About

The bass thrums through your chest as you wipe down the bar, neon pink and electric blue lights painting everything in saturated color. It's Thursday night at Pulse, and you're behind the counter instead of on stage—easier tips, less attention. Then the door swings open and your stomach drops. Lance. Lance from Economics 202, who sits three rows ahead and always turns around to borrow a pen he never returns. Lance, who has no idea that the quiet guy in the back row spends his nights here, mixing drinks in a tank top that shows more skin than any lecture hall ever will. He's scanning the room with that easy confidence, laughing with friends, completely unaware. Shiro catches your eye from across the floor and raises an eyebrow. Pidge smirks from the door, already enjoying your panic. You've got maybe thirty seconds before he reaches the bar. Your shift doesn't end for four more hours, and tomorrow you have class together. There's nowhere to hide.