Let's be clear: I'm not the kind of person who runs to hospitals with a guy I'm fake-dating-but-maybe-accidentally-actually-liking after he drops a bombshell kiss and then gets a dramatic family emergency.
Except apparently, I am.
Because thirty minutes later, I'm sitting in the world's most uncomfortable plastic chair in the ER waiting room, clutching a sad vending machine granola bar like it's emotional support.
Eli's pacing. Running his hands through his hair like he's auditioning for the lead in Stressed Out and Handsome: The Musical.
"What happened?" I finally ask.
He doesn't answer right away.
"She collapsed," he says eventually. "Stress, they think. She's… stubborn. Won't slow down even when she needs to."
That sounds familiar. I don't say it out loud.
I do say: "Is she okay?"
He nods, half-hearted. "They're checking her out now. I just—" He stops. Starts again. "She raised me alone. I'm all she's got. And she hates hospitals. This is like, her actual nightmare."
I don't touch him, but I want to.
Instead, I unwrap the granola bar and hand him half.
He takes it without comment.
Silence stretches between us again, but it's not heavy. It's just… full.
Of unspoken things. Of everything that kiss started and this hospital moment cracked wide open.
A nurse comes out. "Eli Grant?"
He jumps up. "That's me."
"You can come in."
He looks at me. "You wanna…?"
Do I want to walk into the room of the woman who raised him—this smart, stubborn single mom who's clearly been through it and back—and pretend I'm his girlfriend?
Of course I don't.
I nod anyway. "Let's go."
Because I'm an idiot. A supportive idiot.
The hospital room is surprisingly cozy. Low light. A floral blanket someone clearly brought from home.
Eli's mom is lying in the bed, alert but pale. There's a sparkle in her tired eyes when she sees him.
"My boy," she croaks, dramatic as Shakespeare. "You came."
"I was a little busy winning a fake wedding award," Eli deadpans. "But yeah, I came."
She narrows her eyes at him. Then they land on me.
"And this must be…"
Oh no.
Eli glances at me. I glance at him. Time slows.
"This is Nora," he says. "My—"
Don't say it.
"Girlfriend."
He said it.
Oh. He really said it.
And then… the strangest thing happens.
His mom smiles.
A sly, knowing, matchmaker grandma-in-the-making kind of smile.
"Well. It's about damn time."
I blink. "Sorry—what?"
"I've been waiting years for him to bring home someone who doesn't bore me. You're funny. You're cute. And you're clearly the boss in this arrangement."
I laugh before I can stop myself. "She is good," I say to Eli. "Like, scary good."
He looks like he's having an out-of-body experience.
I sit beside her bed and suddenly, this all feels… real. Uncomfortably, terrifyingly real.
His mom leans toward me conspiratorially. "Don't let him run when things get complicated. He gets that from me. We're flight risks, honey."
Eli groans. "Mom…"
She waves him off. "Let me bond with my future daughter-in-law in peace."
I snort. Eli goes tomato-red.
But his mom's already distracted—telling me stories about toddler Eli eating glitter, teenage Eli trying to dye his hair blue (spoiler: it turned green), and how she always knew he'd be the type to fall for someone "too smart for her own good."
It's too much.
Too sweet.
Too real.
I excuse myself and leave the room, my heart pounding in my ears.
Eli follows a few minutes later, finding me by the vending machines again. Because apparently I process all my emotions through overpriced snacks.
"You okay?" he asks gently.
"Are you?"
He shrugs. "She's going to be fine. And she loves you, apparently."
"Great. That's great. Except I'm not your real girlfriend and we just lied to a recovering woman in a hospital bed and she basically tried to plan our wedding during her IV drip."
Eli winces. "Yeah. That escalated."
I look at him. Really look at him.
His worry. His exhaustion. The cracks in his armor.
I get it now.
This fake thing? It mattered to him. Way more than he planned.
To me too.
"We should probably end this before someone else almost dies," I joke weakly.
But he doesn't laugh.
He steps closer.
"I don't want to end it."
Pause.
"I want to see where it goes. If you do."
My mouth opens.
I don't get to answer.
Because right then, his phone rings again.
He answers it, frowns.
Then his expression drops into something darker than I've seen yet.
"What is it?" I ask.
He lowers the phone, looks at me with something like fear.
"That was my mom's lawyer. She's not just sick—she changed her will. And someone's contesting it."