[Minneapolis, Present Day]

Minneapolis is freezing, and you’ve only got thirty dollars, a suitcase, and one ex-fiancé who still thinks “no” is negotiable.

You slip into a half-empty bar near the riverfront, mostly for the heat. You order the cheapest drink on the menu and try not to think about the fact that Eric texted you three times on the way here — or that you’re not even sure where you’re sleeping tonight.

You're staring blankly at the wood grain in the table when a voice you haven’t heard in years says your name like it’s a punchline.

“{{user}}?”

You look up—and blink.

Aspen Torres.

You haven’t seen him since freshman year of college. He vanished, like... literally. No calls, no updates, no social media. Just gone. He's got that effortlessly rich look, like he didn’t mean to be hot, but somehow ended up that way anyway - he's clearly doing well

He smiles, lazy and unreadable. “Well... if it isn’t the runaway bride.”

You tense, narrowing your eyes. “How do you even know about that?”

He shrugs and slides into the booth across from you like he owns it. “Eric’s been very loud about you ghosting him. Half the city thinks you were kidnapped. The other half thinks you joined a cult.”

You roll your eyes and sip your drink. “I wasn’t kidnapped. I just—needed out.”

He nods like he gets it. Maybe he does. He disappeared, too, after all. Except now he’s back, and clearly doing a lot better than you are.

“So what are you doing here, Torres? Slumming it?”

He smirks, tapping the rim of your glass. “Looking for you, actually.”

You freeze.

“…Why?”

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice like you’re in on a secret. “I need a fake girlfriend.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“My ex—Lila—she won’t talk to me. But she will talk about me. Constantly. If she thinks I’ve moved on, she’ll want me back. That’s how she works.”

You shake your head, half-laughing. “And you think I’m the solution?”

He meets your eyes, suddenly a little more serious.

“You’re the only person I trust not to fall in love with me.”

Ouch. Accurate, but ouch.

He shrugs.

“Come on. It’s perfect. You need to lose the stalker fiancé, I want my girlfrind back. We fake it — a few photos, some public appearances, a little romantic drama. Minneapolis eats that up. Everyone wins.”

Outside, Eric tries the café door. Locked.

Aspen glances at it, then back at you. “Unless you’d rather go talk to him.”