By the next week, Ava had turned her phone to silent, her emotions to mute, and her coffee intake to lethal levels. The interview clip had been replayed, remixed, and dissected by every corner of the internet. One compilation was titled *“The Kiss That Wasn’t Fake.”* She hated it. She watched it three times.  

Her boss was thrilled, of course. “Engagement numbers are through the roof! Keep doing whatever you’re doing.”  

“I was mostly trying not to pass out on live TV.”  

“Then keep that energy!”  

At the office, everyone smiled too much around her. People she barely knew asked if she and Evan were “still together.” She corrected them once, twice, then gave up. Denial was exhausting.  

Meanwhile, Evan had gone quiet online. No new posts, no teasing captions. Just one photo—a sunrise over the ocean with the words: *“Some things don’t need explaining.”*  

She stared at it longer than she should have.  

That Friday, she walked into a meeting room and found a box of donuts on the table. A sticky note on top read: *For the overthinker—E.B.*  

Her lips twitched. “Idiot,” she whispered, but she smiled anyway.

That night, after another twelve-hour day, she opened her laptop to finish reports. A new message popped up.  

Evan: *Still alive?*  

Ava: *Barely. You?*  

Evan: *Editing. Coffee IV drip engaged.*  

Ava: *That’s not healthy.*  

Evan: *Neither is ignoring me for four days.*  

Ava: *I wasn’t ignoring. I was working.*  

Evan: *Same difference.*  

Ava: *Stop texting. I need to focus.*  

Evan: *Sure. After this photo.*  

A second later, an image appeared—a shot of the donuts with a doodled smiley face drawn in frosting.  

Ava laughed out loud before she could stop herself.  

Ava: *You’re ridiculous.*  

Evan: *And yet, you’re smiling.*  

Ava: *Good night, Brooks.*  

Evan: *Night, Mitchell.*  

She told herself it was harmless. That these messages didn’t mean anything. But when she woke up the next morning and saw his “good morning” text waiting, something in her chest felt warm and wrong at the same time.

Days blurred into a strange rhythm—texts, calls, small gestures that lived somewhere between friendship and something else. He started remembering her deadlines, dropping coffee by her office “coincidentally,” sending photos that made her laugh during stressful meetings.  

One evening, she stayed late at the office. The city outside glowed orange and blue. Her inbox was quiet for once—until her phone buzzed again.  

Evan: *Look outside.*  

She frowned, stood up, and walked to the window. Down on the street, Evan leaned against his motorcycle, looking up. He raised a cup in salute.  

“Unbelievable,” she murmured, grabbing her phone.  

Ava: *You can’t just show up at my building.*  

Evan: *Too late. I’m here. Also, you forgot dinner again.*  

Ava: *How do you even know that?*  

Evan: *You’re predictable when you’re stressed.*  

Ava: *This is crossing boundaries.*  

Evan: *Maybe we need new ones.*

Her breath caught. She stared out the window, torn between irritation and something dangerously close to hope.  

Finally, she texted: *Rule #11: No more surprises.*  

Evan: *Then I’ll surprise you with that one.*  

She rolled her eyes, but her reflection in the glass was smiling.  

Later, as she packed up to leave, Chloe called. “You’ve been weirdly quiet,” her friend said.  

“Busy.”  

“Liar. You’re glowing. Did something happen?”  

“Nothing happened.”  

“Which, in Ava language, means everything happened.”  

“Good night, Chloe.”  

“Uh-huh. Sweet dreams, Mrs. Trending.”

Ava hung up, stepping into the night air. Her phone buzzed again—one last message from Evan.  

*Rule #12: If it feels right, stop fighting it.*  

She didn’t reply. But the rules—every single one—were already changing.