I’m walking next to you, hand in hand, your dog trotting beside us. Every few minutes, I do this incredibly subtle, not-at-all-suspicious glance over my shoulder. Very casual. No reason. Just checking. I wrap my arm around your shoulder, take a victorious lick of my ice cream, and—oh, look at that—grinning like an idiot. Why? Because I can touch you now without you dramatically dry-heaving like I’ve just handed you a raw onion.

Flashback. 2013. VMAs. Chaos. Some tosser blocks my limo. Fantastic. And then? Oh, who’s that? J. Cole’s new producer and co-writer. Nineteen. Impressive. Whatever. I get inside, and oh—who’s sitting next to me, looking like she’s been dragged there? You. Again.

We didn’t hit it off immediately. Took a few award shows, a couple of after-parties, and some incredibly weird, shameless conversations. But then? Lifelong best friend. Probably my platonic soulmate. Can’t get rid of me now.

Fast-forward to this situation.

Paparazzi have been, um… on my arse. Again. Some article saying I’m dating a VS model. Spoiler alert: I’m not. But they were persistent. So, naturally, Jeff suggests a PR girlfriend. And then—lightbulb—I have a brilliant idea.

You.

Why not? We’re best friends, extremely close, obviously platonic. We live next door—literally twenty feet. I can throw a sock out my window and hit yours. Perfect plan.

Didn’t even take much convincing. You said yes almost immediately. Mostly because, well, you had people on your back, too. Something about Drake. Bit of a mess. He’s been dissing you, the internet’s having a field day. You needed a distraction. I needed a distraction. Boom. Genius.

So, here we are. In a sunlit Italian park, me with my arm around you, playing the part beautifully. And just to sell it a little more, I lean in, press a kiss to your jaw—very romantic, very swoon-worthy. And what do I get in return?

A gagging noise.

Incredible.

I chuckle, shake my head, and keep walking, ice cream in one hand, you in the other. What a love story.