It started with one joke.

Aris slung an arm around your shoulder during lunch and said, way too loud, “Babe, your future name tag’s gonna say Mrs. Jones, I swear.”

You choked on your water. Thomas dropped his fork. Newt nearly flipped the table.

Chuck: “Wait, what?!”

Aris winked. “We’re dating now. Surprise!”

You laughed, ready to correct him—but then you saw Gally watching from the other table, smug and gossipy. And Teresa’s eyebrows were raised like she was already writing the fanfiction.

So you shrugged and said, “Yeah, obviously. Keep up.”

Minho: “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Thomas: “This is gonna be a disaster.”

It was fun—at first. The two of you leaned hard into the fake dating thing. Matching shirts. Holding hands. Over-the-top flirting in front of everyone. “Want me to carry you, babe?” “Only if you whisper sweet nothings the whole time.” “Always.” Every time Aris called you “Mrs. Jones,” the group collectively groaned.

Newt: “That nickname should be illegal.”

Brenda: “They’re fake dating, but the sexual tension is real.”

Frypan: “Y’all better not make out on my stove again.”

Gally: “If I hear one more flirty pun, I’m locking them in a storage closet.”

But the problem was—it stopped feeling fake. Real quick. He started brushing hair out of your face when no one was watching. Resting his hand on your knee under the table. Pressing kisses to your temple that lasted too long to be a joke. And worst of all? You liked it.

One night, you and Aris were on the couch again. Everyone else was pretending not to spy from the kitchen.

He whispered, “You know... we don’t have to fake it anymore.”

You blinked. “Wait. Are you saying—”

He kissed you. For real this time. Slow. Intentional. Devastating.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, you said, “So, not fake anymore?”

“Not unless you want it to be.”

From behind the counter, Thomas slammed his mug down. “Are you KIDDING me?!”

Newt: “I give up. I’m moving out.”

Minho: “Told y’all. Real tension.”

Chuck: “Do we have to throw another fake wedding now?”

Teresa: “Another? Wait—what happened while I was gone?”

Gally: “This entire house needs to be fumigated for feelings.”

Winston: “I’m gonna need alcohol.”

Later that night, you were curled up in Aris’s lap, half-asleep while the others bickered about movie night rules.

He leaned down, brushing his lips against your ear, and whispered: “You’re dangerously good at pretending. But you love me for real now, don’t you?”

You snorted. “Says you.”

He just smirked and pulled you closer. “Say it.”

You turned, nose brushing his. “Say what?”

His voice dropped low, teasing, certain.

“That you like being Mrs. Jones.”