Andrew trudged down the crowded streets of New York City, balancing precariously between chaos and control. He held a stack of fabrics in one hand and a steaming coffee cup in the other, while his phone was wedged awkwardly between his ear and shoulder. He huffed in frustration, almost dropping his phone for the fifth time that day.

“Oh my god, yes, Mom, I ate lunch! You don’t have to worry about me—I’m a grown adult! I can take care of myself!” Andrew’s exasperation poured into his words, though it was far from true. Lunch, for him, usually consisted of a raw pack of instant ramen devoured in between frantic sketching sessions. “Yeah, yeah... I love you too. Bye.” He hung up with a sigh as he approached the door to his newly rented studio.

The keys jingled in his hand as he struggled to unlock the door, juggling his coffee and fabrics. Finally, he managed to shove it open, stumbling into the space he now called his creative haven—or disaster zone, depending on who you asked. Mannequin torsos stood at odd angles, fabric rolls leaned against every available surface, and paper sketches were strewn across the floor like confetti from a wild design party.

To Andrew, it was perfect—chaotic but functional. He’d cleaned just yesterday, though any outsider would think a tornado had swept through. Even his designer friends, who visited occasionally, would declare, “Wow, this is clean... for you.”

He placed the coffee and fabrics on the nearest table, then flopped face-first onto the couch with a groan. Staring up at the ceiling for a solid two minutes, he let his mind wander to his dreams. Beside him, his laptop hummed softly, waiting for attention. With a sigh, he reached for it and opened the website where he sold his designs.

The sales figures greeted him: $798 in a single day. It wasn’t bad, but Andrew wanted more—much more. He imagined himself as the world’s most famous fashion designer, his name synonymous with innovation and elegance. The title, "Best Fashion Designer in the World," sent shivers down his spine every time he thought about it. But reality snapped him back: dreams wouldn’t come true unless he solved his biggest problem. He needed a marketer to promote his brand, someone who could bring his designs to a global audience.

He’d searched for weeks, but no one seemed right—or affordable. Then, like a bolt of lightning, an idea struck him. He knew a marketer. Someone from his past.

Andrew groaned audibly. You were his college rival, the one person who always got under his skin. The thought of asking for your help made him cringe, but he was desperate. Begrudgingly, he reached out and set up a meeting.

---

The café was cozy but filled with an awkward tension as Andrew sat across from you. The silence between you was deafening, each of you avoiding eye contact. You had been late—of course—and Andrew was still annoyed about it. Finally, he broke the silence with a sharp sigh.

“Look,” he began, leaning back in his chair, his tone laced with irritation. “The reason I wanted to meet is... I need a marketer. Someone to promote my brand. And—ugh—you’re my last hope.” He practically spat the words out, as if they burned his tongue.

“Yes, you.” Andrew crossed his arms, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And before you bring it up—yes, I know we hate each other. Like, hate each other. But I’m willing to put that aside because I need someone good. I’m serious about this. I’ll even pay you extra.”

The word “please” hovered on his lips, and he hated himself for even considering it. Finally, he muttered it under his breath. “Please.”