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Chapter 4: The Pretend Makeout Practice
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2025-11-06 04:58:02Lake
It started as a joke. At least, I thought it was.
Willow had handed out the couples’ activity schedule during breakfast — homemade granola, fruit slices, and yogurt so healthy I started missing bacon with an ache in my soul — and Ivy, of course, was already circling tasks in her neat little planner like we were back in grad school.
“Kissing practice?” she murmured, brows furrowed.
I leaned over her shoulder, sipping the most tragic green tea of my life. “Let me see.”
There it was:
Welcome Dinner: Couples expected to demonstrate a shared moment of affection — kiss, story, or dance.
I grinned. “Well, guess we better make out then.”
She whipped her head around. “We are not actually—”
“We are,” I cut in. “I mean, if we don’t want to get eliminated before dessert.”
“You really think people care that much?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Babe,” I said, deliberately emphasizing the fake pet name, “we’re surrounded by couples who probably have matching tattoos and soul contracts. If we show up acting like awkward roommates, we’re toast.”
She stared at the schedule again, face tense. “One practice,” she muttered. “Just one.”
We moved outside to the back porch of the cabin, where fairy lights framed the trees in soft golden glow. Ivy perched stiffly on the edge of the railing like she was preparing for battle. I stayed a respectful distance back — for now.
She looked at me like I was about to dissect her with a scalpel. “How do we even… start?”
I smirked. “Easy. Step one: Stop looking like you’re about to get audited.”
“Funny,” she said dryly, but her voice cracked just a little.
“Okay, let’s back it up. No kissing yet.” I held out my hand. “Just touch.”
She stared at it like it might explode. Then slowly, cautiously, she placed her hand in mine. Her fingers were colder than I expected. Her palm, smaller.
I brushed my thumb across her knuckles.
“See?” I said. “No tongue required.”
She rolled her eyes, but her shoulders relaxed. “Step two?”
“Step two,” I said, stepping closer, “is pretending you actually like me.”
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away.
I moved in slowly, giving her time. Letting her read me. Letting her decide.
When our faces were only inches apart, she looked up — eyes conflicted, searching.
“This okay?” I asked.
She nodded, barely.
I leaned in. Our lips brushed — just a whisper of contact. Soft. Testing. She leaned into it — not much, just enough to say yes. I deepened the kiss slightly. She responded.
What started as fake turned very real, very fast.
Her hands came up, fists curling into my shirt. Her body moved closer, aligning with mine like it belonged there. I held her waist, pulled her gently in, and that was all it took.
The air changed.
She kissed me like she wanted to erase the last five years of restraint. Like she was tired of rules. Tired of waiting.
She made a soft, startled sound in the back of her throat — a sound that nearly undid me.
My hand slid up her back. Her mouth opened against mine, slow and warm and curious. And God help me, I kissed her like she was mine.
Not fake.
Not temporary.
Mine.
We pulled apart slowly, both breathless.
Her eyes were wide. Dazed. Her lips were slightly parted and kiss-swollen.
“Okay,” she said, chest rising and falling. “We’re convincing.”
I licked my bottom lip, still tasting her. “Yeah. Dangerously so.”
She cleared her throat, stepping back like she’d just remembered gravity. “That was... thorough.”
“I aim for realism.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “We should get ready for dinner.”
“Right. Dinner,” I echoed, still half-drunk on the taste of her.
As she turned and walked into the cabin, I caught her adjusting her shirt, her hands trembling.
We were in trouble.
The dinner was exactly what I’d expected — an awkward lovefest. Rose petals, acoustic guitar, and couples sharing cringe stories about how they met. I tuned most of it out, except for the part where Ivy reached under the table and laced her fingers with mine like it was nothing.
Like she didn’t just kiss me breathless hours ago.
When our turn came, I leaned in with a cocky grin.
“Ivy and I met when I was hired to film her field research in Arizona. I wrote her name in the snow on a mountain peak and proposed before I froze to death.”
The table swooned.
“She said yes,” I added, glancing at Ivy. She looked at me like she might punch me… or kiss me again.
“I did,” she said sweetly, squeezing my hand. “But only because he brought hot chocolate.”
Everyone laughed.
We passed.
Later, as we walked back in the cool mountain air, Ivy said nothing for a while. Then softly:
“You’re a good liar.”
“Not about everything.”
She stopped walking. Looked at me.
“I know,” she said.
The air between us thickened again. That electric silence. That question neither of us wanted to ask.
Instead, she turned and walked up the porch steps, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding like I’d just sprinted a mile uphill.
And all I could think was —
If pretending feels this real…
What the hell happens when it’s over?
Bab terbaru
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