Johnny had Sabrina Carpenter in his ears again, looping ‘Feather’ from Russell Square all the way to Wood Green. She didn’t know she was basically the narrator of his life, but one day he’d tell her. That’s what twinks do: dream big, unrealistic, sparkly dreams and somehow convince themselves it’ll all work out. Johnny didn’t care. He usually jumped head-first into the unknown anyway.

The day had been a slog. Instead of listening to his tutor, he’d spent two hours doodling in his notebook — the one with the Eric Ravilious cover he pretended made him look cultured. The tutor finally snapped and kept him back. “How would you describe your life?” he’d asked, like Johnny had personally offended academia.

Johnny had smiled. “Fed, pampered, and impatient. Honestly? My life is one long, sexy, pouty battle.”

The tutor hadn’t expected honesty. Or attitude. “In my day,” he’d muttered, “you would have been called a prostitute.”

Harsh, sure. But Sabrina would’ve had his back. She’d remind him he was eighteen, hot, and fully allowed to be desired — and if someone wanted to bankroll his glitter-coated lifestyle, that was on them. She’d conveniently skip the part about him being high twink maintenance: fine dining, special diets, beach holidays, designer clothes, and accommodation that didn’t smell like student desperation.

Alexander funded the whole thing, because Johnny lived for an Instagram-ready existence and the universe had not, so far, given him the bank account to match.

Twinks are vulnerable, Johnny decided, and love could never be found in a discount store.

When he got home, Alexander was already there, drinking wine and listening to Vivaldi — the soundtrack of men who’d survived ‘twink death’ and were now coasting through their late thirties in cashmere.

“We need to talk,” Alexander said. Serious voice. Terrible sign. Johnny tossed his Reiss puffer on the floor anyway. He was a trophy boy, and trophies didn’t hang themselves up.

Alexander cleared his throat. “The thing is… sugar babies aren’t really financially viable anymore. I need to do a quarterly business evaluation.”

Johnny froze. Thank God he’d kept all the receipts — he’d at least prove he’d been properly maintained. And he was not going down quietly.

“Look,” Johnny said, already shifting into survival mode, “you’re old enough to be fluent in PowerPoint and so I’m going to prepare a presentation of all my key deliverables. I think you’ll find them very compelling. Being adorable. Emotional availability. Pretending to like oysters. And really? That’s just the intro slide.”