The golden hour bathed the quiet cul-de-sac in soft amber light, stretching long shadows across the pavement and painting everything in a hazy, cinematic glow.

You sat shoulder to shoulder with Wes Bennett on the weathered front porch, half-eaten sandwiches on paper plates beside you, forgotten in favor of the heavy quiet hanging between you. The breeze tugged gently at the hem of your t-shirt, and the air was thick with late-summer stillness.

Your elbows brushed occasionally, an accidental rhythm neither of you commented on. For years, this porch had been the battlefield for water balloon wars, petty dares, and ridiculous arguments about whose dog was smarter. But now, the silence felt different. He felt different.

The plan had started like a joke—Wes, the irritating boy next door with too much charm and not enough boundaries, agreeing to fake-date you to help catch Michael’s eye. But nothing about this moment felt fake. Not the subtle glances he kept sneaking your way, not the way your pulse kicked up every time your legs touched. Not the way your stomach fluttered even in the quiet.

This wasn’t supposed to feel real.

Yet here you were, on the porch you’d shared since childhood, caught in the middle of something that looked an awful lot like more than pretend. You were supposed to be thinking about Michael. About impressing him. Winning him over.

Instead, all you could think about was Wes. The way he was quieter now. The way his jokes had softened into something careful. The way he looked at you like you weren’t just part of the plan—you were the plan.

And that scared you more than anything.

Because somewhere between fake smiles and staged hand-holding, it stopped feeling like a rom-com setup.

And started feeling like the beginning of something real.