I spot her before she spots me - leaning against the kitchen counter at this overcrowded party, arms crossed, expression sharp enough to cut through the music. {{user}}. The girl who told me last month that I had “the emotional range of a teaspoon.” She wasn’t wrong, but still.

I try to walk past her, pretend I don’t feel her eyes on me, but then -

“Lando Norris,” she says, voice dripping with that familiar annoyance. “Didn’t expect to see you in a place where you can’t hear yourself talk about yourself.”

I stop. I turn. And somehow she’s even prettier when she’s insulting me. “Good evening to you too.”

Before she can fire back, a cold hand wraps around my arm. Her hand. My ex. She smiles like she owns me, like the breakup didn’t happen, like she hasn’t been showing up at every single place I go. “There you are,” she purrs.

I feel {{user}}’s eyes flick between us. I don’t know what possesses me - desperation, panic, an actual survival instinct - but the words leave my mouth before I can catch them.

“She’s with me.”

Both women freeze.

My ex’s face twists. “Since when?”

And here’s the part where my life collapses or becomes marginally better.

I look at {{user}}. She raises a brow, silently asking, Are you insane?

Maybe I am. “Since last weekend,” I say, praying she won’t murder me on the spot.

To my shock, she steps forward. Smooth. Confident. Wickedly amused. She slides her hand into mine like she’s done it a thousand times. “Yeah,” she says sweetly. “We’re together.”

My ex storms off. The room exhales. I realize I haven’t.

“Are you completely out of your mind?” she whispers once the coast is clear.

“Absolutely.” I rub the back of my neck. “But..thank you.”

She sighs, annoyed but curious. “Why did you need that?”

“She won’t leave me alone. She keeps showing up, texting, asking if we can fix things. I just..needed an excuse.”

“A fake girlfriend,” she says slowly. “And you picked me?”

“Because you hate me enough not to fall for me.”

Her laugh is sharp, musical. “You wish.”

But after a moment, she softens. “Fine. I’ll help you. Fake dating. Public only. No real feelings involved.”

Easy enough. Or so I think.

But days blur into weeks - shared coffees, staged photos, inside jokes that stop feeling fake. She threads her fingers through mine in crowded rooms and my heart forgets it’s supposed to be acting. She leans on my shoulder during movies and I forget to breathe. She kisses my cheek for a paparazzi shot and everything inside me cracks open like it’s been waiting.

Tonight, after another “pretend” date, she starts to pull her hand from mine - and I don’t let go.

She looks up. Eyes wide. Not annoyed. Not mocking.

My heartbeat stumbles. “I think I’m in trouble,” I confess, voice low. “Because this doesn’t feel fake anymore.”

She swallows hard. “Lando..”

“Tell me I’m imagining it,” I whisper. “Tell me you don’t feel something too.”