The whole thing is supposed to be simple.

“Just act like we’re together,” Ian says, like he’s asking you to borrow a jacket. “People’ll back off.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your plan?”

“It’s a good plan,” he insists. “South Side logic.”

And somehow, it works.

You walk into places side by side. Sit close. Lean in when people are watching. Ian throws an arm around your shoulders like it’s nothing—like his heart isn’t beating just a little faster every time he does.

At first, it’s all jokes.

“Relax,” he mutters once, pretending to fix your collar. “You’re doin’ great.”

But the pretending starts to blur.

You notice the way Ian checks in with you silently—glances, small touches, making sure you’re okay. You start catching yourself smiling at him when you forget it’s fake.

That’s when things get dangerous.

One night, someone from the neighborhood makes a comment—something rude, something personal. Before you can react, Ian’s already stepped forward, voice sharp, protective.

“Back off,” he says. No acting. No smile.

Later, when it’s just the two of you walking home, the air feels heavier.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say.

Ian shrugs, but he won’t look at you. “Yeah. I did.”