Chapter 3: The Cabin Arrangement

Ivy

Ivy woke up to a heartbeat.

More specifically — a heartbeat beneath her ear, a strong chest rising and falling under her cheek, and a distinct lack of pillow barriers.

She blinked against the early light slicing through the curtains. Pine-scented air filled her nose. Warmth blanketed her like a heat pack.

And then it hit her.

She was sprawled on top of Lake Hart. Limbs tangled. Her leg very much wrapped around his like they were auditioning for a steamy romance cover.

Her brain took a solid three seconds to boot up.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, jerking away like she’d been electrocuted.

Lake grunted, one arm still halfway draped over her waist. “Mornin’, sunshine.”

“What—what happened?” she squeaked, rolling to the farthest edge of the bed.

“You cuddled me in your sleep. Very aggressively, might I add.”

“I did not—!”

“You mumbled something about bonfires and nuzzled my neck.” His smirk was way too pleased. “I felt very emotionally connected.”

“I must’ve been dreaming.” She yanked the sheet up to her chin. “This never happened.”

“Oh, it happened,” he said, stretching like a damn lion. “You can deny it all you want, but you clung to me like I was a heated teddy bear.”

She groaned, burying her face in the pillow.

This was going to be a long summer.

Ivy stayed in the bathroom for an unnecessary amount of time, pretending to be busy with a seven-step skincare routine while trying to recover from full-body embarrassment. Her cheeks were still pink when she came out to find Lake shirtless, making coffee, and humming “Careless Whisper” like it was a warning.

“You know that’s psychological warfare,” she muttered.

He turned, spoon halfway to his mouth. “What, the George Michael or the abs?”

“Both.”

“You can touch them for realism,” he offered, deadpan. “Commit to the bit, Monroe.”

“Not in this decade.”

Lake winked and handed her a mug. “We’ve got the couples orientation breakfast at twenty. Are you ready to act like you’re hopelessly in love with me?”

She exhaled through her nose. “I already feel hopeless.”

The dining hall looked like P*******t exploded — vintage wood tables, sunflowers in mason jars, and far too many couples who looked like they’d either just gotten engaged or just finished tantric yoga.

Ivy’s game face was on.

“Okay,” she whispered as they approached the buffet. “Rule one, no wandering off. Rule two, subtle physical contact is fine. Rule three, no weird comments that’ll make people suspicious.”

Lake tilted his head. “Define ‘weird.’”

“Anything that involves handcuffs, alien abduction, or—”

“Hey babe,” he cut in loudly, slinging an arm around her shoulder as they reached the waffle station. “Remember that time we did couples skydiving and I screamed your name the whole way down?”

A few people turned.

Ivy smiled with a tight jaw. “He’s always exaggerating,” she said to the nearest couple.

“I exaggerate your moans too,” Lake added, dropping a kiss to her temple.

She elbowed him so hard he nearly dropped his coffee.

They survived breakfast — barely — and made it back to their cabin just as Ivy started rehearsing how to fake a migraine. Her introversion had a limit and it was getting dangerously close.

But there was no time to retreat.

A knock came at the door.

Willow, in all her linen-wrapped glory, stood smiling like a fairy godmother on herbal tea. “Hi lovebirds! Just wanted to remind you that today’s connection challenge starts at noon. You’ll be preparing a Couples Welcome Video! Just a two-minute clip. A little story about how you met, what you love about each other, that sort of thing.”

Ivy nodded slowly, panic rising. “Oh. Sure. Easy.”

Willow beamed. “Make it passionate!”

As soon as she left, Ivy shut the door and turned to Lake. “We are so screwed.”

“Relax,” he said, dropping onto the couch. “We’ll keep it simple. How’d we meet?”

“In this story? At a film festival in Chicago. You were there shooting a documentary. I was doing a seminar on emotion and memory.”

He grinned. “And I asked you out by interrupting your lecture with a fake nosebleed.”

“...That’s not what we said.”

“It is now. You had to help me out of the room. Instant bond.”

Ivy dragged a hand down her face. “We have to kiss on video, Lake.”

“Perfect,” he said, standing. “Then we should practice. Again.”

She backed up. “Last time, we almost burned the air with our faces.”

“Exactly. We gotta make it look natural.” His tone was teasing, but something in his eyes was serious.

A dare. A pull.

Ivy’s stomach flipped.

He stepped closer, hands loose at his sides. “Come on. One little kiss. For the good of the grant.”

She exhaled. “Okay. But just one.”

They stood face-to-face.

Close enough that she could smell the coffee on his breath. Close enough to feel the energy shift in the room.

He reached up — slow, gentle — cupped her jaw. “You ready?”

She nodded.

Their lips touched.

Soft. Controlled.

But it only took one second for it to turn into more.

His hand slid into her hair. Her fingers curled around his shirt. The kiss deepened — hot, aching, stupidly good.

Her heart was pounding. His breath hitched.

And then—

They broke apart.

Both blinking. Stunned. Breathless.

Lake ran a hand through his hair. “Well. That felt... very convincing.”

Ivy stared at him, chest heaving. “We can never do that again.”

“Totally agree,” he said.

Then paused.

“...Unless we have to.”

They filmed the video a few minutes later, still pink-cheeked and awkward.

Lake told their story with a twinkle in his eye. Ivy forced a smile while sitting safely six inches away. But when it came time for the ending — “What do you love most about each other?” — something in Lake’s expression changed.

“I love that she’s smart,” he said quietly. “And stubborn. And that she thinks she can fake a relationship without falling a little bit in love.”

Ivy stared at him.

He smiled for the camera. “Kidding. Mostly.”

She wanted to throw a pillow at his face.

Instead, she kissed his cheek and ended the video with a sunny, “We’re having the time of our lives!”

As soon as the recording stopped, she turned to him. “You are infuriating.”

“You’re welcome.”

That night, the pillow wall returned.

But it didn’t stop Ivy from hearing every breath he took. Or remembering how he kissed her like she was his.

Her heart wouldn’t stop racing. Not from nerves.

From something else.

Something she didn’t want to name.

Not yet.

The next morning, Ivy decided she needed distance.

Not emotionally — that ship had already started to drift into dangerous waters — but physically. If she was going to survive two months sharing oxygen with Lake Hart, she needed barriers. Reinforcements. Possibly a priest.

She got up early, dressed in leggings and a hoodie, and escaped to the nearby trail loop. The camp had pamphlets labeled “Wilderness as Therapy” and “Grounding With Gaia,” but Ivy just needed to walk. Alone. Fast.

Unfortunately, “alone” was a lie.

Because halfway through her speed hike, she heard footsteps catching up behind her.

“You know,” Lake called, “if you’re trying to lose me, maybe don’t stomp like an angry duck.”

She didn’t turn. “I’m not stomping. I’m power-walking.”

“Ah, so this is therapy with cardio.”

“Exactly. Go away.”

Instead, he jogged until he was beside her.

They walked in silence for a minute, just the crunch of gravel and the rustle of pine trees between them. It should’ve been peaceful. But the memory of his hands on her hips — of the kiss they weren’t talking about — kept playing in Ivy’s brain like a broken record.

Finally, he said, “You’re freaked out.”

She scoffed. “No, I’m not.”

“You are. Your ‘I’m fine’ voice is very sharp. Like a bread knife.”

She stopped and turned to him. “We kissed. It was… confusing. It shouldn’t have happened.”

Lake raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t have happened? Or shouldn’t have felt like that?”

“I don’t have time to develop feelings for a fake husband with commitment issues,” she snapped.

“Who says I have commitment issues?”

“You literally said it during our contract agreement.”

“Fine. Past tense. Maybe I’m evolving.”

Ivy laughed — short and bitter. “You’re not evolving, Lake. You’re flirting and playing and making everything a joke.”

His face shifted, something sober settling behind his eyes. “I’m not joking about you.”

Her throat tightened.

Silence.

He stepped closer. Not touching. Just… there.

“I know this is fake. I know we’re here for money and you need a grant and I need a miracle. But maybe — maybe — it doesn’t have to stay fake every second.”

She looked away, eyes burning. “You’re dangerous.”

Lake smiled, soft and rueful. “Yeah. But you knew that before you kissed me back.”

By the time they returned to the cabin, things were quieter. Not in a cold way — in a charged way. Like the pause before thunder.

Lake cooked dinner — surprisingly well, Ivy had to admit — and they ate on the porch under string lights. The mood was weirdly domestic. Like they’d done this a hundred times before.

“I don’t get you,” she said after a bite of garlic pasta.

Lake sipped his wine. “You just now figured that out?”

“You’re not what I expected.”

“Expected how?”

“I thought you’d be a lazy, smug, ego-driven flirt.”

“I am all those things.”

“But also…” She trailed off.

“But also what?” he asked, leaning closer.

She shook her head. “Forget it.”

“Nope. You started it. Finish.”

“You’re not entirely terrible,” she muttered.

He grinned. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Ivy smiled despite herself.

Then—his fingers brushed hers.

Not by accident.

Slow. Intentional. Testing.

She didn’t pull away.

That night, the pillow wall was… thinner.

Still there, but more symbolic than functional. Like both of them had agreed to pretend it offered protection.

Ivy lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady sound of Lake’s breathing.

He wasn’t asleep.

She could tell.

“You’re thinking loud,” she whispered.

“I do that.”

A pause.

Then he said, “What happens if we actually fall for each other?”

Ivy swallowed. “Then we’re screwed.”

He chuckled softly. “At least we’ll be screwed together.”

Her lips twitched.

And for the first time since the whole fake-marriage madness began…

 She let herself imagine what it would feel like if it weren’t fake at all.