of my feelings for Quentin.

Ever since Fraser drunkenly catcalled me at Topaz, a small seed of hope had been planted. There were certainly other nightclubs in Halston, but not that many. Knowing Quentin went partying like any other senior made me hopeful that I could see him when I worked, and brighten my draining nights.

He made me look forward to working my shifts. And I arrived on time tonight.

This Tuesday, I was working on the dance floor. I was supposed to hype up the crowd by dancing crazily provocatively, but I actually seldom had to do it. I never had the time or space. More people were concerned with getting photos or chatting with me. Either way, I boosted Topaz's clientele and Zach was always a happy chappy.

Around eleven, Fraser, Noah, and Quen showed up. I saw them immediately because I had been looking out for him the whole night. Quen was absolutely hammered. I could tell even from our distance. His face was Asian-flushed to a brilliant shade of carmine, and his eyes never held themselves fully open. A flurry of glee raced through my gut.

This would be fun.

I weaved my way through the crowd, hugging and waving to all the customers who recognised me. When I was in front of the three boys, I flashed a bright, welcoming smile.

"Quen," I said, then waved to his friends. "And company."

He dropped his head to look down at me, still taller than me even when I wore stilettos. "Hey, Krista."

"Hi."

"Busy night?"

"Not too bad," I replied sunnily. "Most people have been deterred by the rain."

Quen suddenly leaned down. I stiffened, my heart giving an excited squeeze. His lips went straight to the shell of my ear.

He whispered, "Did you know I'm drunk?"

His warm breath on my skin sent such a strong tremor down my spine that I reached out to his arm to steady myself. My breath caught in my throat, but I leaned back and gave him my best smirk.

I would never let sober Quen forget this.

"Well, you must dance if you're drunk." I extended my hand to him.

He seemed to take it out of instinct, looking down at where our fingers interlocked with no real understanding of why I did it. I gave him a soft pull, letting him know that I meant for us to walk to the dancefloor. I pretended not to see Noah and Fraser's expressions, a mix of congratulations and jealousy, as we left them behind.

I threaded through the crowd like a fish in water, tugging Quen through the wake I left in my path. He would have bumped into countless bodies had he tried to make his way to the middle of the dance floor without me, in his intoxicated state. When I regarded him under the disco light, I realised that he had flushed a shade darker than he was when he entered. Along with his fidgeting, I garnered he was quite nervous about dancing.

I started moving my hips slowly, keeping my eyes on him. The song was an upbeat pop tune, but I fell into the steady rhythm underneath all the snares, synths, and singing. My legs took me around in smooth circles, and my arms wove their way above my head, into my hair, down my torso. Quen was stone-still, his eyes following my hands wherever they went, like he was still thinking about how they had held his.

Considering the extra height he had on me, I still didn't reach Quen's face—but I was much closer. If I exhaled, he would have felt it ghost across his lips—we were that close. I was putting on my best performance, and giving him my best kiss-me eyes. This was peak Krista Ming; I didn't get hotter or more seductive.

He still pulled away.

He wasn't keen. But was it simply that we didn't match, or was his prejudice factoring into his decision? Did he truly hate influencers so much he would never consider me as a prospect?

"Don't say you don't dance," I challenged him, concealing the sting of rejection with a challenging smirk. "Humans have been dancing for as long as we've been painting on caves."

He kept his hands shoved into my pockets. "Not all of us dance well."

"There's no such thing as well. It's a dumb social standard," I countered smoothly. "Do or do not, there is no well."

Even when drunk, Quen smoothly caught the reference. "You can't invoke Yoda. That's not fair."

"I'm evil like that," I mock-cackled, taking his hand in mine.

He let me. Small victory. But I was still offended. I led us into the chorus of the song, shifting from left to right in a pattern that was easily mimicked—even by Quen.

He followed along really well, raising his hand when I rotated to twirl under it, extending his arm when I pulled away, and contracting as I glided back towards him. He was very respectful as always, but I couldn't help thinking that this was more proof he wasn't attracted to me. He touched nowhere but my hands, and pulled his torso away from me each time I came close. Each time I lifted my face to his, primed for kissing, he tilted his chin upwards.

I was increasingly bitter, to be honest. Messaging him didn't work. Spending time with him studying didn't work. Now Quen was proving to be immune to physical cues as well. I just had to bite the bullet and accept failure.

Sighing, I stepped away from him and pulled my hands out of his. There was no point torturing the poor man further when he was just dancing to humour me.

"Do you want to go to the lounge?" I asked him. "Or you can rejoin your friends? I'm sure I can find out where they disappeared to."

"Lounge. Sure," he leaned down to talk into my ear. Otherwise, the music would have drowned everything else out. My body reacted again, and I slapped myself internally. Again.

I really know how to pick 'em.

I had random men slobbering over my feet and I chose the studious Physics nerd impervious to all my charm. We went upstairs. I plastered on a smile and gestured for him to sit in booth two. I poured two glasses of water for us from the counter and slid into the seat opposite him.

I listed off the silver linings to the situation.

Firstly, Quen still enjoyed my company as a friend. Secondly, he was a great study buddy and someone to bounce my ideas off of. Thirdly, as I taught myself more code, Quen helped me debug and troubleshoot the things that didn't run properly. And fourthly, he was drunk right now, so I could ask him some questions that he might be more prone to answering.

"Why do you hate influencers?" I took a sip, my eyebrows raised innocently.

I had always wanted to know, and now there was little to lose. I had no chance with him anyway.

Quen looked at the surface of the table, mildly uncomfortable. "Do you really want to talk about this?"

"Yes. I really do."

"Well, I just want to clarify that it's not personal. I understand that you have to make an income, and it's unfortunate how you currently do it."

Unfortunate? I tamped down on the outrage in my chest. My situation wasn't unfortunate. I loved my fans. My job could be far worse. Maybe there was some Darcy in him after all.

I shrugged. "I know it's not personal." Because you don't feel anything for me. "But I still want to know."

Quen's brow furrowed, formulating an answer. Though his face was flushed, his eyes glinted and focused just like they had in our library study sessions.

Eventually, he said, "I think social influencers misuse their platform."

"Excuse me?" I blurted.

"You said you wanted my reasons."

"Right. I did. Go on."

"No-one's ever had this much power fall into their laps. CEOs and politicians and entertainers are bound by laws or rules of their industry—at least in principle," he added quickly. Drunk Quen was a good talker. "Influencers just have unchecked power, and I can think of very few who use it for good."

"Okay. But not all of us misuse our platform."

"Really? I guess I just see a lot of ads for brands that use slave labour. Or pushing supplements that don't do anything health—" He hiccuped. "Healthy. Or contributing to body dysphoria by not disclaiming when they've had procedures done, or filtered or retouched their photos."

I stiffened. Said nothing.

Quen gave me a rueful smile and slid two inches lower in his seat. He didn't seem smug or even happy that he'd gotten his point across. "This is why I don't like getting political with my friends."

Friends. Of course. "But my job isn't political."

"Everything is political. May I see your profile? I don't have Instagram on my phone."

I pulled my phone from my bra. Quen glanced to the ceiling while I tapped the screen. I handed my phone over to him, my Instagram feed already displayed.

"Exhibit A. These stupid hair vitamin gummy bears," he long-pressed into a picture of me holding a bottle of them. "I bet they're not FDA-approved, and if they are, I bet they're useless. And if they're not useless, who needs to spend money on making their hair shinier? It's just hair."

I secretly agreed with him, but I had needed the money— oh, God. Was I really just one of capitalism's many flaws to him? Did he view me the way I viewed golf-playing, corporate ladder-climbing, nepotistic frat boys? Was I a sellout to him?

Quen pulled up a picture of me in a baggy white shirt and booty shorts, fuelled by drunken confidence and righteousness. "Exhibit B. These stupid clothing promotions. They're driving mass consumerism. You mentioned that influencers direct fashion trends? Well, you're directing people to fashion brands that use unethical methods of production."

Then he pulled up a recent picture of me at the beach. "Exhibit C. The classic bikini pic."

Quen's eyes lingered over the photograph, the azure blue and golden sand inverted from my point of view.

A measure of relief trickled down my back. At least Viv was wrong. His objections to social influencing weren't gendered. It wasn't some sexist outrage against profiting from a system that was built to oppress us. He was making logical arguments, founded in FDA-approval and ethics. Like a true scientist.

And I was formulating my own arguments.

I realised Quen was going to get lost staring at the photograph, and I gently prompted him, "And? Where's your scathing analysis of this picture?"

He looked back at me and cleared his throat. His eyes were dark and intense. "It's just unfair to make people think that this sort of beauty is readily attainable. I feel bad for them."

This probably wasn't what he was trying to say, but I heard that he found me unattainably beautiful and felt my chest tighten deliciously.

I masked my satisfaction and arched an eyebrow. "You're a very articulate drunk."

"I've got to be when I'm talking to you," he retorted.

"What does that mean?"

"You're a little genius, Krista. You always have something witty to say," Quen muttered conspiratorially. "I have to keep up somehow."

"Well, you're right. I do have something witty to say," I took my phone from him. "Here is Exhibit D, a voting PSA. Exhibit E, relief funds for the Australian wildfires. Exhibit F, I have a list of charities in my bio. Influencers can help spread awareness of important world issues, you know. In fact, Exhibit B was advertising a fair trade clothing company that helps women seamstresses in Bangladesh."

"Yes, but did you tell your followers that?"

I tilted my chin up defiantly. "I linked to their profile, they could learn it easily with just a click. I try not to advertise for brands that use unethical labour. I actually try to spread awareness on my platform. I'm not a sellout."

Quentin reached for my phone again to verify what I had said. Then he started scrolling again. "How do you spread awareness when your captions are all five words long? And, what the heck does this caption mean?"

He held up a picture of me on a rooftop bar in NYC. The light from the screen blared into my eyes in the dim lighting of the VIP lounge. Underneath my feet, the wood bounced like a trampoline. Zach might have been looking for me, but I could always tell him I was taking care of a drunk patron.

It wasn't a lie.

"It's NYC with the greater-than symbol. Kind of self-explanatory. Also, short captions are better for social media. Keeps the attention span of the masses."

Quen's eyes widened and he returned my phone with a defeated expression. "I am so baff—" Another hiccup. "Baffled. You don't have to wait to be a doctor to make positive changes in the world, Krista. Tell your followers that hair gummies are a sham and no-one has a perpetual ab line."

"Influencing is my income and it's got restrictions like all jobs. Instagram is a visual medium. Of course, it's about looks, not messages. I have other platforms to be a do-gooder," I explained.

"Like what?" Quen chuckled, leaning forward with a challenging grin. "Noah was convinced you had OnlyFans."

"You talk to Noah about me?"

Quen froze.

He seemed to be heavier-weight than Fraser because his speech was perfect if a little slurred. Kind of hot, actually, that he could hold his own against me in a debate while sloshed. I had the feeling he avoided arguing with me when he was sober because he was just that polite, but he didn't care about manners now.

"He talks to me about you. There's a difference. I wouldn't talk about you behind your back. Nor do I want your autograph."

"Damn it. I had a pen tucked away in case you did, and it's not tucked in a comfortable place."

Quen snorted, his face reddening even more. "Jesus Christ, Krista."

His chin fell to his chest as he reacted to my joke, and when he looked up, his eyes were like summertime. I took a great deal of pride knowing I put that joy on his face. Whether he initiated it or not, the fact that he spoke about me to his friend sparked a fire in my belly.

With an amused shake of his head, Quentin recovered and fixed a smile on me. It was the type of smile that moved, his jaw rolling from equilibrium to the side, giving him a roguish aura.

"I need to be drunker than this to talk to you," he murmured.

"That can be arranged," I replied, mirroring his smile.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

What do we think of our leading man so far? It's going to be laughter, softness, banter and skinny love.

I see the appeal of the protective, alpha-male trope but I physically cannot. In Jamie's book, I was perfectly-posed to write the cocky, sex-magnet (I mean, Jacob freakin' Elordi) football star on campus. I really tried but he still popped out sensitive and wholesome. With abs, of course.

But I wouldn't have it any other way. I've met guys like that in real life and... blergh. (Not that I'm not going to keep trying to write the trope in a satisfying, healthy way one day. I have so many plots lined up to play with.)

In the words of Krista's Instagram captions:

soft bois >>

Aimee x