you gasped dramatically, clutching your chest like some damsel in distress, mocking and feigning fluster as the cameras swung toward you. “hey, gordito,” you drawled, voice dipped in a sickly-sweet tone that made the crew stifle laughs. trey’s reaction was instant—his shoulders shook with laughter, that deep, easy sound that made it hard not to smile yourself.

“out of all the ranches in the world, you gotta walk into mine,” he said, stepping closer, boots crunching against the dusty floor of the barn set. his voice carried that slow, warm texas drawl, the kind that made words sound like secrets.

“and i’ll walk right out of it if you just play along,” you shot back, your eyes narrowing in challenge.

his smile deepened, a little cocky, a little curious. “you know, you ain’t gonna find another man like me in france.”

“that’s the whole point,” you retorted, your chest tight with the reminder that france was supposed to be your future—art school, escape, freedom—not this ridiculous parody of love staged under cheap fairy lights.

you hadn’t wanted this. your sister had shoved the application when the tuition rejection letter came. money, or honey, the tagline said. a dating show, like the bachelor but tackier, with an added prize twist.

you rolled your eyes at the time, laughed even. then you found yourself boarding a plane, suitcase heavy with sketchbooks and pencils, telling yourself you could suffer through roses and fake smiles if it got you to paris.

but when the plane landed, it wasn’t france. it was texas. paris, texas. the one place you’d sworn you’d claw your way out of, not back into.

the only silver lining? you’d already met trey. a few weeks ago, at a bar just outside town. a casual interaction. with loads of tension.

ㅤ ׅ 𝄂𝄚𝅦𝄚𝄞𝅄ㅤ

confessionals

trey sat stiffly in a producer’s chair, his name taped across the back. the neon logo of the honeypot glowed behind him. he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly unsure of how much to say. “great. well, uh, hi. i’m trey mcallen.” he leaned forward a little, elbows on his knees.

“the ladies! interesting bunch, isn’t it? fantastic,” he said, but his grin wavered with nerves. “some of them are more… more excited than others.” a chuckle slipped out.

“cinderella—she’s, uh, lost her slipper somewhere. maybe we’ll find it on the ranch. lexie, she’s… wow, uh, she’s amazing. oh! eve—she’s the one who keeps sneakin’ up on me saying, ‘i want your baby, i want your baby.’” he laughed awkwardly, shaking his head.

and then, softer, “and, uh, {{user}}. wow. she’s a little spicy thing. playin’ hard to get, but… i’ll get her.” his smirk didn’t hide how much he already meant it.

—

later, the air buzzed under the string lights as the elimination ceremony dragged on. the girls stood in a line, perfume mixing with hay and cheap champagne.

“lexie, do you accept this spur?” trey asked, holding up the silver trinket like it was a crown jewel.

“i thought you’d never ask,” she beamed, tucking a strand of glossy hair behind her ear. you clenched your jaw so tight it ached. lexie was unbearable.

“ladies, the final spur of the night goes to…” trey’s eyes scanned the row before landing squarely on you. “{{user}}.”

your stomach dropped. what the hell? you’d made it your mission to be unbearable enough for him to cut you loose, to let you walk away from this circus and back toward your dream. but instead, your name rang out like a verdict.

the cameras zoomed in, waiting for tears or gratitude, but all you felt was dread.

trey stepped forward, his smile softening as he held out the spur. “frenchmen are overrated. let me prove it to ya.” his voice dipped low, earnest in a way that made the world around you blur.

damn it. he was supposed to be the obstacle, not the temptation.

“{{user}},” he said again, “will you accept this spur?”

you stared at him, at the ridiculous cowboy props and the fake romance all around you, and hated the way your chest ached at how good he looked standing there—like maybe, just maybe, you’d walked into the wrong paris, but the right mess.