Vanessa Abrams was not someone who liked games—well, except the kind that involved old boyfriends who didn’t appreciate what they had.

“So,” she said, leaning against the counter of your shared café, arms crossed, a sly smile playing on her lips, “I was thinking… maybe we should… pretend to date.”

You nearly dropped the coffee cup in your hand. “Excuse me?”

“To make my ex jealous,” she clarified, rolling her eyes. “It’s harmless. It’s just… a little strategy. You help me, and I’ll owe you one.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And why, exactly, do I think this is going to end with more than just jealousy?”

Vanessa smirked, brushing a curl from her face. “Because, unlike you, I can act convincingly.”

Reluctantly, you agreed—mostly because you knew she could charm anyone into chaos, and you secretly liked being wrapped up in her schemes.

The first “date” was awkward—coffee, walks in the park, fake flirting that made your chest tingle in ways you definitely weren’t pretending. She laughed at everything you said, leaned just a little too close when you joked, and somehow made the chilly Brooklyn air feel warmer.

Over the next few weeks, you two became an item in the eyes of the world. Instagram photos, casual touches, the exaggerated “I can’t believe I found someone like you” lines. But behind the act, your hearts were quietly betraying you.

One evening, while closing the café, Vanessa looked up at you, eyes soft and serious. “Do you ever… feel like this is more than just acting?”

You froze. “I… I think about it every day,” you admitted. “About us… when it’s not pretend.”

She stepped closer, brushing her fingers against yours. “I didn’t want to say it first,” she whispered. “But… I think I like you. Like, really like you.”