Chapter 1

The table was exactly twenty-four inches in diameter. Leo knew this because he had spent the last ten minutes measuring it with his eyes, trying to figure out how to fit his Mac, his oversized textbook, and a lukewarm Americano onto the surface without causing a structural collapse.

Then came the shadow.

"Is this seat taken? Everywhere else is literally a biohazard of discarded flashcards."

Leo looked up. The guy standing there was a whirlwind of soft denim and mismatched socks. He was holding a tray that carried a drink so pink and topped with so much whipped cream it looked like a structural hazard. Before Leo could muster a polite "actually, I'm expecting a ghost," the stranger was already sliding into the chair.

"I'm Toby," the newcomer whispered—though his "whisper" was more of a stage-projected murmur that carried across three tables. "I have to memorize forty pages of dialogue by tomorrow or I’m basically dead. Like, career-over, working-in-a-toll-booth dead."

"Leo," Leo replied, retreating into his hoodie. "Economics."

"Oof. Numbers. The silent killer," Toby said, already unpacking a chaotic stack of highlighted scripts.

For the first twenty minutes, they coexisted in a state of armed neutrality. But the table was too small for two people, let alone two people with different life philosophies. The territorial creep began slowly. First, it was Toby’s neon yellow highlighter. It rolled across the wooden divide, coming to rest directly on Leo’s graph of supply and demand. Leo nudged it back with his pen.

Then, it was the cables. Leo’s laptop was dying, but when he reached for the outlet under the table, his hand tangled in a mess of white cords.

"Oh, sorry!" Toby chirped, diving down at the same time. Their foreheads didn't quite knock, but Leo could smell the cloying scent of Toby’s strawberry-syrup-explosion drink.

"My fault," Leo muttered, his face heating up. Being a Beta usually meant navigating life with a comfortable level of invisibility, but Toby was like a neon sign blinking in a dark room. Every time Toby shifted to recite a line under his breath—something about a "betrayed lover" and a "missing heirloom"—his knee brushed against Leo’s.

Leo tried to focus on the elasticity of demand, but his notes were being colonized. Toby’s script was now resting half-on, half-off Leo’s textbook. When Leo reached to move his coffee cup, his fingers brushed against Toby’s warm hand. They both flinched, then shared a frantic, awkward apology that lasted entirely too long.

"I'm so sorry, I’m a space-hog," Toby whispered, looking genuinely sheepish. "My director says I take up too much room on stage, too. It's a character flaw."

"It's fine," Leo said, surprised to find he wasn't actually annoyed. "It’s a small table."

The tension finally snapped when Toby, eyes glued to a particularly dramatic monologue, reached blindly for his drink. Instead of his sugar-bomb, his hand landed on Leo’s plain, soul-crushingly bitter black coffee. He took a massive, confident gulp.

Toby’s entire face convulsed. His eyes widened, his nose wrinkled, and he made a sound like a dying accordion. He gagged, staring at the cup in betrayal. "Oh gods! Why is it so... angry? It tastes like a charcoal briquette!"

Leo stared at him for a second, then at his own empty hand, then back at Toby’s horrified expression. A bubble of genuine, hysterical laughter escaped him. It started as a snort and turned into a full-on shoulder-shaking chuckle.

"That’s my coffee, Toby. I don’t do the strawberry-whip thing."

Toby wiped his mouth, a grin breaking through his grimace. "Clearly. You drink the tears of disappointed ancestors. Wow. I am so embarrassed. My heart is actually vibrating."

"It's an acquired taste," Leo said, finally closing his Economics book. The "invisible" barrier he usually kept around himself had been dissolved by the sheer absurdity of the moment. "Better than the sugar-shock you're drinking."

"Prove it," Toby challenged, sliding his pink drink toward the center of the table. "One sip. If you don't go into a diabetic coma, you have to help me with my lines. I need someone to play the Duke, and you have a very 'judicious Duke' vibe."

Leo looked at the tiny table, the tangled cords, and Toby’s expectant, hopeful face. The Economics final was still tomorrow, but for the first time all week, the pressure felt manageable.

He took a sip of the pink monstrosity—it was terrible and wonderful—and pushed his laptop shut. "Fine. But if I fail my exam, you’re paying for my retake in charcoal coffee."

"Deal," Toby beamed, leaning in until their shoulders touched. "Now, your first line is: 'Alas, my heart is but a stone!'"

Leo grinned. "I think I can manage that."