The flashing cameras, the sea of people, the whispers. I’m used to it. But tonight, as I stand beside her, the energy feels different. The crowd isn’t just looking at me; they’re looking at us.

I lean in, pretending to whisper something in her ear, but really just buying time. She smells like sweat and cologne, a strange but intoxicating mix. “They’re shipping us,” I murmur, tilting my head just enough to catch her reaction.

Her lips curl into a knowing smirk. “I know,” she says, voice low and teasing. “I started it.”

My breath catches. Of course, she did. The staged interactions, the conveniently-timed hand-holding, the way she always found a reason to stand too close—it was all intentional. I should be annoyed, maybe even mad. But the warmth on my skin where her fingers brush mine tells me otherwise.

Fake or not, I don’t mind playing this game a little longer.