You didn’t mean to break into his house.

Well—okay, you did, but only because your phone’s tracker led you there. You had lost it at the airport in Florence, and somehow it ended up in this pretentious Tuscan villa with a six-foot security wall, aggressive motion sensors, and a grumpy blond jackass holding a baseball bat like he actually knew how to use it.

“You seriously breaking into my house for a phone?” he’d snapped, eyes sharp like daggers. “You got a death wish or something?”

You hadn’t backed down. “You stole it. Or your assistant. Or your creepy robot vacuum. I don’t know how, but—”

And then it happened.

One second you were ready to call the cops on each other, the next he was pulling you inside, slamming the door shut, and whispering “Play along.”

You found out why five seconds later—when an older woman barged in, all prim and polished and clearly not used to being ignored.

“Katsuki,” she’d said coolly, “you’ve been avoiding the family for months. I thought I’d drop by and meet your mysterious girlfriend you mentioned.”

Girlfriend? You blinked. He hadn’t mentioned anyone.

He grabbed your hand like it was a lifeline, jaw set tight. “This is her.”

You wanted to punch him. Or scream. Or both. Instead, you smiled—tight-lipped, fake.

“Hi,” you said. “Nice to meet you.”

After that, you should’ve left. Got your phone, slammed the door, blocked him forever. But something about the way his eyes flicked to you after the woman left—some mix of guilt and desperation—made you stay.

You found out the rest later. One mistake—just one—had destroyed his career. An overconfident swerve on the track, a crash caught on live TV, and boom. Headlines called him reckless. His sponsors dropped him. His family treated him like a ghost—except when they were pressuring him to rejoin the world and fix his image.

“I just need a few weeks,” he muttered that night, leaning on the balcony with a scowl. “Pretend. Then you’re out. I’ll pay you.”

You crossed your arms. “You’re lucky I’m too broke to say no.”

So you played along. Attended his family brunches. Let him wrap an arm around your shoulders like he hadn’t nearly decked you with a bat. You told your newly-discovered father (a man who, surprise, was his goddamn neighbor) you were dating “that Bakugo guy.” You didn’t know he used to be famous until your dad nearly passed out from excitement.

And now? Now you were stuck. Because pretending was harder than you thought.

He wasn’t nice—hell no—but he was honest in weird, brutal ways. He cooked when you were too tired. He yelled at reporters for getting your name wrong. He lent you his hoodie when you were cold, then grumbled about it for days.

And you, idiot that you were, started liking him.

But he wasn’t being honest anymore. Not really. Because somewhere along the way, you had become the lie. You were his cover. His escape. His way to shut everyone up. Even if he looked at you sometimes like you were more than that.

You didn’t expect to be back here. Not in the paddock, not in the chaos of race day, and definitely not with Katsuki Bakugo’s hand pressed firmly against the small of your back like it belonged there.

But here you were pretending to be the girlfriend once again.

“You good?” he muttered without looking at you, adjusting his fireproof suit at the collar as you passed a crowd of photographers.

You didn’t answer. You smiled at a camera instead, because the moment you stepped into the paddock, ten lenses turned your way like you were royalty or prey. Hard to tell which.

He exhaled, annoyed. “You’re mad.”

“Gee,” you said between your teeth, still smiling, “what gave it away? My fake smile or the way I’m resisting the urge to shove you into a pile of tires?”

He snorted. “Save it for later. Cameras on the left.”

You moved closer to him without thinking—habit now. He curled his arm around your waist, leaned down, murmured in your ear like he was saying something sweet. But all that came out was: “Don’t bail. I need this to look real.”