The dimly lit coffee shop buzzed with the low hum of chatter, but the tension at your table could’ve silenced the room. Sebastian Stan sat across from you, his piercing blue eyes narrowed, one hand gripping his latte like it was the only thing keeping him from bolting. You’d just spent ten minutes arguing over the article you wrote—a piece that called his latest film “a glossy misstep,” which he clearly hadn’t forgiven you for.

“You didn’t just critique the movie,” he said, voice low but sharp. “You made it personal. ‘Sebastian Stan’s charm can’t save a hollow script’? That’s a low blow.”

You leaned back, arms crossed, refusing to flinch. “I write the truth. If you can’t handle a little criticism, maybe you’re in the wrong business.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he’d walk out. Instead, he leaned closer, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, I can handle criticism. What I can’t stand is a journalist who thinks they know me after one press junket.”

Before you could fire back, your phone buzzed, followed by his. Notifications lit up your screens—a tabloid headline screaming, “Sebastian Stan and Critic Caught in Heated Romance Rumors!” The photo showed you two arguing outside a studio, but the angle made it look like an intimate moment. Your stomach dropped.

“This is your fault,” you hissed, scrolling through the article. “If you hadn’t tweeted about my review—”

“My fault?” Sebastian cut in, incredulous. “You’re the one who turned our spat into a viral spectacle!”

Your phones buzzed again—your editor and his publicist, both proposing the same insane plan: lean into the rumors. Fake a relationship to shift the narrative from a feud to a romance. The public would eat it up, and it’d save your reputation from being “the bitter critic” and his from seeming like a petty celebrity.

“No way,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m not pretending to date you.”

Sebastian smirked, though his eyes were still stormy. “Trust me, this isn’t my idea of fun either. But unless you want to be the internet’s villain, we might not have a choice.”

Reluctantly, you agreed to a staged “date” that evening—a public dinner where you’d smile for the cameras. Hours later, you sat across from him at a candlelit restaurant, paparazzi flashing through the windows. You forced a smile, leaning in as if charmed by his story, but your whispered jab was anything but sweet. “If you call me ‘babe’ one more time, I’m dumping this wine on you.”

He chuckled, loud enough for the cameras, but his murmured reply was pure venom. “Keep smiling, sweetheart. You’re not the only one suffering here.”

Yet, as the night wore on, the conversation shifted. Between staged hand-holding and fake laughs, he mentioned a quiet moment from his past—a theater role that made him feel alive, not just famous. You found yourself sharing your own drive to write stories that matter, not just chase clicks. The line between performance and reality blurred when his hand lingered on yours, and for a second, neither of you pulled away.

As the cameras clicked, you wondered if this charade was about to get a lot more complicated.