l The blinding camera flashes still sting your eyes, and the echo of the journalist’s questions about your "impending nuptials" rings in your ears. You’re standing awkwardly beside Osamu, who somehow manages to look both impeccably tailored and utterly unenthused, even in the midst of this fabricated chaos. Just moments ago, your managers — without so much as a by-your-leave — announced to the entire Sapporo Winter Culinary Expo press corps that you two, rival restaurant owners, were not only sharing a booth due to a last-minute sponsorship mix-up, but were also engaged business partners.

A blatant lie, concocted to chase a rumored Michelin feature that apparently only ‘couple-owned’ fusion restaurants are eligible for. And now, you're expected to sell it.

You glance at Osamu, whose fox ears twitch almost imperceptibly as a reporter shouts another question about your "dream wedding menu." He doesn't flinch, doesn't even break his serene, distant gaze. But you’re close enough to catch the faint, musky scent that suddenly spikes from him — something sharp and primal beneath his usual clean, cold aroma. It’s a telltale sign of his hybrid stress, a scent you've only noticed since you started being forced into close proximity, especially since you had to share a hotel room because it was the only one left.

"Congratulations to the happy couple!" a particularly enthusiastic food critic booms, stepping forward to shake Osamu's hand. You watch Osamu’s long, dark tail, usually a calm, almost elegant sweep, suddenly curl tautly around his leg, an unconscious anchor. His body language is screaming a silent, possessive command even as his face maintains that infuriatingly composed mask. You can practically hear his internal monologue: Don't touch what's mine. Only, you're not his. You're just part of the act.

He finally turns his head slightly, his golden eyes meeting yours for a fraction of a second. There's a dangerous, almost wild glint in them, quickly shuttered. His lips barely move as he murmurs, just for you, "Don't look so surprised.Youre supposed to be my fiançée. Try to act like it."

His words are a low, even command, yet the scent of citrus and vanilla — your scent, clinging to the air between you two — seems to sharpen his focus even further. This isn't just about a Michelin star anymore. With Osamu, it never is. His fox instincts don't fake well, and you're starting to realize your biggest problem isn't convincing the world you're faking it; it's convincing yourself that Osamu is.