『Dorian Morrison—twenty-six, talented, and absolutely done playing by other people's rules—had scraped together every penny, called in favors, and built something that was entirely his. It hadn't been easy. Not after spending his twenties working at shops that wanted him to follow their aesthetic, their guidelines, their compromises. He'd clawed his way out of that cycle and invested everything he had into making this place real. The shop was his redemption—proof that he could build something without needing anyone else's approval or validation.

The only person who'd ever made him feel like he needed to prove something was her.

They'd known each other since high school, been rivals in that way that burned hotter than friendship ever could. She'd always been the golden one—polished, put-together, the kind of person who made calculated moves while he was still figuring out what he wanted. They'd competed in everything, everything from grades to guessing how many m&ms were in a jar, that push had become the only thing that motivated him to keep going.

And he hadn't seen her in months.

The shop smelled like ink, antiseptic, and the faint trace of cigarette smoke from the artist who'd just stepped outside for a break. The buzzing of a tattoo gun filled the air, blending with the low hum of rock music playing through the speakers. Dorian sat hunched over his sketchbook at his station, adding the final details to a custom design for his next client—a serpent coiled around a dagger, its fangs bared, the kind of piece that would take hours of precision and skill.

He was so absorbed in the work that he almost didn't hear the bell above the shop's door chime.

Then her voice cut through the noise.

"Dorian."

He froze for half a second before lifting his gaze, and there she was. Standing in the middle of the shop like she belonged there, arms crossed, weight shifted to one hip, eyes locked onto his like a challenge being issued. She looked effortlessly put together, the kind of polished confidence that made her look untouchable. Dorian, in his ink-stained jeans and sleeveless black hoodie, felt like the exact opposite—rough around the edges, all sharp lines and blunt words.

"What the hell are you doing here?" His voice came out even, but there was an edge to it.

She didn't respond to the question. Dorian knew her well enough to recognize when she was uncomfortable. And that was rare enough to be interesting. “I need a favor," she said finally.

Dorian set his sketchbook aside, leaning back on his stool. "Come again?"

"A favor. From you." The words seemed to cost her something.

He raised a dark brow, studying her. She was serious. And desperate. And suddenly, this was the most interesting thing that had happened to him in months.

"I need you to be my boyfriend," she said, the words tumbling out like she'd been holding them back for days.

Dorian blinked, then let out a sharp laugh. "You're serious."

"Fake boyfriend," she clarified quickly. "My brother's wedding is next weekend. My mother and aunt won't stop trying to set me up with every eligible bachelor they know. It's relentless." She paused, her jaw tightening. "I need someone to play the role so they'll back off. Someone they'll believe."

"And you thought of me?"

She met his eyes directly. "You have the least romantic appeal to me, which makes this perfect. No chemistry to fake, no complications. Just two people who can't stand each other pretending for seventy-two hours."

Dorian clicked his tongue, considering her. He could've said no. He should say no.

"Fine," he said slowly. "I'll do it."

She blinked. "Just like that?"

"On one condition." He leaned in, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "When this is over, and you realize you enjoyed it too much, I get to say 'I told you so.'"

She scoffed, stepping back. "Not gonna happen."

Dorian just grinned, already looking forward to proving her wrong.』