By Monday night, their names have stopped trending, but the internet doesn’t forget—it just idles, waiting for a new spark.

Ava tells herself that’s good news. Containment achieved. Crisis cooling.

She’s back in the office by eight, her desk a shrine to order: color-coded notes, post-its with verbs, a calendar grid that could outlive her. Chloe appears carrying two coffees and the kind of grin that predicts chaos.

“So,” Chloe says, sliding into the chair opposite her. “How’s your fake boyfriend?”

Ava doesn’t look up. “Nonexistent, as planned.”

“Sure. Because the café photos weren’t convincing at all.”

Ava freezes. “What photos?”

“Oh, relax.” Chloe flips her phone around. The image is grainy, taken from outside Café Vero: Ava and Evan sitting close enough for a stranger to misinterpret. “Someone captioned it ‘Love, As Scheduled.’ Kind of poetic.”

Ava exhales. “Fantastic. They’ve titled our PR disaster.”

“Title’s catchy,” Chloe says. “You should trademark it.”

Before Ava can respond, Dana calls from the doorway. “Meeting room. Now.”

In the glass conference room, Dana’s laptop projects analytics on the wall—graphs, spikes, engagement rates like a heartbeat gone manic.

“Our brand sentiment rose eleven percent after the photo,” Dana says. “You two are magic.”

“It’s misinformation,” Ava says. “We should clarify.”

“Clarifying kills momentum,” Dana replies. “What we need is narrative management.”

“I thought narrative management was PR jargon for lying.”

Dana smiles. “Only when done poorly.”

Ava folds her arms. “We agreed—no statements.”

“And I stand by that,” Dana says. “But subtle engagement is different. Human, relatable, authentic.”

Ava hears the capital letters. “You want content.”

Dana’s smile widens. “A short behind-the-scenes reel. Nothing scripted. Maybe a day-in-the-life clip. Show teamwork.”

“I’m not producing a rom-com.”

“It doesn’t have to be romantic,” Dana says. “Just… charming.”

When Ava returns to her desk, she finds a text waiting.

Evan: Heard I’m part of a corporate experiment. Should I smile or invoice?

Ava: Neither. Just stay off social for forty-eight hours.

Evan: Already failed. My followers keep asking for our ‘next episode.’

Ava: There are no episodes.

Evan: Tell that to the internet.

She exhales, typing faster than she thinks.

Ava: We’re doing this to protect reputations, not entertain strangers. Please stay aligned.

Evan: You sound like a brand statement. Should I issue one too?

Ava: Don’t you dare.

Evan: Copy that. No feelings, no statements, no fun.

He adds a wink emoji, then deletes it before sending. She doesn’t know that, but somehow she feels it.

By evening, Ava is still drafting tomorrow’s schedule when her phone buzzes again.

Chloe: *Do not panic, but he just posted something.*

Ava opens Instagram, her pulse tripping. It’s a photo—nothing scandalous—just Evan’s hand reaching toward a paper cup, a blurred city in the background. The caption reads: *Rule #1: No Feelings.*

The comments explode.  

*They have rules?*  

*He’s in love already.*  

*Plot twist: they break it.*

Ava stares at the screen until her vision blurs. Then she calls him.

He answers on the second ring. “You saw it.”

“What were you thinking?”

“Transparency,” he says. “Everyone loves a meta moment.”

“You just turned a private agreement into a hashtag.”

“Relax, it’s abstract.”

“It’s a violation.”

“It’s a vibe.”

“Evan—”

He sighs. “Look, I didn’t tag you. No one knows what it means.”

“They know exactly what it means.”

Silence stretches between them, taut as thread. She hears him exhale, softer this time.

“I’ll take it down,” he says. “Didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

The apology sounds real enough that she almost forgives him. Almost.

“No,” she says. “Leave it. Taking it down draws attention.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Just… don’t do it again.”

“Define ‘it.’”

She ends the call.

At midnight, she’s still awake, scrolling through comments, pretending not to care. The algorithm has turned their accidental connection into a serialized drama. She closes her phone face down and mutters, “Rule number one.”

The next morning, her office feels smaller. Everyone stares a little too long. Even the interns whisper.

Chloe appears with a muffin. “He’s kind of poetic, though. ‘Rule #1: No Feelings.’ Has a ring to it.”

“It has a lawsuit to it,” Ava says.

“Or a book deal.”

“Stop helping.”

Dana waves her over again. “Good news! Engagement spiked overnight. People love the ‘rule’ concept. We could build a series—ten rules, ten weeks. Brilliant, right?”

Ava blinks. “You want to gamify my fake relationship.”

“I want to optimize it.”

“Dana—”

“Relax,” Dana says. “We’ll just ride it lightly. No explicit content, just implication.”

Ava’s phone vibrates again. Evan: *Guess we’re going public with our rules now?*

Ava: *I will murder you in lowercase.*

Evan: *At least you’re texting me.*

She deletes her reply twice before sending: *We’ll discuss later.*

By late afternoon, the company Slack channel has turned the “Rules” into jokes. Someone adds Rule #7: Always look photogenic. Someone else posts a GIF of a calendar flipping pages.

Ava logs off, exhausted. At six, her phone buzzes again.

Evan: *Truce coffee?*

Ava: *No. We agreed—professional boundaries.*

Evan: *You said no feelings, not no caffeine.*

Ava: *You’re insufferable.*

Evan: *Yet here you are replying.*

She closes her eyes, counts to five, and types: *Fifteen minutes. That’s all.*

He replies with a thumbs-up emoji.

They meet at the same café, same corner. The air feels different now—less crisis, more something else she refuses to name.

“You shouldn’t have posted that,” she says first.

“I know,” he admits. “But people liked it.”

“That’s not the metric I use.”

“I know that too.”

They drink in silence. He breaks it. “You ever notice how control looks good on you?”

“Flattery won’t fix this.”

“Didn’t say it would.”

He finishes his coffee, stands, and says quietly, “You’re good at pretending. Maybe too good.”

She looks up, startled. “Meaning?”

“Meaning—careful. Sometimes the performance becomes the point.”

He leaves before she can respond.

Ava sits there a while longer, replaying the conversation, the tone, the hint she refuses to name. Then she opens her phone again.

Another notification:  

*#Rule1NoFeelings — trending.*

She laughs once, low and sharp. “Of course it is.”

At home, she writes the rules down in her planner anyway, numbering them neatly.

Rule #1: No Feelings.  

Rule #2: No Public Affection.  

Rule #3: Communicate Before Posting.  

Rule #4: No Surprises.  

Rule #5: Look Like You Like Each Other.  

Rule #6: No Midnight Texts.  

Rule #7: No Real Dates.  

Rule #8: No Lies (except this one).  

Rule #9: Always Smile for the Camera.  

Rule #10: End Clean.

She stares at them until the words blur together. Then she whispers,  

“Rule #1. No feelings,”  

like repetition might make it true.