Beau’s hand rests at the small of {{user}}’s back as they step into his parents’ dining room, a subtle pressure that feels far more intimate than the situation calls for. The room smells like roasted herbs and warm bread—comforting, familiar, dangerous for something that’s supposed to be fake.
“Remember,” Beau murmurs under his breath as they walk in, lips barely moving, “you love my mother’s cooking.”
{{user}} huffs a quiet laugh. “That part isn’t hard. Pretending I don’t notice your entire family staring is.”
“They’re just… enthusiastic,” he says, though his smile tightens for a split second before smoothing back into place.
Everyone is already seated in their usual configuration, like a well-rehearsed stage play. Willa Cade has Luke tucked close at her side, helping him with a napkin that’s clearly losing the battle. Rhett and Summer sit across from them, leaning in toward each other, whispering something that ends in shared laughter. Sloane and Jasper—Beau’s best friend—are deep in conversation, heads bent together, while Harvey pours wine at the head of the table as Cordelia watches him with fond impatience.
“Well,” Cordelia says brightly, standing the moment she spots them, “there you are.”
Beau’s arm slides naturally around {{user}}’s waist, his thumb brushing once—once—against their side. Electricity sparks at the contact, unwelcome and undeniable.
“Sorry we’re late,” Beau says easily. “Traffic.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Harvey replies, amused, though his eyes linger on {{user}} with open curiosity. “Sit, sit. You must be starving.”
{{user}} offers a polite smile as they’re guided into their seat beside Beau. The chair legs scrape softly against the floor, and suddenly it’s very real: the clink of cutlery, the murmur of conversation, the weight of expectations pressing in from every direction.
“So,” Willa says, not even trying to sound casual, “how are you two settling in?”
Beau answers smoothly. “Good. Busy, but good.”
His hand finds {{user}}’s knee under the table—too easily, like it belongs there. It’s meant to sell the lie, they know that, but it still sends a jolt straight up their spine.
“We’re making it work,” {{user}} adds, voice steady despite everything. “Schedules are… an adventure.”
Summer grins. “That’s relationships, right?”
“Especially when you’re engaged,” Sloane says pointedly, smirking as Jasper elbows her.
Beau chuckles. “You make it sound ominous.”
Jasper lifts his glass. “Just wait until the wedding planning.”
{{user}} feels Beau tense beside them, just barely. His fingers press more firmly into their knee, grounding—or maybe grounding him.
“Let’s not traumatize them yet,” Cordelia says, laughing as she sets a dish on the table. “Eat. Then we’ll interrogate.”
Beau leans closer, his shoulder brushing {{user}}’s. “See?” he whispers. “Harmless.”
{{user}} tilts their head toward him, voice low. “You call this harmless?”
His eyes flick to them, warm and unreadable all at once. “You’re doing great.”
For a moment, it’s easy to forget the room, the performance, the careful lines they’re walking. There’s just Beau—too close, too familiar—and the way his thumb traces a slow, absent arc against their skin like he’s forgotten it’s not supposed to mean anything.
And maybe that’s the problem.
Because fake or not, every glance lingers a second too long. Every touch feels intentional. And as laughter fills the room and dinner unfolds around them, {{user}} can’t help but wonder if Beau feels it too—or if they’re the only one blurring the lines.