The Week We Faked It All

The text message arrived at 2:47 AM on a Tuesday, long after I'd given up on sleep and surrendered to the hypnotic glow of infomercials for knives that could cut through shoes. I have a proposition that might interest you. Are you awake?

I stared at Sloane's name on my screen, my thumb hovering. We'd been friends since college—close enough that she'd been my emergency contact for three years running, distant enough that we hadn't spoken in four months. The kind of friendship that existed in the spaces between real life, when one of us remembered to reach across the void. My own life had become a series of voids lately: a studio apartment that smelled like takeout and regret, a marketing job that paid the bills but scraped my soul raw, and a dating app rotation that felt like interviewing for a position nobody really wanted to fill.

Barely, I typed back. What's up?

Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again. Then: I need you to be my boyfriend for a week. My family reunion. I'll pay you. Five thousand dollars.

I laughed—actually laughed out loud in my empty apartment. The radiator clanked in response, my only witness. Is this a prank?

Dead serious. My ex will be there with his new fiancée. I can't show up alone. Again. Please, Jamie.

The please did me in. I'd seen Sloane navigate the world like she was born knowing its secrets—confident stride, sharp tongue, the kind of laugh that made heads turn. But that please cracked something open, revealed the raw desperation underneath. I thought about the five thousand dollars. It was exactly the amount I needed to pay off the last of my student loans, to finally feel the click of a door closing behind me.

Why me?

Because you're safe. You know me. And my family already loves you from graduation and that wedding we went to together. It wouldn't be a hard sell.

I thought about the photos she'd posted from last year's reunion—her surrounded by aunts and cousins, all of them wearing matching t-shirts, everyone coupled up except her. The comments underneath: Still single, honey? I know this nice boy from church. Tick tock, sweetheart.

When?

Next week. Vermont. Please say yes.

I should have asked more questions. Should have negotiated terms, boundaries, what "boyfriend" entailed beyond hand-holding. Instead, I typed: Deal.

Her response came immediately: You're saving my life.

---

The lie began in the airport security line, where Sloane grabbed my hand like she'd been doing it for years. Her palm was damp, her grip possessive in a way that made my skin prickle with something I couldn't name. I’d forgotten how small her hands were, how the bones felt like bird wings under my fingers.

"Remember," she murmured, leaning close enough that her breath tickled my ear and carried the scent of her mint gum, "we've been dating for six months. You work in marketing. We met at that coffee shop near your office. The cute one with the terrible poetry readings."

"I remember the script." I squeezed her fingers, testing the weight of this new intimacy. "Relax. We’ve got this."

"Easy for you to say. You've never seen my Aunt Carol cry into her wine about my biological clock while comparing me to her prize-winning tomatoes that ‘bloomed late but produced such hearty fruit.’"

The flight to Burlington passed in a blur of preparation. Sloane quizzed me on details—my favorite color (navy blue), my coffee order (black, no sugar), the scar on my chin (bike accident, age twelve). By the time we landed, I felt like I'd memorized a character study rather than a person. She, in turn, told me things I should already know: that she was terrified of moths, that she took her tea with honey but never sugar, that the mole on her left shoulder was new and she was keeping an eye on it.

"You okay?" she asked as we waited at baggage claim, her shoulder brushing mine as she scanned the carousel. "You've gone quiet."

"Just getting into character. It’s a lot of backstory."

She studied my face, her expression unreadable. "This is going to work, right? I mean, we haven't even discussed... logistics. Sleeping arrangements, PDA limits... all that."

I hadn't thought about it, not really. "We’ll figure it out. Whatever you’re comfortable with. It’s your show."

She bit her lip, a nervous habit I’d forgotten. "What if I’m not sure what I’m comfortable with anymore?"

"Then we play it by ear. And I promise, I won’t cross any lines you don’t draw first." I meant it as reassurance, but it hung between us like a challenge.

She smiled, bright and a little brittle. "Lady, for five grand, I'll convince them we're soulmates."

Something flickered across her features—disappointment, maybe, or resignation. Then she nodded. "That's the spirit."

---

The lake house materialized through a tunnel of maple trees, all weathered shingles and wraparound porch. It looked like something from a magazine—carefully curated rustic charm, the kind of place that could weather any storm. I wondered if the family inside would be as solid as the foundation.

"Deep breath," Sloane whispered, her hand finding mine again. Her fingers were cold. "Here we go."

The front door burst open before we reached the steps. People spilled across the porch—aunts, uncles, cousins, small children darting between legs. The volume level suggested a party already in progress, though it was barely past lunch.

"Sloane! Finally!" A woman who shared her cheekbones swept her into a hug, then turned to me with predatory interest. "And this must be..."

"Jamie." Sloane's voice carried a note I'd never heard—soft, almost shy. "My boyfriend."

The word hung between us, foreign and weighty. I felt everyone processing this information, recalibrating their expectations. The single cousin had brought someone. Alert the media.

"Well, come here and let me look at you." Sloane's mother—Meredith, she had the same eyes, the same way of tilting her head—grabbed my face with both hands. Her palms were warm and smelled of lemon verbena. "Finally, someone who can handle our girl."

"Mom." Sloane's protest was automatic, but she didn't let go of my hand. Instead, she leaned into me, her hip pressing against mine. A signal. A claim.

The afternoon dissolved into controlled chaos. Introductions blurred together—so many names, so many connections. I smiled until my cheeks ached, answered variations of "What do you do?" and "How did you meet?" until the responses felt natural. Sloane stayed close, her hand settling naturally at the small of my back, her laugh warmer than I'd remembered. I found my own hand resting on her shoulder, my thumb absently stroking the bare skin above her collar. It felt less like an act and more like a discovery.

During a lull, as we fetched drinks from the cooler on the porch, her cousin Leo, a guy with an easy smile, clapped me on the back. "So you're the one who finally caught her. How'd you manage it? She's been a fortress since Marcus."

I glanced at Sloane, who was watching us, a slight tension in her jaw. I slipped my arm around her waist, pulling her close. Her body was warm and pliant against my side. "Just got lucky, I guess. She walked into the wrong coffee shop on the right day."

Sloane relaxed, her head tipping against my shoulder for a moment. "He spilled a full latte on my laptop. It was a very expensive meet-cute."

"You're good at this," she murmured later, during a brief moment alone in the kitchen as we refilled a chip bowl.

"Years of client dinners. Same principle—smile, nod, pretend you're fascinated by stories you've heard before."

She poured lemonade into mismatched glasses, her movements efficient. The sunlight through the window caught the fine hairs on her arm, turning them to gold. "Still. Thank you. You're... a natural. It doesn't feel like you're pretending."

"Five thousand dollars, remember? I'm earning every penny." I meant it as a joke, a reminder of our contract, but it landed wrong.

Again, that flicker across her face. She handed me a glass, her fingers brushing mine. A jolt, simple and electric, shot up my arm. "Right. Business arrangement."

---

The sleeping situation was negotiated in hushed tones in the upstairs hallway, surrounded by the distant sounds of a poker game and someone practicing the guitar badly.

"Every bed is taken," Sloane said, her voice low. "It's the pull-out in the den or the floor. And if we take the floor, they'll definitely know something's up."

"So, the pull-out it is." I ran a hand through my hair. "Look, we can build a pillow wall. Or I can sleep on top of the covers. Whatever you need."

She looked at me, her gaze searching. "What do you need, Jamie? This is weird for you too."

"I need to not make you uncomfortable. That's the priority."

She nodded slowly. "No pillow wall. But... let's just take it slow. See how it goes."

The den was dark, lit only by a small lamp we turned off as soon as the door was closed. The pull-out couch was as lumpy as promised. We changed in the bathroom down the hall—me in boxers and a t-shirt, her in soft, grey pajama pants and a thin, worn tank top that revealed the delicate straps of her bra and the elegant line of her neck. I tried not to stare at the curve of her shoulder, the way her hair fell across her collarbone, but in the small room, there was nowhere else to look.

"Left side or right?" I asked, my voice sounding too loud.

"Depends. Are you a cuddler?" The question hung between us, loaded with implications we hadn't discussed. This was the part of pretending that required actual contact—not the casual touches of public performance, but the intimate negotiations of sleeping arrangements.

"I can stay on my side," I said. "Scout's honor."

She laughed softly, the sound like dark velvet. "I was never a scout."

We settled like strangers sharing a train seat—careful not to touch, careful not to breathe too loudly. The house creaked around us, full of sleeping people who believed we were in love. The scent of her—clean cotton and something sweet, maybe her shampoo—filled the small space between us. I was acutely aware of the heat radiating from her body, just inches from mine.

"Jamie?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"My ex—his name is Marcus. He'll be here tomorrow with his fiancée. She's perfect, apparently. Teaches yoga, makes her own granola, wants four kids."

"You want kids?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Eventually. It's just—everyone's so disappointed that I'm not her. That I'm still me, still single, still focused on work like it's some character flaw." She shifted, and her foot brushed against my leg under the sheets. She didn't pull it away. The contact was a point of searing warmth.

I rolled onto my side, facing her in the darkness. I could just make out the pale oval of her face. "Your work matters. What you've built... it's incredible."

"You don't have to say that."

"I'm not. I mean it. You built that company from nothing. You're successful. That's not nothing. It's everything." The words felt truer than anything I’d said all day. I’d seen her hustle in college, burning the midnight oil while the rest of us goofed off. Her ambition wasn’t a flaw; it was her architecture.

She was quiet for a long moment. Then her hand moved under the covers, her fingers finding my wrist. She didn't hold it, just rested her fingertips on my pulse point, as if checking for a heartbeat. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For making this sound real. Even just for tonight."

Her fingers stayed there until her breathing evened out into sleep. I lay awake for a long time, feeling the gentle pressure of her touch, the rhythm of her breath, the entire universe narrowed to the space of a double bed.

---

Marcus arrived the next morning like a storm front—noticeable before visible, changing the atmospheric pressure. I watched Sloane's spine straighten when she spotted him through the kitchen window, her coffee cup freezing halfway to her lips.

"He's here," she said unnecessarily, her knuckles white on the mug.

I moved behind her, my hands settling naturally on her hips. I could feel the tension coiled in her muscles. I bent my head, my lips close to her ear. "Showtime. And remember, you’re not the one who lost something here."

She leaned back into me, just for a second, her head resting against my chest. A moment of solidarity. Then she straightened, took a deep breath, and turned with a smile already plastered on her face.

Marcus was tall in that way that made average-height people feel like they'd failed a test. Perfect teeth, perfect hair, the kind of casual confidence that suggested he'd never questioned his place in the world. His fiancée—Chloe—was exactly as advertised: blonde, glowing, the human equivalent of a Pinterest board. She clung to his arm with a proprietary ease that made my jaw tighten.

"Sloane!" His voice carried across the lawn. "You look... different."

I felt Sloane tense beside me, then force herself to relax. Her fingers found mine, lacing tightly. "Different good or different bad?"

"Just... relaxed. Happy." His gaze shifted to me, sharpened, assessing. "And this must be..."

"Jamie. Her boyfriend." I extended my hand, let him feel the claim in my grip, held it a beat too long.

The weekend crystallized around that moment—us versus them, real versus fake, past versus present. We performed our roles with the dedication of method actors. I found myself watching Sloane like I'd been doing it for months, learning the small details she'd never shared: the way she chewed on her pen when she was thinking, how she hummed when she cooked, the particular shade her cheeks turned when she was genuinely pleased.

The small, charged moments multiplied. Passing each other in a narrow hallway, our bodies would brush, and we’d both freeze for a fraction of a second before moving on. While washing dishes, she’d hand me a wet plate and our fingers would slip against each other. Sitting around the campfire, my arm would go around her, and she’d tuck herself into the curve of my body, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder as naturally as if it belonged there. The scent of woodsmoke would mix with the perfume on her skin, and I’d have to concentrate to follow the conversation.

Saturday afternoon, we escaped to the dock. She stretched out on a lounger in a simple black bikini, her skin glistening with sunscreen. I pretended to read a book.

"You're staring," she murmured without opening her eyes.

"Staying in character," I said, but the excuse was wearing thin.

"Is that what this is?" She lifted her sunglasses, peering at me over the rims. Her eyes were warm and knowing.

I should have said yes. Should have kept the boundary clear. Instead, I put my book down. "I don't know anymore. I’m supposed to be watching you like a boyfriend would. But I’m starting to forget which part is the performance."

She sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. The movement made her necklace, a tiny silver feather, swing and catch the light. "It’s confusing the hell out of me, too. When you put your hand on my back, it doesn’t feel like you’re following a script. It feels... definitive."

"Maybe because it is." The admission slipped out. "Maybe I’m not pretending to be drawn to you, Sloane. Maybe I just am."

She held my gaze, the air between us thick with everything unsaid. Then, slowly, she reached out and pushed a lock of hair off my forehead, her touch lingering on my temple. "Your hair is getting long."

"It is."

"I like it." She let her hand fall, but the ghost of her touch remained, a brand on my skin.

We were already past the point of pretending. The fiction had started bleeding into reality—her hand finding mine without thought, my laughter coming easier than it had in months, the way we gravitated toward each other in every room like magnets learning their polarity.

---

Sunday dinner was a production—twenty people around a table built for twelve, passing dishes and stories in equal measure. I ended up wedged between Sloane and her grandmother, Eleanor, a formidable woman in a vibrant purple caftan who’d been asking impertinent questions since 1952 and saw no reason to stop now.

"So, young man," she said, spearing a piece of roast chicken with unnerving precision, "when are you going to make an honest woman out of our Sloane?"

The table went quiet. I felt twenty pairs of eyes settle on us like a weight. Under the table, Sloane’s hand found my knee and gripped it.

"Grandma," Sloane protested, her voice strained.

But Eleanor kept her sharp eyes on me. "Well? She’s not getting any younger, and you two look at each other like you’ve already written the vows."

I took a sip of wine, buying a second. I looked at Sloane, really looked at her. She was watching me, a plea and a challenge in her eyes. This was the test. I covered her hand on my knee with my own, feeling the delicate bones beneath my palm.

"That's up to Sloane," I said, turning back to Eleanor, meeting her gaze squarely. "I'm just grateful she hasn't figured out she could do better. And I’m in no rush. She’s worth waiting for, however long it takes."

It was the right answer—a collective sigh seemed to go around the table, smiles broke out, the conversational din resumed. But under the table, Sloane didn't remove her hand. Instead, she turned it over, palm up, inviting mine. I laced our fingers together. Her thumb traced small, secret circles on the inside of my wrist, a point of intense, hidden focus amidst the chaos. Every stroke sent a pulse of heat straight through me. We ate one-handed for the rest of the meal, a silent, intimate pact.

Later, when we were alone in the den, the door closed but not locked, the house sighing around us, she said: "You didn't have to say that. The ‘worth waiting for’ part. That was... next level."

"I know." I was leaning against the dresser, watching her fold a sweater. "But it’s true. You are."

She paused, the sweater held to her chest. "Everyone's going to expect... I mean, after a speech like that, they'll want to know what happens next. When they can expect invitations. Wedding plans."

"We'll cross that bridge when we burn it." I pushed off the dresser and walked toward her.

She laughed, but it sounded hollow. "This was supposed to be simple. A transaction."

"Nothing about you has ever been simple." I stopped in front of her, close enough to see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose that her foundation had failed to conceal, close enough to see the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat.

"Jamie," she said, and my name was a breath, a prayer.

"Yeah?"

"If I asked you to kiss me right now, would it be part of the act?" Her eyes were wide, vulnerable, completely serious.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

She studied my face like she was memorizing it, like she was trying to read the truth in the lines around my eyes. "I don't know what's real anymore. I don't know if I'm pretending because I have to or because I want to. The wanting is getting... loud."

"Same." The word was gravel in my throat. "The line is gone, Sloane. For me, it’s been gone since you fell asleep holding my wrist."

"That's not an answer to my question."

"It's the only true one I have. I can’t tell you what a kiss from me would mean, because I don’t know anymore. It wouldn’t be for them." I reached out, my hand hovering near her face, then gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingertips traced the curve of her jaw. Her skin was so soft. She leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a second.

We stayed like that, suspended in the space between question and answer. The air crackled. I could feel the heat coming off her body, smell the faint, clean scent of her skin. It would be so easy to close the distance, to finally know the taste of her.

A burst of laughter from the living room broke the spell. She opened her eyes, took a small step back, her chest rising and falling quickly. "We should... we should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."

"Yeah." My voice was rough. "Sleep."

But as we got into bed that night, the careful distance of the first night was gone. She turned on her side, facing me. I did the same. Our knees touched under the sheets. Then, tentatively, her hand came to rest on my chest, over my heart. I covered it with my own, holding it there.

"Goodnight, Jamie," she whispered.

"Goodnight, Sloane."

We fell asleep like that, a tangle of limbs and unanswered questions, the pull-out couch feeling less like neutral ground and more like the epicenter of a quiet earthquake.

---

The last night, Marcus found me alone on the porch after dinner. The house hummed with the sounds of cleanup and a heated debate about the best way to stack firewood. He handed me a beer, leaning against the railing.

"Chloe's helping with the pie," he said by way of explanation. He took a long pull from his own bottle. "You two seem good together. Really good."

"Thanks." I kept my tone neutral, watching the fireflies pulse over the dark lawn.

"It's not just for show, is it?" He wasn't looking at me; he was watching Sloane through the window. She was laughing at something her father said, her head thrown back, the light catching the graceful column of her throat. She looked radiant, unguarded. Happy in a way the photos from last year’s reunion had never captured.

I followed his gaze, my chest tightening. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I've been watching you all week. The way you look at her when she's not looking. The way you bring her coffee without her asking. The way you touch her—it's not performative. It's... protective. Reverent, almost." He finally turned to me. "When I was with her, I was always trying to sand down her edges, to make her fit into the picture I had in my head. You... you look at her like the picture is perfect because she's in it."

I didn't know what to say. He’d articulated something I hadn’t even fully admitted to myself.

He smiled, a sad, knowing thing. "I loved her, but I wanted a version of her. You just want her. That’s rare. And honestly, it’s what she deserves." He clinked his bottle against mine. "For what it's worth, I hope it works out. Whatever this is."

He went back inside, leaving me alone with the crickets and the weight of his observation. He was right. Somewhere between the airport and this porch, the assignment had evaporated. This wasn't about money or saving face anymore. It was about the woman laughing in the lit-up kitchen, and the terrifying, exhilarating realization that I wanted this—the real, complicated, magnificent her—for keeps.

The screen door creaked open behind me. "There you are." Sloane settled beside me on the step, close enough that our shoulders and thighs touched. She held two glasses of red wine. "Everything okay? You looked deep in thought."

"Marcus gave me his blessing," I said, taking the offered glass.

She snorted. "How generous of him."

"He loves you. In his way."

"In his way being the operative phrase." She took a sip of wine, then rested her head against my shoulder. The contact was simple, profound. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing. And everything." I turned my head, my lips brushing her hair. "I've been thinking about what happens tomorrow. When we go back to real life."

"Five grand and a clean break?" she asked, her voice carefully light.

"Is that what you want?"

She lifted her head, turning to face me. In the moonlight, her features were soft, her eyes pools of darkness. "I don't know what I want anymore. That's the problem. I thought I wanted to prove a point, to get through this week. Now... the thought of you getting in a cab and going back to your life, of this just... ending..." She shook her head. "It feels like a loss."

"Same." The word was a confession. "This was supposed to be simple."

A small, wry smile touched her lips. "Nothing about us has ever been simple."

Us. Not this. Not the arrangement. Us.

She stood, held out her hand. "Come to bed. Last night in the den."

I took it, let her pull me to my feet. Let her lead me inside, past the lingering family members who called sleepy goodnights, to our temporary room. We closed the door, and the world narrowed to the two of us and the hum of the old refrigerator in the corner.

We undressed in the dim light, not turning our backs, a new kind of honesty in the slow reveal. I saw the pale slope of her shoulders, the curve of her waist. She saw the planes of my chest, the old scar on my ribs. There was no rush, no awkwardness, just a quiet, mutual looking. We slid under the cool sheets, facing each other.

"Jamie?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, her breath warm on my face.

"Yeah?"

"What if we didn't pretend tomorrow? What if we just... were?" Her hand came up, her fingers tracing my eyebrow, then down my cheek. The touch was feather-light, devastating.

My heart stuttered. "You mean..."

"I mean I like having you in my bed. I like the way you look at me like I'm not broken or too much. I like the way my family looks at me when they think I'm loved. I like the way I feel when I'm pretending to be the version of me that's with you. But Jamie... I think that version is the real one. I think she only comes out when she’s with you."

"That's a lot of liking." My own hand came up to cradle her face, my thumb stroking her cheekbone. Her skin was like silk.

"It's more than that. But I'm scared to say the rest out loud."

I closed the last inch between us, my forehead resting against hers. Our noses brushed. "Say it anyway."

She took a shaky breath. "I'm falling for you. And I don't know if it's real or if it's just really good pretending, but either way, I don't want to stop. I want to see what this is when the audience goes home."

I kissed her then—not because we were performing, not because someone might see, but because the truth of her words left no other possible outcome. It was a slow, searching kiss, a question and an answer all at once. She tasted like wine and possibility, like the future we'd accidentally built out of lies. Her lips were soft, yielding, then eager. A small sound escaped her, a sigh that went straight to my core.

Her hands found my face, my shoulders, then slid down my back, pulling me closer. My own hands mapped the dip of her waist, the swell of her hip, learning her geography by touch. The thin cotton of her tank top was no barrier; I could feel the heat of her skin, the rapid beat of her heart. We kissed until we were breathless, until the world outside the room ceased to exist.

When we finally broke apart, we were wrapped around each other, legs entwined, her head on my chest. I could feel every breath she took.

"Stay," she whispered against my skin, her lips moving over my collarbone. "Not just for the week. Stay."

I tilted her chin up, making her look at me in the near-darkness. "I never left," I said, and realized with a shock of clarity that it was true. Some part of me had been waiting for her since college, a dormant seed finally cracking open in the forced sunlight of this fiction. "This is real for me, Sloane. However messy and complicated it is. It’s real."

She kissed me again, deeper this time, a seal on the promise. Our movements became less tentative, more urgent. Clothes were pushed aside, not discarded, but made irrelevant. The sensual tension of the week coalesced into a slow, aching exploration. I learned the feel of her everywhere—the sensitive hollow behind her ear, the way her back arched under my palm, the soft gasp she made when my mouth found the pulse at the base of her throat. She was generous, curious, her touches both shy and bold. She traced the lines of my muscles, learned what made me shudder. It was a conversation without words, a claiming that had nothing to do with an audience and everything to do with the two of us, alone in the dark, making something true.

Afterward, spent and tangled in the sheets that smelled of us, she traced idle patterns on my chest. "So," she said, her voice drowsy with satisfaction, "what happens in the morning?"

"We go home," I said, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Together. And we start figuring out how to be us without a script."

"Think we can manage it?"

I held her tighter, feeling the perfect weight of her in my arms. "We've been managing the impossible all week. This? This should be the easy part."

---

Monday morning came wrapped in the soft grey light of dawn and the particular melancholy of endings that are also beginnings. We packed in a comfortable silence, folding our week into suitcases, stealing glances and small touches—a hand on the lower back, a kiss on the shoulder—that were now ours to give freely.

Her mother cornered me in the kitchen while Sloane said a prolonged goodbye to her grandmother upstairs.

"You make her happy," Meredith said, pressing a travel mug of coffee into my hands. "I haven't seen her this light in years. She's not just performing for us. This is different."

"I'm glad," I said, and it was the profound truth.

She fixed me with a look that saw through walls. "This started as something else, didn't it?"

I hesitated, then met her gaze. "It did. But it's not that anymore."

She nodded slowly, a wise smile touching her lips. "Good. Don't hurt her. She's tougher than she looks, but that doesn't mean she's unbreakable. And Jamie?" She reached out, patting my cheek. "Welcome to the family. For real this time."

In the car, Sloane finally let the calm facade crack. She gripped the steering wheel, her eyes on the road but seeing something else. "We never talked about... after. The logistics. We live an hour apart. We both have insane jobs. We just jumped off a cliff holding hands."

I reached over, pried one of her hands off the wheel, and laced our fingers together. "So we'll figure it out. We'll get cliff-climbing gear. We'll take turns driving. We'll have terrible, wonderful phone calls at 2 AM. It's not a problem to be solved, Sloane. It's an adventure to be had. Together."

She pulled over onto the shoulder, threw the car in park, and turned to face me. Her eyes were bright, holding the entire week—every touch, every laugh, every secret glance, every whispered truth in the dark.

"I love you," she said, the words clear and sure, no trace of fear left. "The real you. The one who remembers how I take my tea and knows when to make me laugh and doesn't try to fix me. I love you, and I don't want to pretend anymore."

My heart swelled, a feeling so vast it threatened to overflow. "I love you too. The real you. The one who's scared and brave and building something incredible. The one who fake-dated me into falling for real."

She laughed, a sound of pure joy, and cried, and kissed me across the center console, a kiss that tasted of coffee and homecoming. The car idled on the side of the road while we sealed the deal, not with a contract, but with a promise.

"So," she said eventually, resting her forehead against mine, "what happens now?"

"Now we go home. Together. And we build something real from the ground up. No scripts. No audience. Just us."

She pulled back onto the road, but didn't let go of my hand. Neither did I.

In the rearview mirror, the lake house disappeared behind the turning hills, taking our pretend past with it. Ahead lay the open road, the messy, beautiful, uncertain future. But Sloane was smiling, her thumb tracing familiar patterns across my knuckles, and for the first time in a week—or maybe for the first time ever—every single thing between us was real.

The week we faked it all became the week we figured out how to be true. And somewhere between Vermont and home, we stopped pretending and started becoming.

Turned out the only thing we'd been faking was the idea that this could ever end.