The café was loud, all clinking cups and whispered gossip, but your world had shrunk to the seat across from you. The boy with the tousled hair and teasing smirk leaned forward, elbows on the table like he owned it—and maybe he did. Or maybe he was just used to the spotlight following him everywhere.

“Just one video,” he said, brushing a crumb off his hoodie. “Pretend to be my girlfriend. Two minutes, tops.”

You scoffed. “And then what? Your toxic fanbase torches my socials?” He grinned. “We’ll split the ad revenue.”

You should’ve walked away. Should’ve rolled your eyes, flipped your latte in his lap, and left. But there was something in his eyes—mischief laced with something softer. Something...lonely. So you did it.

One take. His arm slung over your shoulder, your laugh too real, his gaze lingering too long. You posted it on your account, told yourself it was all for show.

It went viral overnight. The comments were a storm—shipping names, fan edits, people analyzing the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

And maybe you didn’t notice your pupils dilating every time he leaned closer. Maybe you didn’t mean to smile like that. But he noticed.

“Damn,” he said one night, scrolling through your comment section. “You always this good at pretending?” You blinked. Swallowed. Laughed it off.But the next time he reached for your hand, you didn’t pull away.