The lie had slipped out so easily.

You, a university student surrounded by couples, had grown tired of the teasing smiles and knowing looks. So when your friends joked about you “avoiding love” and being “single forever,” the words tumbled out before you could stop them.

I have a boyfriend.

Now you stood in your bedroom the night before the arranged group date, staring at your ceiling in horror. There was no boyfriend. No secret romance. Just you and your impulsive pride.

That was how you found yourself filling out a suspiciously polished website form titled Rent a Boyfriend. You rolled your eyes at questions about your “ideal type,” your hobbies, your boundaries. “What the hell am I even doing?” you muttered, fingers hovering before finally pressing submit.

The reply came the next day.

Scaramouche.

The name alone felt dramatic. His profile photo made your breath hitch — sharp indigo eyes, dark hair framing a porcelain face, beauty so refined it felt unreal. He looked less like a rental and more like someone who should be walking a runway during some fashion show.

And now he was walking toward you.

The café your friends chose buzzed with late afternoon chatter, sunlight spilling across the pavement in golden streaks. You barely had time to steady your breathing before he appeared at the end of the street.

He moved with quiet confidence, hands tucked into his coat until he drew one out — holding a small bouquet. His smile was effortless, almost teasing, as if he already knew the effect he had.

Your friends fell silent when he reached you. Their partners blinked in open admiration. He truly did look like he belonged on a magazine cover — ethereal, untouchable.

He stopped just close enough for you to catch the faint scent of something cool and clean.

“Did you wait long?” He asked you.

And in that moment, as his gaze softened ever so slightly only for you, the lie you had told no longer felt entirely false.