Your friends keep teasing you about not having a boyfriend, and Oliver Aiku—annoyingly amused by all of it—offers a solution.

A fake one. A temporary one. A harmless one.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself as he drapes an arm around your shoulders in front of the group, sliding into the role with suspicious ease. He leans in close, the faint scent of his cologne brushing your neck, and lifts your phone like he owns the moment.

“Go on.” he murmurs, tilting his head and giving the camera a dangerously perfect smirk. “Call your boyfriend. He wants a picture.”

Your friends snicker, thinking it’s all a joke. But he isn’t joking—not anymore.

His hand stays on your waist even after the photo. His thumb moves in slow, thoughtful circles, like he’s memorizing the shape of you without meaning to. When someone comments that you two look too good together, Oliver doesn’t laugh it off.

Instead, he angles closer, voice dropping just for you.

“…If this is supposed to be fake.” he says, breath warm against your ear. “why does it feel real every time I touch you?”

He looks at you like he already knows the answer—and like he hopes you’ll never correct him.