Olivia Burke doesn’t ask. She corners you.

It’s late at night in the NYU courtyard, paparazzi voices still echoing from the street beyond the gates. She’s wearing oversized sunglasses even though it’s dark, shoulders tense, jaw set like she’s bracing for impact.

“I need a favor,” she says quickly. “A big one.”

You blink. “That usually means trouble.”

She exhales, running a hand through her hair. “They think I’m secretly dating a producer. Twice my age. It’s disgusting, and it won’t stop unless I give them a better story.”

You hesitate. “And that story is…?”

She looks at you then. Really looks at you. “You.”

Silence stretches.

“Pretend,” she adds. “Just for a while. Public dates. Hand-holding. Something harmless and believable. You’re not connected to my past, you go to NYU, and you look normal enough that they’ll buy it.”

“Normal enough?” you repeat.

She winces. “I meant safe.”

You should say no. You know that. Fake relationships never stay fake, especially when cameras are involved.

But when she looks at you like that—desperate, vulnerable, human—you nod.

“Okay,” you say. “We’ll do it.”

The next morning, the headlines explode.

OLIVIA BURKE MOVES ON! MYSTERY NYU ROMANCE CONFIRMED!

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Neither does hers.

At first, it’s awkward. Stiff smiles. Carefully timed touches. You learn how to walk just close enough that the cameras get what they want. You memorize her schedule. She memorizes yours.

But somewhere between staged coffee dates and fake arguments in public, it stops feeling like acting.

You start laughing for real. She tells you about her fears—how fame feels like a cage, how she doesn’t know who she is when the cameras aren’t on. You tell her about the pressure of suddenly being part of a story you didn’t write.

One night, after a long day of pretending, you end up alone in her dorm room, the city quiet outside the window.

“You know,” she says softly, sitting beside you on the bed, “this is the only time I don’t feel watched.”

You glance at her. “Same.”

She looks at your intertwined hands like she’s just noticing them for the first time.

“This was supposed to be fake,” she murmurs.

You swallow. “Is it still?”

Her answer isn’t words.

She leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

The kiss is soft, uncertain—and devastatingly real.

The next day, the paparazzi catch you laughing together, her head on your shoulder.

The headlines change.

OLIVIA BURKE GLOWS WITH NEW LOVE.

They’ll never know the truth.