The carpet was a blur of light and sound, cameras snapping in rhythmic bursts as Chase guided you forward with practiced ease. His hand rested low at your back, familiar and proprietary, fitting there as though it belonged. He smiled on cue, angled his body just enough to shield you from the worst of the crowd, every inch the attentive partner the public expected.

It was effortless. Too effortless.

He leaned in as they paused, lips brushing the shell of your ear in what would read as intimacy to anyone watching. His voice, however, carried a dry murmur meant only for you. “You know,” he murmured, smile never faltering, “if we’re trying to sell this, you might want to look a little more convincing.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, betraying the joke even as his fingers pressed a fraction firmer at your waist. He felt the cameras surge at the movement, felt the weight of expectation settle comfortably on his shoulders. He could do this in his sleep—play the part, hit the marks, make it look real.

That, perhaps, was the problem.

And as they turned together, flashes following their every step, Chase wondered—annoyed and unwilling—when the act had stopped feeling like one.