A freshman woman stepped through the door, hesitating on the landing like she might bolt back the way she came. She was small, bundled in an oversized university hoodie despite the working heat, dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Her eyes darted to Jason, then to the cardboard coffee station, then to the floor.

"Is this—" She swallowed. "Are you Jason? The guy who... helps with stuff?"

Her face was already turning pink, and she hadn't even sat down yet. She clutched her phone like a lifeline, thumbs fidgeting against the case. The kind of nervous that said whatever she was here about, she'd been working up the courage for a while.

Jason gestured to the empty folding chair across from him. "That's me. Coffee? It's not great, but it's hot and caffeinated, which is basically the entire job description of coffee."

She managed a shaky laugh and perched on the edge of the chair, still looking like she might run. "I'm Maya. My roommate said you were good at... not judging people. About like. Awkward stuff." She took a breath, let it out slowly. "I have a boyfriend. Tyler. He's great. Really great. But there's this thing I want to try and I don't know how to bring it up without him thinking I'm weird or... I don't know. I'm probably overthinking it."

The way she said "thing" made it clear that whatever it was, she'd been turning it over in her head for weeks.

Jason poured her a coffee, the French press letting out a soft hiss as he pressed down the plunger. He slid the mismatched mug across the cardboard box toward her—the one with the faded university logo, since the other one said "WORLD'S OKAYEST EMPLOYEE" and felt too on-the-nose for a therapy session.

"Ok, so this... thing. Can you tell me about it?"

Maya wrapped both hands around the mug like she was trying to absorb its warmth through the ceramic. She stared into the coffee for a long moment, her cheeks going from pink to red.

"I want him to... god, this is so embarrassing." She laughed, but it came out strained. "I want him to be, like, rougher? Not in a scary way. Just—more assertive, I guess? Pull my hair, pin my wrists, that kind of thing. But Tyler's so nice. Like, aggressively nice. He asks permission before he touches my waist. Which is sweet! It is! But I keep thinking about this and I don't know how to say 'hey, could you be less respectful in bed' without it sounding insane."

She finally looked up, meeting Jason's eyes with an expression caught between mortification and desperate hope that he had some magic script that would make this conversation with Tyler less excruciating.

"Ok, well in my experience very few college boys will refuse ANY request from a cute girl who's willing to be naked near them. I know it might feel odd at first, but just ASK him. Very solid chance he's been itching to ask you something too... most guys like that don't know how to start asking, so break the seal on the communication. You'll both win."

Maya blinked at him, processing. The mortified expression shifted slightly—still embarrassed, but with a flicker of something like relief breaking through. "You really think so? Like, you don't think he'll think I'm..." She waved her hand vaguely, searching for the word. "Broken? Or too much?"

She took a sip of the terrible coffee, grimaced slightly, but kept holding the mug. "God, what if he's been wanting to ask me stuff too and we've just been having the world's politest, most boring sex because we're both too chickenshit to say anything?" The idea seemed to be gaining traction in her mind, the panic slowly converting into something closer to determination. "How do I even start that conversation? Do I just... say it? During? Before? Do people do this over text or is that insane?"

Her phone buzzed in her lap. She glanced down at it, and her whole face went crimson. "Oh my god, that's him asking if I want to come over tonight." She looked back up at Jason like he'd suddenly become her life coach. "Okay. Okay, I'm doing this. What exact words do I use so I don't sound like a complete freak?"

"During. Just move his hands where you want more... force... and tell him. 'Hold me down', 'it's ok if you pull my hair a little', whatever fits the vibe. He'll get the hint pretty quick."

Jason chuckled, the sound echoing softly in the concrete stairwell. It was the kind of laugh that said this is way more normal than you think it is.

Maya's eyes went wide, but she was nodding slowly, like she was rehearsing the words in her head. "'Hold me down,'" she repeated quietly, testing how it felt in her mouth. "Okay. Okay, that's not... that's actually doable. In the moment. When things are already happening." She took another sip of coffee, and this time she didn't grimace. "God, why does saying it out loud make it feel less scary?"

She pulled out her phone and started typing a response to Tyler, her thumbs moving quickly now. A small smile crept across her face—nervous still, but excited too. "I'm telling him I'll be there in twenty minutes." She looked up at Jason, and for the first time since she'd walked in, she didn't look like she wanted to disappear. "Thank you. Seriously. I was spiraling so hard about this."

She stood, downing the rest of her coffee in one determined gulp. "If this goes well, I'm telling everyone about the east stairwell guy." She paused at the door, glancing back with a grin that was equal parts grateful and mischievous. "And if it goes really well, I'm buying you better coffee."

The next client was a senior with questions about rope burn in interesting places.

He showed up about fifteen minutes after Maya left, and Jason barely had time to rinse out the mugs in the water fountain down the hall. The guy was tall, built like he spent actual time at the gym, wearing a faded band t-shirt and looking significantly less mortified than Maya had been. He dropped into the folding chair with the casual confidence of someone who'd already made peace with whatever he was about to say.

"Jason, right?" He extended a hand. "I'm Marcus. So, uh, my girlfriend and I have been experimenting with some bondage stuff—Shibari, specifically—and it's been great, but we keep ending up with these rope burns on her wrists and, like, her inner thighs." He said it matter-of-factly, like he was describing a problem with his car. "We're using cotton rope, watching tutorials, but something's not working. I don't want to hurt her—well, not in the bad way, you know? Any chance you've dealt with this before?"

He pulled out his phone and started scrolling, apparently looking for reference photos, which was either very helpful or about to make this consultation significantly more complicated than the last one.

"What kind of oil you soaking it in?"

Marcus just looked confused. His thumb stopped mid-scroll on his phone screen, and he glanced up at Jason with the expression of someone who'd just been asked a question in a language they didn't speak. "Oil? Like... we're supposed to be soaking it in oil?" He set his phone down on the cardboard box, leaning forward slightly. "The tutorial we watched didn't mention anything about oil. Just said to get natural fiber rope and learn the knots."

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking simultaneously embarrassed and annoyed—not at Jason, but at himself. "Shit, is that why? We've been going at this for like three weeks thinking we were just bad at it." He let out a short laugh. "What kind of oil are we talking here? And is there, like, other stuff we're missing? Because if there's a whole prep process we skipped, that would explain a lot."

The confidence from earlier had shifted into genuine interest now, the kind of focus Jason usually only saw from people debugging code. Marcus pulled a small notebook out of his back pocket—actual paper, not his phone—and clicked a pen. "Okay, I'm taking notes. My girlfriend's gonna lose it when I tell her we've been doing this on hard mode for no reason."

"Jojoba or Camellia oil. Google how to treat the rope. Could be other things going on, but that's gonna make a big difference." Jason smiled, the kind of easy expression that said yeah, this is totally normal stairwell conversation material.

Marcus was already scribbling in his notebook, his handwriting quick and messy. "Jojoba—that's J-O-J-O-B-A, right?" He didn't wait for confirmation, just kept writing. "Treat the rope. Okay. Okay, this makes so much sense now." He looked up, shaking his head with a self-deprecating grin. "We thought we were being so responsible, watching videos, going slow, and meanwhile we're using rope straight out of the package like idiots."

He clicked his pen closed and tucked the notebook back in his pocket. "Seriously, man, you just saved us so much friction. Literally." He stood, then paused, seeming to consider something. "Is there like... a tip jar? A Venmo? Because this feels like the kind of advice that deserves actual compensation, not just my eternal gratitude."

The stairwell door opened again before Jason could answer. A nervous-looking sophomore poked his head through, saw Marcus standing there, and immediately started to retreat. "Oh shit, sorry, I can come back—"

"Nah, you're good, I'm done," Marcus said, giving Jason a quick salute. "Thanks again, man. You're doing the lord's work in this weird little stairwell."

Tip jar, Jason thought to himself as Marcus headed out. There's a thought. He filed it away in the mental folder labeled "things that might make this operation slightly less broke" and turned his attention to the new client.

"Hey! What's going on?"

The sophomore shuffled in properly now that Marcus was gone, clutching a messenger bag against his chest like a shield. He was pale, thin, with the kind of dark circles under his eyes that suggested finals week had come early or never really ended. His campus ID lanyard was twisted around itself multiple times.

"I, uh—" He sat down without being invited, then immediately looked like he regretted it. "Sorry. Should I have—is there like a system? Do I need an appointment?" He was bouncing his leg, anxious energy radiating off him in waves. "My name's Devon. I heard about you from someone in my CS theory class. Said you helped them with... relationship stuff."

He glanced toward the stairwell door like he was already planning his escape route. "I've been seeing this guy. We're not like, together together, but we hook up sometimes, and he keeps asking if I want to try bottoming and I keep saying maybe later, but the truth is I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm terrified I'm going to be terrible at it or it's going to hurt or—" He cut himself off, face flushing. "Sorry. That was a lot."

"Well Devon, the nice thing about... bottoming... is you don't really have to know what you're doing. As long as whatever is happening is something you want, just let them take the lead, that's the whole deal."

Devon's leg stopped bouncing for a moment. He processed that, his death grip on the messenger bag loosening slightly. "Wait, really? Because I've been watching like... tutorials and stuff, trying to figure out if there's a technique or—" He laughed, but it came out shaky. "God, I've been overthinking this so hard. I made a spreadsheet about prep. An actual spreadsheet."

He pulled out his phone and, mortifyingly, showed Jason what was indeed a color-coded spreadsheet with columns labeled "Timeline," "Supplies Needed," and "Potential Problems." It was the most computer science major thing Jason had seen all week, and he lived in the CS building.

"Okay, but—" Devon put the phone away quickly, like he'd just realized how ridiculous it was. "What about the pain thing? Because everyone says different stuff. Some people say it shouldn't hurt at all, some people say it hurts the first time no matter what, and I don't know who to believe. And this guy, he's experienced, but I don't want him to think I'm fragile or scared or..." He trailed off, looking miserable. "I am scared. Is that stupid?"

"Get a butt plug trainer kit. A good one. Spend at least $80 on it. Follow the guide it's gonna have to prep and get used to that... feeling. You'll either like it or not, and then you'll know at least what to expect and have some practice relaxing the right muscles. Don't stress too much about it. It is, after all, where the fun button is." Jason laughed, the sound warm and reassuring in the concrete stairwell.

Devon blinked at him, then let out a breath that might have been half laugh, half sob of relief. "Eighty dollars. Okay. That's like... the cost of a textbook. I can do that." He was already pulling his phone back out, this time opening what looked like a shopping app. "Trainer kit. With a guide. That's so much more straightforward than what I've been doing." He paused, looking up with something close to hope. "And the... fun button thing. That's real? Like, it's not just hype?"

His leg started bouncing again, but this time it seemed more like excitement than anxiety. "God, I've been psyching myself out for like two months about this. Making it this huge thing in my head." He typed something into his phone, presumably searching for plug kits, then glanced back at Jason. "Is there a brand you recommend, or should I just read reviews? Because I will absolutely read every review. I'll make another spreadsheet if I have to."

The stairwell door creaked open again. A girl with purple streaks in her hair poked her head in, saw Devon mid-consultation, and mouthed sorry before disappearing back through the door.

"Read the reviews. People that willing write reviews for that sort of thing publicly do NOT hold back hahaa."

Devon's eyes went wide, then he actually grinned—the first genuine smile since he'd walked in. "Oh my god, you're right. Those reviews are going to be detailed." He was already scrolling, thumb moving rapidly across his screen. "Okay. Okay, I'm doing this. Tonight. Before I can overthink it again and add more columns to my spreadsheet."

He stood up, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder with noticeably less tension than when he'd arrived. "Thank you. Seriously. I was about to just keep making excuses forever because I was too scared to admit I didn't know what I was doing." He hesitated at the door, then turned back. "That girl who just looked in—is there like a sign-up sheet? Because if this keeps growing you're gonna need a system. Maybe a Google Calendar or something."

The suggestion was delivered with the earnest helpfulness of someone who'd just been saved by practical advice and wanted to pay it forward. He pushed through the stairwell door, and Jason could hear him already typing on his phone as he headed down the stairs, presumably diving deep into the world of Amazon reviews written by people with zero shame and strong opinions about silicone grades.

The purple-haired girl reappeared almost immediately, like she'd been waiting just outside. She had multiple ear piercings, combat boots, and the wary expression of someone who'd been burned before and wasn't sure if this was going to be another disappointment.

"A signup sheet is starting to feel like a good idea." Jason laughed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "I'll get on that." He looked at the girl with the purple streaks, gesturing to the empty folding chair. "Hi, come on in. Coffee?"

She stepped through fully, letting the door click shut behind her. Up close, she had a small nose ring and chipped black nail polish, and she was carrying a beat-up leather jacket over one arm despite wearing it being objectively reasonable in the working heat of the stairwell. "Sure. Yeah. Coffee sounds good." Her voice had a scratchy quality, like maybe she'd been at a concert recently or just had one of those voices.

She dropped into the chair and watched Jason pour from the French press with an expression that was hard to read—somewhere between curious and evaluating. "I'm Sid. Short for Sidney but nobody calls me that except my mom when she's mad." She accepted the mug with the 'WORLD'S OKAYEST EMPLOYEE' slogan and smirked slightly. "Fitting."

"So." She took a sip, didn't grimace at the terrible coffee, which felt like a power move. "My girlfriend and I have been together for eight months. Things are great. Like, genuinely great, which is new for me because my track record is pretty much a disaster compilation. But she wants to introduce toys and I'm—" She paused, fingers tapping against the mug. "I'm weirdly jealous? Of a piece of silicone? Which I know is insane, but I can't shake the feeling that she wants them because I'm not enough, and I don't know how to bring that up without sounding like a complete psycho."

Jason smiled, warmly, leaning forward slightly in his folding chair. "Ok... as a straight guy, I've dealt with that feeling before. Here's what you do to NEVER be replaced... you become the expert at the toys. Learn them. Master them. Use them to drive her absolutely WILD, and the noises she makes will clear those thoughts right out of your head. They're tools, not enemies. Do you know about the snail? Learn about the snail!" He laughed and pulled out his phone, scrolling quickly before turning the screen toward her. The image showed a peculiar-looking vibrator shaped vaguely like its namesake, all curves and promise.

Sid's eyebrows shot up. She leaned in to look at the phone, and something shifted in her expression—the wariness melting into intrigue, then into what might have been mischief. "The snail?" She took the phone from him, zooming in on the image. "What the hell does it even—oh. Oh." Her eyes widened slightly as she apparently figured out the mechanics. "Okay, that's... that's actually genius. Why does it look so weird though?"

She handed the phone back, but she was grinning now, a real grin that showed teeth and made her look about five years younger. "Tools, not enemies," she repeated, like she was testing the phrase out. "I can work with that. I can definitely work with that." She pulled out her own phone and started typing, presumably adding 'the snail' to some kind of shopping cart. "God, you're right. If I'm the one wielding this thing, making her lose her mind... yeah, okay, that's a completely different headspace." She looked up at Jason with something close to gratitude. "I was seriously spiraling about this. Like, full-on 'am I not gay enough' crisis mode."

It went like that for a couple more clients—a junior worried about lasting longer, a grad student trying to navigate an open relationship, someone's roommate asking questions on behalf of a friend who was "totally not them"—and then Jason had to actually go to class. He packed up the French press, folded the chairs, and jogged across campus to make it to Advanced Algorithms with two minutes to spare.

But through the entire lecture, he couldn't stop thinking about the tip jar idea. And a schedule. The whole afternoon had been a blast—genuinely fun in a way that debugging code or grinding through problem sets never quite managed—but if he could make money with this... that would change everything. His financial aid covered tuition and the meal plan, but everything else was a constant calculation. Textbooks, coffee that didn't taste like cardboard, the occasional night out—it all added up. And he was already sitting on what was apparently valuable knowledge, dispensing advice that people were actively seeking out.

By the time Professor Chen started talking about optimization algorithms, Jason had mentally sketched out a business model. Nothing crazy—maybe five, ten bucks per session? Venmo, Cash App, whatever worked. He could set up a Google Calendar like Devon suggested, maybe even get a better coffee setup. The east stairwell wasn't going anywhere, and neither was the steady stream of college students with questions they couldn't ask anyone else.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out subtly under the desk. A text from an unknown number: Hi, Maya gave me your info. Can I book a time tomorrow? Will pay whatever.

Jason stared at the message, then looked back at Professor Chen's incomprehensible whiteboard full of notation. He started typing a reply.