden, urgent appreciation for Mira’s apocalypse-tier alcohol tolerance.

"So," Tarek said, leaning on the bar. "Couple of ground rules. Sienna... I’ve been chatting with her for three weeks. It’s the first conversation that hasn’t been transactional in eight months. She’s into me, somehow, and I don’t want to mess it up. Lia is Sienna’s friend. Whatever happens with her, happens. Be cool, okay?"

"I’m always cool." I shrugged.

He rolled his eyes in response. "Lukas, you are historically not cool. You once had a panic attack at a Chipotle."

I immediately choked. "It was an emotional moment."

"You had it in line."

"You’re never going to let that go."

"Never. Going. To let it. Go."

This is why you shouldn’t make friends or even acquaintances. Damned people.

We drained the drinks easily as Tarek looked over my shoulder, straightened his shirt in panic, and gave me the they’re here eyes.

"Try to be less of yourself," he muttered.

"Try to be more of someone with a job," I muttered back.

He flipped me off as he turned to greet them.

...

Sienna was tall, very tall, enough that she came to Tarek’s eye level and made him stand up straighter in a way I observed immediately.

Brunette, university uniform, pleated skirt, white blouse, a dark blazer with the school crest on the chest pocket that she had unbuttoned for the evening.

She was pretty in a sharp-cheekbone, you-have-to-earn-her-attention kind of way. She gave Tarek a small, private smile that suggested she had, in fact, been looking forward to this for three weeks.

Lia was a half-step behind her.

She was shorter, maybe five-five, with dark hair pulled back into a quick low bun. The same uniform, but she had left more of her blouse buttoned and her skirt sat where it was supposed to instead of where Sienna’s was, which was higher.

She was also pretty, but different from Sienna. Softer face, lighter eyes, a small upturn at the corner of her mouth that read as nervous from this distance. She was looking at me like I was an exam she hadn’t studied for.

She also observed me, similar to how Tarek had.

She did the same scan: shoulders, shoes, watch, jaw. And her face did a small, rapid thing that involved several different expressions in one and a half seconds, and the final expression was recalculating.

Tarek did the introductions. Sienna gave me a polite smile and the smallest possible handshake. She liked me, but didn’t think we were compatible, probably.

Lia was different, though. She took my hand, shook it, and held it a beat too long. "Hi."

"Hi yourself." I gave her my best calm-and-amused face. "Coming straight from class?"

She nodded. "...Yeah. Sorry, we didn’t have time to change."

"Don’t apologize. You look like a person who has a life. That’s a feature, not a bug."

She blinked, then laughed, a small, startled laugh. "...Thank you?"

’And we’re off.’

The host walked us up. The upper floor of Forni’s was smaller, eight tables, low light, a wall of windows looking out over the city. Our table was in the corner, half-private.

Tarek and Sienna took one side, Lia and I took the other. Tarek immediately started talking to Sienna, which suggested I had been cleanly excluded from his half of the conversation.

That was fine by me too.

I turned to Lia.

She had her hands in her lap and her shoulders a fraction too straight, and the corner of her mouth was holding a small smile that did not match her eyes.

The eyes were doing something else entirely.

The eyes were... afraid.

It wasn’t a physical afraid. She wasn’t really worried I would hurt her, as she wasn’t checking the exits. She wasn’t watching Tarek for cues either.

It was the older, slower kind of afraid. The kind that didn’t fire when the threat appeared; it had been there before the threat showed up. Background fear. The kind people walked around with for years and stopped noticing.

I had seen it in Ruby twenty-four hours ago. Different shape, same flavor.

’Interesting. Very interesting. Webnovel-character-grade interesting. What is this?’

I leaned my elbow on the table casually and met her eyes.

"So. Lia, business school. Third year. What’s the dream?"

"Marketing." The answer came quick. "I want to work in luxury goods. Brand identity, repositioning, the storytelling side. It’s the most... it’s the most creative branch of business, and I—"

I rolled my eyes. "That’s the answer you give in interviews."

She paused, but the smile stayed and her eyes flickered. "...Excuse me?"

"That was the polished version. I was asking the regular version." I picked up the menu, opened it casually like the question was nothing. "What’s the actual dream?"

There was a long pause.

She looked at the menu in her hands. Then at me, properly, for the first time. "...I want my own apartment."

"That’s the dream."

"That’s the dream, yeah." She gave a small, dry laugh. "Embarrassing, right? Most people in my class are going to launch their startups. I just want a one-bedroom I don’t have to share."

I shook my head. "That’s not embarrassing, not at all. That’s specific. People who want specific things are easier to root for than people who want startups."

She watched my face for the punchline. There wasn’t one. She decided I meant it, and the smile did a small, soft thing that was the first thing she’d done all evening that wasn’t an act.

"...Are you going to be like this all dinner?"

"Like what?"

"Disarming."

"Probably."

"Mm." She put the menu down. "Then I’ll keep up."