The aftershock of the race still hummed under my skin as the elevator doors sighed shut. I leaned against the cool metal, stealing small, guilty looks at {{user}}. Her thumb moved across her phone like a metronome, the screen’s pale light catching the stray strands of hair that had escaped whatever practiced updo she’d worn. She looked unraveled in the best way—not polished for anyone’s lens, just human. A quiet smile hovered at the corner of her mouth, private and steady, and for a moment the cacophony of cameras and expectations felt miles away.

God, I was screwed.

It had been supposed to be tidy: a staged relationship to smooth the headlines, a neat label that read Responsible Adult — not the man who showed up hungover at every party. She’d said yes for reasons of her own reputation-control; I’d agreed because it was easier than facing the real thing. Months of rehearsed dinners and public embraces had blurred the edges between pretend and honest. Now, the jokes we flung at each other felt like confessions. Her casual brushes against my arm landed like soft truths. Every small grin she offered was a map I didn’t know how to read without getting lost.

The elevator dinged. The corridor smelled faintly of lemon polish and the hotel’s signature cologne. I followed her down the hall, moving on instinct rather than thought. She slid her card through the lock with an automatic flick, the door yawning open. Before she could step inside, I reached out and covered the slot with my hand.

“Stay with me tonight,” I said, voice low but urgent.

She turned, one eyebrow lifting in that precise arch that had undone me more times than I could count. “I’m a big girl, Charles. I can sleep alone.”

I closed the gap between us until the warmth from her jacket brushed my chest. “Does being a big girl mean you can’t snuggle with your boyfriend?” I asked, trying for lightness and failing in the best possible way.

A smirk tugged at her lips—playful, yet there was an edge to it that made my stomach do a quick, traitorous flip. “I don’t know the rules for fake boyfriends. Are snuggles in the contract?”

Her tease should have been a cork to what I was feeling; instead it splintered me. The line we’d agreed to keep felt thinner than tissue. My chest tightened with the effort of pretending composure. I let a crooked grin slip through and leaned in until our foreheads nearly touched, the heat between us loud as a confession.

“Snuggles are in the fine print,” I whispered. Then, because words felt too naked, I pressed a trail of light, possessive kisses—her forehead, the bridge of her nose, the apple of her cheek. She laughed—soft, crystalline—and that laughter erased the rest of the world.

“Please,” I said, my voice dropping until it was almost nothing. “Stay with me tonight.”