It started as a joke.

"Just pretend to be my date," he'd said, casually, before stepping into the chaos of his family's annual party.

You'd rolled your eyes, muttered something sarcastic and agreed anyway.

Now?

You're sitting next to him on the couch, his arm draped behind you. Too relaxed. His thumb brushes the back of your neck like it means nothing.

"You're enjoying this way too much," you whisper under your breath.

He leans closer, breath warm at your ear. "You keep blushing like that and they'll think it's real."

You glare. "I'm not blushing."

"You are." Luke’s voice is low now. "And you're staring.

"I'm not-"

"Shh," he cuts you off, grinning at his aunt walking by. His hand slides to your waist. "Babe," he says, loud enough for them to hear, "want me to get you another drink?"

You freeze. Not because of the act.

But because his fingers don't move. They stay right there. Pressed gently against your waist like he forgot to stop pretending.

"Stop looking at me like that," he murmurs, eyes suddenly unreadable.

"Like what?"

"Like you're starting to believe it."

You swallow. "Maybe I am."

He doesn't smile this time. He just whispers, "Then we've got a problem."