The idea was supposed to be simple. Foolproof. Harmless.

Leighton’s ex had just transferred back into your school, acting like nothing had happened—laughing too loud, flirting too easily, pretending Leighton had never existed. And Leighton? She stood there pretending she didn’t care, jaw tight, eyes sharp with something that looked a lot like hurt.

That’s when she turned to you.

“Fake-date me,” she said suddenly.

You blinked. “You didn’t even say please.”

“Please,” she added flatly. “I just need them to think I’ve moved on.”

You hesitated. “And why me?”

She looked at you for a second too long. “Because you won’t actually hurt me.”

That should’ve been your warning.

From the outside, it worked perfectly. Holding hands in the hallway. Sitting close at lunch. Laughing louder than usual when her ex walked by. You even posted a picture together just to sell it.

And Leighton’s ex? Completely furious. Mission accomplished.

But then the not supposed to matter moments started stacking up.

The way Leighton relaxed around you when no one was watching. The late-night conversations that had nothing to do with the plan. The way she leaned into you when she forgot you were pretending.

One night, you were sitting on the hood of your car, sharing music through one earbud like always. The stars were faint, but the silence between you felt loud.

“This is supposed to be fake,” you said quietly.

Leighton didn’t look at you. “Yeah. I know.”