03

"Okay, this might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done," Layla said, waving her phone like it was a live grenade.

They sat on her tiny living room floor, surrounded by open takeout boxes, a mostly melted pint of chocolate ice cream, and Ethan’s MacBook. The air smelled like garlic noodles and vanilla candles. Her laptop was open too, with I*******m pulled up and a photo already loaded.

"You’ve clearly never tried zip-lining in the rain with no helmet," Ethan replied, popping a spring roll into his mouth.

"You did that?"

"No," he grinned. "But it sounds more dangerous than fake dating a woman who has strong opinions about fonts and eats ice cream straight from the carton."

Layla pointed her spoon at him. "Watch it. That woman also controls your online image now."

Ethan held up both hands in surrender, still smiling. "Fair. But can we talk about how you actually made us a contract?"

"Fake Relationship Contract," Layla corrected, reaching into a folder and sliding out the paper like it was an ancient scroll. "We need boundaries. Rules. Expectations. This isn’t just make-believe—it’s a strategy."

Ethan leaned closer, eyebrows raised, pretending to study it like a blueprint. “Rule One: No falling in love. That feels... oddly specific.”

Layla narrowed her eyes. “You think I wrote this for you? This was to protect me.”

He chuckled. “Duly noted.”

"Rule Two: Public displays of affection limited to hand-holding, quick hugs, and one staged kiss maximum per week. And only in front of relevant witnesses. (Ex-boyfriends, mothers, coworkers.)

“Okay,” he said, leaning forward. “Rule Three?”

“We can see other people. Totally casual. No questions if we’re out with someone else—just don’t post it where Derek or my I*******m can see.”

"Rule Four?" He asked.

"Rule Four: No sleepovers unless faking one is absolutely necessary."

He nodded, rubbing his chin. “Rule Five: We post exactly one couple photo per week. No more, no less. Hashtag #TotallyRealCouple.”

Layla laughed. “Yes! And Rule Six: If either of us wants out, we talk it through and call it quits cleanly.”

Ethan tapped the last line on his phone’s notepad. “Sounds good. Anything else?”

Layla glanced down at her messy handwriting. “Maybe… Rule Seven: We do at least one joint social engagement per week. You know, for authenticity.”

He smiled. “Farmers’ market on Sunday?”

She snorted. “Perfect. But you’re carrying the flowers.”

He held up a hand. “Deal. I’m framing this,” Ethan said, tapping the bottom with his pen.

“Sign it first,” Layla said, pushing a pen toward him.

He clicked the pen once. Twice. Then signed it with a flourish. “Look at us,” Ethan said, leaning back. “Officially fake. Yet surprisingly proud.”

Layla signed next, then leaned back, exhaling. “Okay. Now the real deal—our first I*******m post.”

She opened I*******m on her phone, tapped the camera icon, and positioned Ethan and herself in front of her living room window. “Okay—hold hands, look at each other, and laugh like you’ve just heard the best joke.”

He did as directed. They clicked, and the result was… perfect. Natural. Warm. The kind of shot friends would envy.

“Damn, I look good,” Ethan murmured.

Layla rolled her eyes. “Try not to fall in love with yourself.”

Ethan uploaded it, captioned simply with a heart emoji. Layla leaned over to watch the likes roll in.

Two minutes later, Derek appeared in the “likes” list—no comment, no caption, just that little heart.

“Oh wow,” she said, eyebrows lifting. “He actually liked it.”

Ethan leaned over. “Already?” Ethan squinted at the screen. “Well, that’s a confidence boost.”

“Derek never likes anyone’s posts. I don’t even think he likes oxygen,” Layla muttered, tapping her screen.

Moments later, a notification from Ethan’s Mom: a flurry of heart emojis and a wedding-ring GIF.

“And there it is. The heart emoji invasion.” Ethan groaned. “She’s already planning the seating chart in her head.”

Layla laughed. “She can’t be that bad… right?”

He smiled wryly. “She can—and she will be.”

Layla burst into laughter. “Well, at least she’s invested.”

He tossed his mug into the sink. “So. Suit shopping?”

---

Later that afternoon, at Crest & Cloth Men’s Wear

Layla perched on a stool, notebook in hand, while Ethan tried on suit jackets. He emerged from the changing room in a charcoal gray suit that fit him like it was tailored just for him.

“Holy…” Layla whispered, jotting notes. “You look… unbelievable.”

Ethan spun around, hands on hips. “Too much?”

“Please,” Layla said, stepping closer. “This is perfect. Sharp, modern, you.”

Layla stepped closer, fixing his tie. “You look like an architect on the cover of a design magazine.”

“I am an architect.”

“I said ‘on the cover,’ Ethan. Not just one of the people who yell at interns about grout.”

Ethan laughed, catching her fingers as she struggled with the tie. “Here—let me show you.”

He turned her wrist gently, walking her through the motion slowly.

“Loop here. Then cross under.”

She followed, concentrating. Their hands brushed. Layla looked up at him—close now. His breath smelled like mint. Her pulse jumped for half a second. Then she stepped back quickly. “Okay. Got it.”

Ethan nodded, studying his reflection. “Thank you. For… all of this.”

She shrugged, smiling. “Just part of the service.”

They bought the suit and tie, along with a crisp white shirt. As they walked out of the store, bags in hand, Ethan turned to her. “Next step: perfect our coffee-shop walk.”

Layla laughed. “You’re insatiable.”

“Gotta get my mom’s approval,” he said, pretending to pout.

Neither said anything.

That evening, back in Layla’s living room

Layla was at her laptop again, editing the suit-shop photo. Ethan sat beside her, sketching building façades in his notebook. The streetlamp outside cast long shadows over the floor.

“Let’s try a black-and-white filter,” Layla said. “Makes us look timeless.”

Ethan leaned closer to see. “Okay.” He nodded when she applied it. “Definitely timeless. Also, suspiciously romantic.”

Layla paused, her finger hovering. “Too much?”

“No,” he said immediately, voice soft. “It’s perfect.”

She smiled, saved the edit, and turned to him. “Then we’ll post it tomorrow. Friday afternoon. Right when Derek usually checks I*******m.”

He laughed. “Nice touch.”

Layla yawned, stretching. “I’m exhausted.”

Ethan glanced at her. “Long day?”

She blinked. “Between work deadlines and contract drafting, yes.”

She rubbed her eyes and slipped into a more comfortable position, leaning back against the couch—too comfortable. Her head drooped, and before she could stop it, her cheek landed on Ethan’s shoulder.

He paused mid-sketch. She snored softly.

Ethan’s heart did that weird flutter thing again. He set his notebook aside, glanced down at her peaceful face, and for a moment, everything else faded: worries about Derek, the looming wedding, the absurdity of their pact.

He covered her with a light throw blanket and sat still, watching as the rise and fall of her breathing steadied his own thoughts. He waited until she shifted, murmured a soft dream word, and then he gently scooted away so she wouldn’t feel trapped.

In the hush of the apartment, Ethan realized how much he enjoyed being near her—in any capacity, fake or otherwise. And though he’d promised himself no feelings, his chest warmed at the closeness.

He tapped Layla’s lightly on the shoulder. “Bed?” he whispered, softly enough not to wake her.

She mumbled something unintelligible, then shifted again.

He smiled, stood, and carried his notebook to the coffee table. Returning, he pulled the blanket snug around Layla. Then he sat on the arm of the couch, watching the screen of her laptop as she slept, the glow illuminating her relaxed face.

Tomorrow, they’d launch their next post, practice public hand-holding, and face Derek again. But for tonight, they were just two people sharing a quiet moment—no contracts, no cameras, no expectations.

And for Ethan, that was more real than anything he’d felt in a long time.