Terms & Conditions

Rafi had learned, over the years, that panic was not a feeling worth entertaining.

It was a loud thing, panic–bright and wasteful. It made people talk too much, move too fast, reach for the wrong solutions. In Cyber Defense Society drills, the ones who panicked were the ones who clicked the link, who escalated the incident instead of containing it.

So when the Japanese girl–Mika Nakamura, according to the name on her lanyard–stood in front of him and asked, Can I borrow you… for something?

Rafi did what he always did.

He contained.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t step back. He didn’t let his eyes go wide the way they wanted to.

He watched her as if she had handed him a suspicious USB drive.

Around them, the Glass Atrium swelled with Orientation Week noise. Flyers fluttered like fallen leaves. Laughter burst and dissipated. The portable speaker at the K-pop booth cracked into a chorus that made freshmen squeal.

But Mika’s voice, low and careful, had sliced through it.

Borrow you.

For something.

Rafi’s gaze slid past her shoulder again. Chloe Lim was still across the atrium, her posture relaxed, her attention very much not.

He could already imagine the caption.

stamfordspills: Rafi Tan??? new girl??? 😳

He didn’t need to see the post to feel its shape.

Rafi looked back at Mika. Up close, her face was composed with the kind of precision that suggested she had practiced composure like a language. Her hair was long and dark, glossy under the atrium’s lights. Her eyes were calm–too calm for someone asking a stranger for something ridiculous.

But her hands were not calm.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her tote bag as if holding on to it kept her upright.

“What are you asking?” he repeated, because he needed the answer to fit into a box.

Mika inhaled. It wasn’t dramatic. It was restrained, like she was trying not to let too much oxygen into her chest.

“Not here,” she said.

Rafi paused.

The word wasn’t a request. It was a boundary.

He respected boundaries.

He glanced at the glass doors. Rain beat against them in hard sheets. Outside, students clustered under the walkway’s shelter, trapped in a humid pocket of waiting.

“You want to talk outside?” he asked.

Mika’s eyes flicked to the rain. Something like fear passed through her expression–tiny, fast, quickly tucked away.

“Somewhere quieter,” she said. “Please.”

The please wasn’t desperate. It was polite.

That made it more dangerous.

Rafi considered his options.

Option one: refuse. Walk away. Let her find some other guy with a more cooperative face.

Option two: hear her out, then refuse.

Option three: hear her out, then do something stupid.

His phone buzzed again, as if the universe enjoyed timing.

A notification from his email.

SADRO: Donor Networking Dinner – RSVP Reminder

Rafi’s jaw tightened.

Stability.

Convincing.

People watching again.

He looked back at Mika, then at Chloe, then at the phones in the crowd. The camera lenses were everywhere now, like insects.

If he refused Mika in a way that looked harsh, the story would become: Rafi Tan rejects international student.

If he stood here longer, the story would become: Rafi Tan caught between ex and new girl.

Stories were forming no matter what he did.

He hated that.

“Okay,” he said, the word leaving his mouth before he could overthink it. “We can talk. There’s a café.”

Mika’s shoulders loosened in a way that told him the tension had been physical.

“Juniper?” she asked, as if she knew the campus the way people who were trying to belong did.

Rafi nodded.

He started walking. Mika fell into step beside him, just slightly behind, as if she didn’t want to crowd him.

They moved toward the side exit. The closer they got to the doors, the more the sound of rain swallowed the atrium’s noise.

At the threshold, Mika hesitated.

Rafi stopped.

The glass doors slid open with a soft hiss. Heat and wet air surged in, carrying the smell of rain on concrete.

Mika’s gaze darted to the shelter beyond the doors. People were huddled there, waiting for the storm to soften.

Rafi reached into his backpack.

The umbrella handle was smooth against his palm–familiar, grounding. He flicked it open with a practiced motion.

The umbrella bloomed in a dark arc above them.

He angled it without thinking, shifting it slightly toward Mika.

Her eyes lifted to the canopy.

For a second, she looked like she might laugh.

Instead, she said, softly, “You really do carry one.”

Rafi’s mouth twitched, almost a smile.

“I always do.”

The two of them stepped into the rain.

The sound changed immediately: rain hammering the umbrella fabric, water splashing at their shoes, the hiss of cars passing on wet roads. The sheltered walkway outside the Glass Atrium was a tunnel of blurred movement and damp heat.

Rafi kept his pace steady.

Mika walked close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his arm.

Nearly.

He told himself it meant nothing.

But his body registered it anyway, the subtle warmth through fabric, the faint scent of shampoo and something clean.

Rain ran off the umbrella’s edge in steady streams.

They reached the Skybridge Walkway–covered, glass-walled, connecting the Atrium to Rutherford Hall and the campus cafés. The rain turned the outside world into a smear of neon and grey.

Juniper Café was half full, mostly of students escaping the storm. The air-conditioning hit them like a slap.

Mika shivered.

Rafi noticed.

He didn’t comment.

He shut the umbrella and shook it gently outside the café entrance, careful not to spray anyone. Then he held it by his side, dripping.

Mika followed him to a corner table near the window.

The café smelled of coffee, sugar, and the buttery sweetness of pastries that were too expensive for daily consumption.

Rafi sat opposite her.

He placed his umbrella beside his chair, its dark fabric still damp, a quiet presence.

Mika set her tote bag down with careful hands.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The storm outside filled the silence.

Rafi studied Mika the way he studied a system.

She wasn’t trembling anymore, but her posture remained tense–straight back, shoulders held, chin lifted. She looked like someone trying not to reveal how much she needed this conversation to go a certain way.

“I’m Rafi,” he said finally. “Everyone keeps calling me Rafael like I’m in trouble.”

Mika blinked, then her lips curved–small, genuine.

“Mika,” she replied. “Nakamura Mika.”

“Okay,” Rafi said. He leaned forward slightly. “Tell me what you mean by stable.”

Mika’s smile faded into something more serious.

She reached for her phone, unlocked it, then hesitated as if unsure whether showing him something was too intimate. Finally, she slid it across the table.

On the screen: a message thread in Japanese.

Rafi couldn’t read it.

But he didn’t need to.

The repeated punctuation–question marks, the sharpness of short messages–communicated tone.

Mika pulled the phone back.

“My parents want me to go home after this semester,” she said, eyes fixed on the table’s wood grain. “They think I’m… not okay here.”

Rafi’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Because you’re alone?” he asked.

Mika’s throat bobbed.

“Yes,” she admitted. “And because I don’t talk enough. I don’t… show them proof.”

Proof.

The word echoed in Rafi’s mind.

Mika looked up now, meeting his gaze.

“They arranged an omiai,” she continued, voice steady. “A formal introduction. They want me to come home. If I refuse, they will say I am selfish. If I agree, my year here ends.”

Rafi’s fingers tightened around his iced coffee cup.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it.

Mika’s eyes flickered, surprised by the simplicity of the sympathy.

“It’s not… evil,” she said quickly, as if defending her parents was a reflex. “It’s culture. They think it is love. They think safety is… being tied to something.”

Rafi leaned back.

He understood that.

Different language, same shape.

His own mother hadn’t arranged introductions, but she had asked, gently, why he was always alone. She had mentioned, casually, how nice it would be if there was someone who could take care of him, because he took care of everyone else.

People feared loneliness the way they feared storms.

They thought umbrellas were salvation.

Mika inhaled.

“So,” she said, and the word came out like a step forward. “If I can show them I’m not alone–if I can show them I’m stable–then they will stop. At least for now.”

Rafi’s gaze sharpened.

“And you thought…”

Mika’s cheeks warmed slightly. “I thought you might help.”

“Help how?” Rafi asked, though he already suspected.

Mika’s fingers traced the rim of her cup.

“We pretend,” she said.

The café’s air-conditioning hummed.

Rain streaked down the window beside them.

Rafi stared at Mika.

He waited for the punchline.

It didn’t come.

“You want me to pretend to be your…” Rafi’s voice lowered, as if the word might embarrass him. “…boyfriend.”

Mika’s eyes widened a fraction. “Not–” she began, then stopped. “Yes.”

Rafi exhaled slowly.

He stared at the umbrella beside his chair.

Borrow you.

For something.

This was it.

This was the something.

He should have refused.

It was absurd.

It was risky.

It was… complicated.

But as he lifted his gaze, he saw the way Mika held herself–tight, controlled, polite. The way she had asked without demanding. The way she had been brave enough to approach him when she could have chosen someone easier.

And he remembered Chloe’s voice:

People are watching you again.

He remembered Dr. Koh’s word:

Stability.

Rafi’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t like the way the world worked.

But he lived in it.

“Why me?” he asked.

Mika’s eyes didn’t flinch.

“You look like someone people believe,” she said, repeating her earlier words with more clarity now. “And you… you didn’t lean into that girl. You stepped away. It means you have boundaries.”

Rafi’s jaw clenched.

He hated being analyzed.

He also knew she wasn’t wrong.

“You don’t know me,” he reminded her.

“I know,” Mika said softly. “That’s why it could work.”

Rafi stared.

Mika’s voice steadied further. “We can set rules. I don’t want to trap you. I don’t want to… ruin your life.”

Ruin.

The word hit harder than it should have.

Rafi’s gaze drifted, unwillingly, to the café entrance.

Through the glass, he could see the edge of the Atrium.

Chloe’s laughter filtered faintly even here.

Rafi’s phone buzzed.

A message.

From Chloe.

Did you just run away from me?

Rafi didn’t open it.

He put the phone face down on the table.

Mika watched him. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened.

“You’re… in trouble?” she asked.

Rafi hesitated.

He didn’t owe her anything.

But if he was going to even consider this, they couldn’t be operating on half-truths.

“I’m up for a donor-funded leadership grant,” he said. “Committee is… particular.”

Mika’s brows knitted slightly.

“They care about image,” she said. Not a question.

Rafi’s mouth tightened.

“Yes,” he admitted.

Mika’s gaze dropped to his phone, then lifted back.

“And that girl…”

“Is my ex,” Rafi said, before she could soften it.

Mika’s eyes widened a fraction.

Rafi’s voice remained flat, but his chest felt tight.

“Last semester,” he continued, “she made a scene at an event. Someone took a photo. It got posted. People decided what they saw.”

Mika’s fingers curled slightly. “And now they’re watching you.”

Rafi’s jaw flexed.

“Yes.”

Mika was quiet for a moment.

Then, slowly, she said, “So you also need to look… stable.”

Rafi met her gaze.

The café noise faded.

The rain filled the silence like a held breath.

Mika’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“We can help each other,” she said.

Rafi’s instincts screamed.

This was the kind of arrangement that spiraled.

This was the kind of thing people did when they were young and stupid, and later they looked back and wondered why they had ever thought they could control feelings.

Rafi didn’t like feelings.

They were unpredictable.

But he liked systems.

Rules.

Boundaries.

Containment.

He looked at Mika.

“Okay,” he heard himself say.

Mika froze.

Rafi’s heart thudded once, hard.

He hated that his body reacted like that.

“Okay,” he repeated, more firmly, as if the second time made it less insane. “But if we do this, we do it properly.”

Mika blinked.

Then she nodded quickly. “Yes. Properly.”

The word properly hung between them.

It sounded like an oath.

Rafi took out his phone.

“Notes app,” he said, already typing.

Mika exhaled as if she had been waiting for this–structure, terms, a way to make the lie feel safe.

She leaned forward, her hair falling over one shoulder.

Rafi caught the faint scent again.

He ignored it.

He typed:

FAKE DATING – TERMS

Mika let out a small breathy laugh. “Like a contract.”

“It is,” Rafi said.

Mika’s lips curved.

Rafi didn’t let himself stare.

He continued:

1. Time limit.

“How long?” he asked.

Mika’s eyes flicked away. “Until my parents calm down. Until the scholarship review… and the internship offers.”

Rafi nodded. “And my donor dinner.”

Mika’s brows lifted. “When is that?”

“Two weeks,” Rafi said.

Mika inhaled. “Okay. Two weeks minimum.”

Rafi typed:

1. End date: after donor dinner + scholarship review checkpoint.

2. Public proof required.

Mika’s cheeks pinked. “Yes.”

Rafi’s voice stayed neutral. “What kind?”

Mika glanced at the window as if the rain might answer for her.

“A photo,” she said. “Maybe a post. Something my mother can screenshot.”

Rafi’s stomach tightened.

He typed:

1. One public photo + one casual ‘story’ within 48 hours.

2. Boundaries.

Rafi looked up.

Mika’s gaze was steady.

“No sleepovers,” she said instantly, as if she had prepared that rule.

Rafi blinked.

The immediacy of it made him feel something like embarrassment.

“Agreed,” he said.

Mika continued, voice softer: “No… pressure. No forcing.”

Rafi nodded. “No physical stuff that isn’t necessary.”

Mika’s lashes lowered. “Necessary.”

Rafi ignored the faint heat in his face.

He typed:

1. No sleepovers. No coercion. Physical contact only when needed for ‘proof.’

Mika chewed her lower lip.

Rafi noticed, and looked away.

1. No jealousy.

Mika spoke the rule like it was a joke, but her eyes betrayed seriousness.

Rafi snorted quietly. “That’s not a rule you can enforce.”

Mika’s gaze snapped up. “You–”

Rafi lifted a hand. “I mean, we can say it, but feelings don’t follow instructions.”

Mika went still.

There it was.

The truth both of them were pretending wasn’t relevant.

Mika swallowed.

“Then…” she said carefully, “we agree not to punish each other for… normal reactions.”

Rafi stared at her.

That was intelligent.

That was dangerous.

He typed:

1. No weaponizing jealousy. If feelings happen, we talk and adjust.

2. Exit clause.

Rafi looked at Mika.

“If either of us feels unsafe, we stop immediately,” he said.

Mika nodded quickly. “Yes.”

He typed:

1. Either party can end at any time. No questions asked.

Mika watched him type.

For a moment, her expression softened into something almost… grateful.

Rafi’s chest tightened.

He didn’t like being needed.

Not like this.

It made him feel responsible.

And responsibility, once accepted, was hard to put down.

Rafi slid the phone toward her.

“Read it,” he said. “Make sure you agree.”

Mika leaned in.

Her finger brushed the edge of his phone.

A small touch.

Nothing.

Rafi still felt it.

Mika read carefully, eyes moving down the screen like she was scanning a contract for hidden traps.

Then she nodded.

“I agree,” she said.

Rafi’s mouth went dry.

“Okay,” he replied.

Outside, the rain eased slightly, shifting from hard sheets to steady drizzle.

Juniper Café’s speakers played something soft and Western–acoustic guitar that made the room feel like a movie set.

Mika looked up.

“There is one more thing,” she said.

Rafi’s brow lifted.

Mika’s cheeks flushed faintly.

“We need a story,” she said. “How we met. Something simple.”

Rafi exhaled.

“Orientation fair,” he said. “Today.”

Mika’s lips parted. “That’s too obvious.”

“So?”

Mika’s eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of playful irritation. “My parents will ask why you weren’t mentioned before.”

Rafi’s gaze stayed steady. “Then we say we kept it private.”

Mika stared.

Then she laughed–quiet, surprised.

“You’re good at this,” she said.

Rafi’s mouth tightened. “I’m good at… planning.”

Mika’s laughter softened.

Her eyes lingered on his face.

Rafi felt exposed.

He cleared his throat.

“Proof,” he reminded her.

Mika blinked, as if pulled back to reality.

“Right,” she said.

Her hands fidgeted with her phone.

She opened her camera.

Rafi’s stomach tightened.

“Now?” he asked.

Mika nodded. “While the rain is still… romantic.”

Rafi stared.

Romantic.

The word felt foreign in his mouth.

Mika angled the phone toward them.

Rafi leaned in because he understood the logic: the closer they looked, the more believable.

His shoulder brushed hers.

Mika’s hair touched his arm.

His skin prickled.

He hated his nervous system.

Mika raised the phone.

“Smile,” she said.

Rafi tried.

It came out as a tired half-curve.

Mika didn’t smile widely either.

Instead, she looked… soft.

Like she was letting herself be seen for a second.

The shutter clicked.

Mika lowered the phone.

They both stared at the image.

Two people framed by a rain-blurred window, close enough that strangers would assume intimacy.

Rafi’s face was calm.

Mika’s expression was gentle.

It looked… real.

Rafi’s throat tightened.

“Good?” he asked.

Mika nodded, lips pressed together as if holding back something.

“It’s good,” she said.

She tapped her screen.

Then hesitated.

“Post it?” Rafi asked.

Mika swallowed.

“Not yet,” she said. “I’ll wait until tonight. My mother will be awake then.”

Rafi nodded.

He didn’t know why the thought of Mika’s mother seeing their photo made him uneasy.

It should have been nothing.

It wasn’t.

Mika put her phone down and looked at him.

“Thank you,” she said.

Rafi stiffened.

Gratitude was a kind of hook.

He didn’t like hooks.

He nodded once, clipped. “It’s mutual.”

Mika’s eyes softened. “Still. Thank you.”

Rafi glanced away.

The rain streaked down the window.

Outside, campus lights flickered on, warm against the grey.

He heard movement near their table.

Someone slid into the seat beside Mika without asking.

A woman with sharp eyes and a neat ponytail, holding a cup of iced kopi like it was a weapon.

“Finally,” she said.

Mika startled. “Priya–!”

Priya Nair’s gaze flicked between them.

Then she leaned back, unimpressed.

“So this is the guy,” Priya said.

Rafi’s eyebrows lifted.

Mika’s cheeks flushed. “Priya, please–”

Priya held up a hand. “Relax. I’m not judging.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Actually, I am judging. But privately.”

Rafi blinked.

Mika looked like she wanted to disappear into the café floor.

Priya sipped her kopi.

“You’re Rafi Tan,” she said, nodding. “Cyber Defense Society. People say you’re reliable. Which is usually code for ‘emotionally unavailable.’”

Rafi stared.

Mika’s face turned red.

“Priya,” Mika hissed.

Priya shrugged. “What? I’m doing due diligence.”

Rafi’s mouth went dry.

Due diligence.

He almost laughed.

Priya looked at Mika now, her expression sharpening.

“This is about your parents, isn’t it?” she asked.

Mika froze.

Rafi’s gaze flicked to Mika.

Mika’s eyes lowered.

Priya sighed.

“Okay,” Priya said, softer. “Then here’s my advice. If you’re doing this, do it smart. Don’t let it become messy.”

Rafi’s lips pressed together.

Smart.

That sounded like his language.

Priya’s eyes returned to him.

“And you,” she added, tone sharp again. “If you break her heart, I’ll make a spreadsheet of your sins and send it to your grant committee.”

Mika gasped. “Priya!”

Rafi stared.

Then, to his own surprise, he said, quietly, “Noted.”

Priya blinked.

Then she laughed.

“Okay,” she said. “At least you’re not defensive. That’s a good sign.”

Mika covered her face with one hand.

Rafi’s phone buzzed again.

He glanced at the screen.

A new notification.

StamfordSpills: New post.

Rafi’s stomach dropped.

He clicked before he could stop himself.

A blurry photo.

Chloe leaning in.

Rafi stepping back.

Caption:

is rafi tan getting played AGAIN??

The comments were already stacking.

Laughing emojis.

Speculation.

Names.

Rafi’s chest tightened.

Perception.

He felt Mika’s gaze on him.

“Rafi?” she asked, voice smaller.

Rafi forced his expression flat.

“It’s nothing,” he lied.

Priya leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

“Is it the meme page?” she asked.

Rafi didn’t answer.

Priya sighed, as if she had expected this.

Mika’s face went pale.

“Is it about your ex?” she whispered.

Rafi met her eyes.

In her gaze, he saw something he hadn’t expected.

Not pity.

Not curiosity.

Understanding.

The kind that made him feel less alone.

Rafi’s throat tightened.

He looked away.

Then, slowly, he reached down, grabbed his umbrella, and placed it on the table between them.

A small, absurd gesture.

A piece of shelter in a room full of noise.

“We start now,” he said.

Mika blinked.

Rafi’s voice stayed calm, but there was steel under it.

“You said people believe me,” he continued. “Fine. Then we give them something else to look at.”

Mika’s lips parted.

Priya’s eyebrows shot up.

Rafi looked at Mika.

“Tonight,” he said. “Post the photo. Something simple. No drama.”

Mika swallowed. “Okay.”

Rafi’s jaw tightened.

He hated that he cared.

He hated that the internet could touch his life.

He hated that he had to protect his image like it was fragile glass.

But he could protect.

That was what he did.

Mika’s hand hovered, then–tentatively–she placed her fingers on the umbrella handle.

Not taking it.

Just touching.

A question.

Rafi didn’t move.

He let her.

Mika’s gaze lifted.

For a second, the café noise faded, the rain softened, and the world narrowed to that small point of contact.

Then Mika exhaled.

“This is supposed to be pretend,” she said, voice barely audible.

Rafi’s chest tightened.

He nodded once.

“Yes,” he replied.

But as he watched Mika’s fingers curl more securely around the umbrella handle–as if she had decided to accept shelter–Rafi couldn’t shake the feeling that the lie had already started to feel like something else.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

And somewhere, in the glow of phone screens, a new story was about to begin.