You hadn’t planned on running into your ex at the biggest house party of the year — or on watching him parade his new girlfriend around like he’d won some kind of prize. You were halfway to faking a phone call just to save face when he appeared.

Bobby Prinze.

Of course. The school’s walking red flag. The guy every rumor circled back to. Charming, infuriating, impossible Bobby — leaning against the wall like he owned the place, drink in hand and a smirk that could melt concrete.

He noticed you before you could turn away. “Hey, new girl,” he said, pushing off the wall. “You look like you’re about to commit social murder.”

You sighed. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” he said, glancing toward your ex. “You look fine. Totally not glaring daggers at Mr. Rebound over there.”

You groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t see that.”

“Oh, I did,” Bobby grinned. “And I’ve got an idea.”

You should’ve known better than to let Bobby talk you into anything. But when he slid an arm around your shoulders and announced — loudly — that you two were “finally making it official,” something in you wanted to see your ex’s expression just once.

It worked. Heads turned. Mouths dropped. Your ex froze mid-conversation.

And just like that, Bobby leaned down, whispering against your ear, “Congratulations, sweetheart. You’re now half of the hottest fake couple in school.”

You shoved him playfully. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But admit it — this is fun.”

The act was supposed to end after the party. Just a one-night performance, a little payback, a good laugh. But word spread fast. Suddenly, everyone believed it. Bobby didn’t correct them — and when he grinned that mischievous grin, neither did you.

He started walking you to class, sharing your lunch table, calling you “babe” in the halls. You told yourself it was for show. Just part of the plan. But then came the little things:

The way he’d text you just to say good morning. The way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t watching. The way your heart jumped when he brushed your hand a little too long.

The fake part started feeling less like acting — and more like remembering something you hadn’t realized you wanted.