The next few days felt like living under a microscope.

Every time Ava opened her email, there was another request for interviews, product endorsements, or couple features. She had spent her career controlling public narratives—now she was the narrative.  

Her phone buzzed again. This time it wasn’t the media. It was Evan.

*Coffee? Neutral territory. I’ll even wear a shirt with sleeves.*  

She typed, *Busy.*  

He replied before she could lock the screen. *Liar.*

She threw the phone onto her desk, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her with a twitch.

When she finally walked into the coffee shop, he was already there, pretending to read the menu even though he clearly had no intention of ordering anything that didn’t involve sugar.

“Thought you were busy,” he said without looking up.  

“I was.”  

“And yet, here you are.”  

“Against my better judgment.”  

“Your better judgment has terrible timing.”

She ignored him and sat down. The barista waved at them with a grin that made Ava’s stomach twist. The photo. The trending tag. The endless eyes. She was tired of it all.  

“Are you enjoying this circus?” she asked.  

“Define ‘enjoying.’”  

“Your face has been on every gossip page this week.”  

“Not my fault people like good lighting.”  

“Evan.”  

He leaned forward. “You know what’s funny? I didn’t even post the gala picture.”  

“What?”  

“Someone else did. Probably one of your coworkers. Or Chloe.”  

She blinked. “Why would Chloe—”  

“She’s your biggest fan.”  

Ava sighed. “Of course she is.”  

“You’re welcome, by the way.”  

“For what?”  

“For making your fake boyfriend more popular than your company’s campaign.”  

“That’s not a compliment.”  

He smirked. “Still taking it as one.”

They walked out together afterward. The afternoon sun was too bright, the sidewalk too loud. Ava kept her arms crossed, as if that could stop the world from staring.

“You’re being weird,” he said.  

“I’m being normal.”  

“No, normal is pretending you don’t care. You’re trying too hard.”  

She shot him a glare. “You think you know me?”  

He smiled. “You make lists when you’re nervous. You overexplain when you’re lying. And you only cross your arms when you’re trying not to punch someone.”  

She blinked. “You notice too much.”  

“Occupational hazard. Photographer.”  

“You’re insufferable.”  

“And yet, you’re still walking next to me.”

They reached the corner where their paths split. For a moment, neither moved.

He lifted his camera and snapped a photo.  

“Delete that,” she said instantly.  

“Not a chance.”  

“Evan—”  

He grinned. “Boundary test.”

She turned away, heart beating faster than it should have.

Later that evening, she sat on her couch with a glass of wine and her laptop open to a dozen tabs—press coverage, social media threads, even a fan account that had already created a “timeline of love.” It would’ve been funny if it weren’t her life.

Her phone buzzed again.  

Evan: *You look good in that photo.*  

Ava: *Stop texting me.*  

Evan: *I’m just being supportive.*  

Ava: *Go be supportive somewhere else.*  

Evan: *You’re smiling.*

She stared at the screen. Damn it. She was.

The weekend came, bringing no mercy. She met Chloe for brunch, hoping for a break from the chaos. No such luck.

“Sweetheart,” Chloe said, sliding her phone across the table, “you’ve officially made it into a BuzzFeed quiz.”  

Ava groaned. “What kind?”  

“‘Which viral fake couple are you?’ You and Evan are question number one.”  

“I hate everything.”  

“Correction: you hate that you like him.”  

“Chloe.”  

“Don’t ‘Chloe’ me. You break your own rules every time you look at his texts.”  

Ava picked at her omelet. “There are rules for a reason.”  

“Sure. To stop people from getting hurt. Except you’re already halfway there.”

Ava looked out the window, pretending the sunlight was too bright. The truth hurt worse than Chloe’s words.

That night, she dreamed of the gala lights again—of the moment his hand brushed hers, of the camera flashes freezing them in a version of happiness that didn’t exist.  

When she woke, she was still reaching for him.

Monday arrived with cruel precision. She was in a meeting when her boss pulled her aside. “Ava, the board wants to use you and Evan for the upcoming product line. Real couple branding. Authenticity sells.”  

Her pulse stuttered. “We’re not a real couple.”  

“Then keep pretending. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”  

“I can’t—”  

“Of course you can. You’re a strategist. Strategize.”

The meeting resumed as if nothing had happened. Ava’s mind didn’t.  

She called Evan the second she stepped outside.  

“We need to talk.”  

He sounded far too cheerful. “Sounds serious.”  

“It is. The company wants to turn us into a marketing campaign.”  

“Congratulations, you’re officially monetized.”  

“This isn’t funny.”  

“It’s a little funny.”  

“Evan, I’m not joking. They want us to appear together again—at the charity gala next week.”  

“So? We’ve done worse.”  

“This is different. There will be press. Sponsors.”  

“Same as before.”  

She took a breath. “It’s dangerous.”  

He paused. “For the brand?”  

“For me.”  

Silence stretched between them.  

Then he said softly, “I’ll behave. Promise.”  

She didn’t believe him for a second.

The following Friday, the gala returned like a ghost she hadn’t buried. She wore a navy dress that fit like armor, her smile rehearsed to perfection. Cameras clicked from every direction.

Evan arrived late, of course. He always did.  

When he walked in—black suit, no tie, grin reckless and warm—the noise in the room shifted.  

He stopped beside her, whispering, “You look terrifyingly composed.”  

“I practiced.”  

“Good. Because we’re about to be surrounded.”

A reporter approached before she could answer. “Ava! Evan! Over here—give us a pose!”  

He leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear. “Ready?”  

“No.”  

“Too late.”

The flash went off as he slipped an arm around her waist. The crowd cheered, a hundred voices merging into static. She forced a smile.

“Breathe,” he whispered.  

“I am.”  

“Not enough.”

They turned to face another camera. For a moment, she forgot to fake it. His hand was steady, his gaze unflinchingly soft, and the world blurred at the edges.

The camera clicked again.  

Something inside her shifted.  

Boundary test passed—or failed, depending on which rules still mattered.

After the event, they found themselves on the balcony, city lights flickering below like restless stars.  

“You did great,” he said.  

“I smiled. That’s not an achievement.”  

“It is when you hate me.”  

“I don’t hate you.”  

He looked at her. “No?”  

She froze. “I tolerate you.”  

“That’s progress.”

They stood in silence. The air between them was colder than it should’ve been.  

“Why are you really doing this?” she asked finally.  

He frowned. “Doing what?”  

“Playing along. Letting everyone believe this lie.”  

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s not all a lie.”  

“Evan—”  

“Maybe it started as one. Doesn’t mean it still is.”

She didn’t know what to say.  

He took a step closer. “You can tell me to stop anytime.”  

Her pulse raced. “I’m not saying it.”  

“Then I’ll take that as permission.”  

“Don’t you dare—”  

He kissed her before she could finish.

It wasn’t dramatic, not even slow. Just quiet. Honest. A spark disguised as an accident.

When he pulled back, he smiled faintly. “Guess that’s another rule broken.”

She stared at him, words caught somewhere between anger and something that felt dangerously like wanting.

He stepped away first. “Goodnight, Ava.”  

She stood alone on the balcony long after he was gone, trying to remember which rule had been number two.

Back in her apartment, she scrolled through social media again, the photos already circulating. Someone had captured the moment on the balcony—the way he leaned in, the way she didn’t pull away.

The caption read: *The chemistry writes itself.*

Ava turned off her phone. For once, she didn’t correct the narrative.  

Maybe some lies didn’t need fixing.