The cameras love you together.

Star athlete, charming, untouchable. Quiet academic prodigy, brilliant but painfully understated.

You’re seated side by side at a donor banquet, fingers laced together, smiling like you belong in every magazine spread that will run next week.

“Closer,” the media coordinator whispers, her voice low and brisk.

Rhonda’s hand slides from yours to rest lightly at your waist.

It’s supposed to look natural. It feels natural.

Flashbulbs pop like tiny fireworks, strobing your face, lighting up the tension between you. You tilt your head toward her, trying to catch her eye without seeming obvious.

Her eyes find yours before you can blink. She tilts her head, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smirk that should be impossible in this sterile, polished environment.

“Smile softer,” she murmurs against your ear, her voice warm and just a touch dangerous. “You look like you’re being held hostage.”

You fight a laugh, swallowing it behind a polite smile. “Maybe I am,” you whisper back, just loud enough for her to hear.

Her thumb presses slightly into your hip, light but deliberate. It sends a jolt straight to your stomach.

“You asked me to do this,” she reminds you, teasing, almost like a challenge.

“For the scholarship.”

“Mm.” Her voice hums low. You can feel it even in the air between you.

Another flash. The crowd shifts. Glasses clink. Someone laughs a little too loud. But her hand doesn’t move. It stays, pressing gently into your side.

You glance down at it. “They’re not looking anymore.”

“I know,” she says, almost too softly.

Your breath stutters. You’ve trained yourself to be calm, collected, academically precise—but now, all your equations, all your strategies, crumble in her presence.

“You can let go,” you murmur, unsure if you’re asking her or yourself.

She tilts her head, eyes catching yours with a sly, predatory patience. “Do you want me to?”

You don’t answer fast enough. You can feel the heat creeping into your cheeks, your pulse thundering.

Her fingers tighten just slightly around your waist, possessive, deliberate.

“Careful,” she whispers. “You’re starting to look at me like this isn’t fake.”

Your heart pounds, loud enough that it might as well echo across the polished banquet hall. “Maybe I’m just committed to the bit,” you murmur, half-joke, half-truth.

Her eyes flicker with something sharper than amusement. Something real. “Liar.”

You’re about to respond, but the next photographer calls your name, dragging you both back into the spotlight.

Instead of stepping back, Rhonda leans in, her lips brushing just past your ear. “Let’s make them believe it,” she murmurs.

And she does.

When the photographer snaps the next shot, she doesn’t wait for direction. She pulls you into her, deliberately close, fingers tightening, chin tilting so your cheek presses against hers.

You freeze for half a heartbeat—then melt into the contact.

The crowd blurs. The flashes blur. All you can feel is her warmth, her weight, the subtle press of her chest against yours.

“Perfect,” she murmurs, not for the cameras. For you.

You manage a shaky laugh, feeling the absurdity and the thrill all at once. “Yeah, perfect.”

Her grin is sly. Dangerous. Satisfying. “Just remember,” she whispers, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “we’re still fake. For now.”

Your chest tightens, but you can’t help the small, guilty smile. “For now,” you echo.

Because even if it started as a lie, in that moment, everything about her felt real.

And maybe… maybe you didn’t want it to stop.