You knew this was a terrible idea the second Elena said it.

“Come on,” she insisted, eyes bright and reckless. “It’s harmless. Just for a little while.”

“Elena,” you said carefully, “you want me to pretend to be your boyfriend to make Damon Salvatore jealous?”

She gave a tiny shrug — too casual to be believable. “He’s been impossible lately. Maybe he just… needs to see what he’s missing.”

You crossed your arms. “You realize this sounds like emotional Russian roulette, right?”

Her lips curved into that dangerous, irresistible half-smile. “Then I hope you’re good at playing games.”

It started at the Mystic Grill. You walked in with Elena’s arm linked through yours, her laughter bright and practiced. Damon was already there, drink in hand, blue eyes flicking toward you both with a flash of something dark.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Didn’t take you long to move on, Elena.”

She smiled sweetly. “Guess I finally found someone who doesn’t come with baggage.”

You tried not to flinch at the tension under the table as Damon’s jaw clenched. Elena squeezed your hand under the table — a silent thank you.

But when the night was over and you walked her home, she didn’t look quite as triumphant as before.

“Maybe this was stupid,” she murmured. “Maybe,” you said softly. “But it worked.”

She laughed once, bitterly. “Yeah. He looked jealous.” “And you look… sad.”

She turned away before answering

The next few weeks blurred. Fake dates. Photos “accidentally” seen by Damon. Late-night phone calls “for the act.”

But somewhere between pretending to love her and making sure she didn’t get caught in her own web, your feelings stopped being fake.

And you weren’t sure when it happened — maybe the night she fell asleep on your couch after another exhausting argument with Damon, or when she laughed so hard she snorted, then blushed because you’d seen it.

She wasn’t pretending in those moments. And neither were you.