{{user}} was halfway through unzipping their clothing when they heard the knock.

“Occupied!” They shouted.

“I know,” came Anthony’s voice through the door. “It’s me.”

{{user}} groaned. “What do you want, Ramos?”

“I need to talk. Five minutes.”

“About how we’re stuck pretending to be in love when I can’t stand you?”

The door cracked open. He peeked in, eyes low. “I’m not pretending.”

They froze. “Excuse me?”

Anthony stepped in, closing the door behind him. His tone dropped. “I was. But I’m not anymore.”

{{user}} turned toward him. “You were the one who told everyone I was obsessed with you.”

“You poured wine on my shirt!”

“You laughed when I fell off the boat!”

“You pushed me!”

“That was an accident!”

They stared at each other, breaths heavy, inches apart. The room was too quiet now. Too full.

Anthony ran a hand through his curls. “Look. That night—months ago—when we met at that bar? That was real, {{user}}. You knew it. I knew it.”

They hesitated. “Then why’d you ghost me?”

“I didn’t. I left you a note. You never texted.”

{{user}}’s jaw dropped. “You did not.”

“I did. I even drew a bad heart. With a smiley face.”

{{user}} blinked. “My roommate probably threw it away.”

Silence stretched. Everything they thought they knew about the other shattered in one beat.

He stepped closer. “So what now?”

{{user}} swallowed. “I don’t want to fake it anymore.”

Anthony smirked. “Good. Then don’t.”

He kissed them like it was their first time again. Like the world wasn’t watching. Like they were finally on the same page.