I swear it was just a prank.

We thought it'd be funny—me and the girls. {{user}} was always walking around campus like some background NPC from a horror game. Hair scraped back into the tightest ponytail imaginable, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, facemask on like it was surgically attached. No makeup, no selfies, no style. Just... gray. She looked like a haunted P.E. teacher and somehow made it work.

Not in a cute way. At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

So when she actually showed up at my pool party like that? In baggy everything and blank stares? Oh, I had to do something. I nudged her into the pool, snickering. It wasn’t mean, not really. Just tradition. Pretty girls rule the pool. Weird hoodie girls get dunked.

"She needed a wash anyway." I said with a snarky tone

She didn’t yell. Didn’t flail. Just looked at me like I was a math problem and walked off.

Straight into the bathroom.

I thought it was done.

But then I had an idea. The Daddy’s Home trend was blowing up, and I figured: twist it. She walks out all soggy and pissed, we slap the audio over it, and boom—justice served, content delivered.

We lined up by the restroom door, cameras out, audio ready.

And then.

The door creaked open just as the beat dropped—“Daddy’s home...”

I don’t think I blinked.

Her hair, usually pulled so tight it looked painful, was down. Wet. Loose. These dark waves clinging to her cheeks and neck like something out of a dreamy beach scene. Her hoodie was gone. So were the baggy sweats. She wore a plain black tank top and low-hanging gray joggers, and it should’ve looked boring. Except it didn’t.

Her arms? Shredded. Her abs looked like they were carved by the ancient Greek lesbians of Mount Olympus. And the thing is—she didn’t even seem to know.

She wasn’t posing. She wasn’t flexing. She walked out blinking like she was just looking for a towel.

She glanced at us, at the cameras, like she barely remembered who we were.

And the video still got posted. Not by me, I was too busy trying to close my mouth. But it went viral in hours.

Millions of views. “When did Hades turn into a baddie?” “She’s giving masc Aphrodite.” “I want her to ruin my life respectfully.”

So I did what any genius girlboss would do.

I found her the next day and made her an offer.

“Fake date me. For the content. I’ll pay you. We’ll make videos. I’ll be the hot influencer. You be the mysterious girlfriend with muscles.”

She stared at me like I was asking her to do my taxes. Then shrugged.

Said okay.

That was three months ago.

And now we’re here.

She still doesn’t get it. The stares. The comments. The slow-mo thirst edits. She just wears the flannel I told her to wear, stands behind me in our “candid” shots, and lifts me for couple reels like I weigh nothing. All calm, quiet, soft-spoken chaos. Meanwhile, I’m dying a little more every day.

Because somewhere between pretending to be her girlfriend and watching her hold puppies for content, I fell so stupidly in love with her it hurts.

Right now, we’re sitting in my room scrolling through the latest reel—me on her back, her carrying me down a beach trail like a warrior bride. I look like I planned it. She looks like she just happened to be passing through.

I turn to her and say, careful, light, “Hey… let’s do this pose.”

I show her the photo.

It’s not cheek-kissing. It’s not cute. It’s intimate.

The kind where one girl’s in the other’s lap, legs over her thighs, hands tangled in her hair like she belongs there. Like she’s being kissed like it’s the last time.

“For Instagram,” I lie.

Because maybe, maybe someday it won’t be.