It was supposed to be a simple favor. A way for Macklin to escape the headlines tying his name to a dramatic, clingy influencer — and for you, the perfect excuse to finally show your ex you’d moved on. A mutual agreement. Two friends. Zero risk.

“Just until the season starts,” he said, leaning against your apartment door, cap turned backward, wearing that smile like nothing ever really bothered him. “We post a couple photos, show up together at a game, and that’s it. Everyone buys it.”

You laughed, a little skeptical. “And what about when people start asking how we met? When our first kiss was?”

He shrugged. “We make it up. You’re good at that.”

At first, it was easy. Heart emoji texts, holding hands in public, him waiting for you after work with coffee in hand. The laughs were real. The conversations too. But something shifted the night he showed up at your building after a game, still sweaty, eyes brighter than ever.

“They were screaming your name in the stands,” he said, breathless, like running to you was part of the training. “I almost scored just to impress you.”

You laughed, but it came out softer than it should have. “It’s fake, remember? No need to impress me.”

“Right,” he muttered, looking away. “Fake.”

But his hand lingered just a second longer on your waist when someone took a photo at the café. And his eyes dropped to your lips when you told a dumb joke in the middle of the night. When your ex liked one of the photos and sent you a message, Macklin saw it before you did — and stayed quiet the rest of the evening.

The deal was simple. No jealousy. No feelings. Just pretend.

But Macklin started replying faster. Memorizing your order at restaurants. Waiting for you to smile back with your eyes, not just your mouth.

The problem wasn’t that the plan was falling apart.

The problem was that he wanted it to.