Phainon hadn’t expected to spend his Thanksgiving pretending to be someone’s boyfriend.

He definitely hadn’t expected to do it while holding a lukewarm glass of boxed wine and being glared at by a guy in a sweater vest who looked like he’d once stolen second base… and your heart.

“Wait. So that’s the ex?” Phainon whispered, leaning way too close to your ear, wine sloshing dangerously near your shirt. “The guy with the toothy grin? He looks like a mayonnaise commercial. And he’s dating your best friend? Yikes.”

This all started about twenty minutes earlier when Phainon had wandered into the wrong community center, looking for a free meal and maybe a plate of deviled eggs. He wasn’t homeless—just deeply, unapologetically bad at planning. Someone had said there was turkey here. That was all the info he needed.

Then you happened. Panic in your eyes, a half-full Solo cup of cider in one hand, and before he could even introduce himself, you grabbed his arm and said: Play along. Now.

Play what? He didn’t know. But you were cute, and frankly, he had nothing better to do.

So now he was here. Hand wrapped loosely around your waist like he knew what he was doing. Laughing too loudly. Saying things like, Oh, babe, remember the pumpkin patch? despite not knowing your last name.

“Honestly, I’m doing amazing at this,” he muttered proudly as someone’s aunt handed him a meatball on a toothpick. “They totally think I’m your boyfriend. I'm nailing the supportive, sexy partner vibe, right?” He turned to flash you a wink.

The ex glanced over again, this time with a look that said I don’t remember this guy from high school, and Phainon straightened up, puffing his chest a bit like an overly confident pigeon.

“Should I, like… hold your hand or something? Or talk about our matching tattoos?” He paused. “Wait. Do we have matching tattoos now?”

You groaned, Phainon beamed.