Rule number one of fake relationships:
Don't catch feelings.
Rule number two:
Definitely don't get left by your fake boyfriend in the middle of a wedding without so much as a "brb."
I wake up the next morning to five texts.
All from people who aren't Eli.
"You and Eli were so cute last night!!!"
"Are you like… secretly in love with him? Because it looks like it."
"Bouquet girl! You're next!!!"
"I ship it."
"Is he single? Asking for a friend."
I roll over and groan into my pillow. Somewhere out there, Eli is probably sipping a green smoothie and not spiraling.
Good for him.
Bad for me.
Because here I am—fully spiraling.
Cue the montage: me pacing the kitchen in fuzzy socks, yelling at my toaster like it betrayed me, trying to make sense of… whatever last night was. That kiss. That look. That leaving without explanation like a rom-com villain in a turtleneck.
The doorbell rings.
I hope it's the apocalypse.
It's not.
It's Cameron, my best friend, unannounced, holding a latte and the kind of smile that says, spill or I'll start guessing.
"I brought caffeine and judgment."
"You always know just what I need."
She barges in like she owns the place. "You and Eli looked real cozy last night."
"We were acting."
I flop onto the couch like a person emotionally attacked by their own best friend. "It got complicated."
"So de-complicate it. You like him?"
"Like him?" I scoff. "No. Maybe. Probably. I don't know. He left in the middle of the night and didn't text back."
Cameron gives me a look. "Girl. That's not a dealbreaker. That's called 'a man being emotionally constipated.'"
"Sounds messy."
"Oh, it is. But sometimes they come back with flowers and trauma."
We sit in silence for a second, just long enough for the tension to slide under the door and cozy up beside us.
"You know," Cameron says casually, "you could just talk to him."
"And say what? 'Hi, I'm your fake girlfriend, but I might actually want to be your real one, and also I kinda want to punch you for disappearing'?"
She sips her latte. "Exactly that. Maybe with fewer threats of violence."
Before I can argue, my phone buzzes. It's him.
Eli: "Can we talk?"
Cue the stomach somersaults.
Cameron: "Tell him yes and wear something dangerous."
Me: "It's brunch. What kind of danger are we aiming for?"
Cameron: "The kind that says 'you blew it, but I still look incredible.'"
Cut to: BRUNCH. AKA THE SCENE OF THE EMOTIONAL CRIME.
I walk in like I own the place. Okay, more like I rent a small emotional apartment in the building and the elevator's out of order, but still. I'm here.
Eli's already sitting at a table, looking like someone who slept in guilt. His hair's a mess. He's not wearing a blazer. This is his version of disheveled, and honestly? It's a little hot.
He stands when he sees me. "Hey."
"Hey."
Awkward pause. Classic.
"I'm sorry I left," he says quickly. "Something came up."
"That sounds ominous."
"It was family stuff. My mom. It's complicated."
He sounds sincere. And tired. Like maybe he's been carrying something for longer than I realized.
"Okay," I say. "But next time maybe just say that instead of pulling a Batman?"
He huffs a laugh. "Yeah. I deserved that."
We sit. Waiter comes. We both order pancakes. Because that's who we are now—two emotionally confused adults using carbs as therapy.
"So…" he starts, eyes on his coffee. "About last night."
My heart tightens. I brace for impact.
"That kiss… it wasn't fake for me."
Boom.
The Earth tilts. My lungs forget how to function.
"It wasn't fake for me either," I whisper, surprising us both.
Silence. Charged. Buzzing. The kind that makes your fingers twitch.
"I didn't plan on this," he says. "Falling for you."
"Same. This whole thing was supposed to be a joke."
"Yeah, well… the joke's on us."
We smile. It's soft. Tentative. Real.
And then—
His phone buzzes. Again.
He looks. Freezes.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
He looks up at me, face pale.
"It's my mom. She's in the hospital."