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 Pinterest 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.

Lake

It started as a joke. At least, that's what I told myself so I wouldn't have to admit how quickly it stopped being funny.

Willow handed out the couples' activity schedules during breakfast, smiling like she was distributing lottery tickets instead of relationship landmines. The spread on the long wooden table was aggressively wholesome-homemade granola, neatly sliced fruit, yogurt that tasted like regret. I stared at it, spoon halfway to my mouth, missing bacon with a longing that bordered on grief.

Ivy, meanwhile, was already circling tasks in her planner. Her handwriting was neat, precise, like her thoughts were always lined up in single file. She leaned closer to the page, brow furrowing.

"Kissing practice?" she murmured.

I leaned over her shoulder, deliberately invading her space, sipping what might've been green tea but tasted like lawn clippings. "Let me see."

There it was in bold print, completely unapologetic. Welcome Dinner: Couples expected to demonstrate a shared moment of affection - kiss, story, or dance.

I grinned because that's what I do when things make me uncomfortable. "Well," I said lightly, "guess we better make out then."

She whipped her head around so fast I nearly lost an eye. "We are not actually-"

"We are," I cut in, lowering my voice. "Unless you want to get eliminated before dessert."

Her eyes narrowed, assessing, calculating. "You really think people care that much?"

"Babe," I said, emphasizing the fake pet name just to see the reaction, "we're surrounded by couples who probably have matching tattoos and joint savings accounts. If we show up acting like awkward roommates, we're toast."

She stared back at the schedule, jaw tight. I could practically hear the gears spinning. Finally, she exhaled sharply. "One practice," she muttered. "Just one."

I tried not to smile too hard.

We moved outside to the back porch of the cabin. The fairy lights strung through the trees cast everything in soft gold, like the universe was mocking us by setting the mood. Ivy perched stiffly on the edge of the railing, posture rigid, like she was preparing for impact. I stayed a respectful distance back. I wasn't trying to scare her off.

She crossed her arms. "How do we even... start?"

I tilted my head, pretending to think. "Step one: stop looking like you're about to get audited."

She shot me a look. "Funny."

But her voice cracked just a little, and I caught it. That tiny fracture told me more than she probably intended.

"Okay," I said, holding up my hands. "No kissing yet. Let's rewind." I held out my hand. "Just touch."

She stared at it like it might explode. Slowly, cautiously, she placed her hand in mine. Her fingers were colder than I expected. Small. Slightly trembling.

I brushed my thumb across her knuckles, gentle. "See? Still alive. 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. She didn't pull away.

I moved slowly. Gave her time. Let her read my body language, my intent. When our faces were inches apart, she looked up at me, eyes conflicted and searching.

"Is this okay?" I asked quietly.

She nodded. Barely.

I leaned in. Our lips brushed-just a whisper of contact. Soft. Careful. She leaned into it, just a fraction, enough to tell me yes. I deepened the kiss slightly. She responded without hesitation.

That was the moment everything shifted.

Her hands came up, fists curling into my shirt like she was anchoring herself. Her body moved closer, aligning with mine like it had been waiting for permission. I slid my hand to her waist, pulled her gently in, and the air changed completely.

She kissed me like someone who was tired of restraint. Tired of rules. Tired of holding herself together. A soft, startled sound escaped her, and it nearly wrecked me.

My hand moved up her back, slow and steady. Her mouth opened against mine, warm and curious. And God help me, I kissed her like she was mine.

Not fake.

Not temporary.

Mine.

We pulled apart slowly, both of us breathing hard. Her lips were swollen, parted. Her eyes were wide and dazed.

"Okay," she said finally, voice unsteady. "We're convincing."

I licked my bottom lip, still tasting her. "Yeah. Dangerously so."

She stepped back like gravity had suddenly returned. Cleared her throat. "That was... thorough."

"I aim for realism."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. "We should get ready for dinner."

"Right," I echoed. "Dinner."

She turned toward the cabin, adjusting her shirt with trembling hands. I stood there longer than necessary, heart pounding like I'd just sprinted uphill.

We were in trouble.

The welcome dinner was a romantic fever dream. Rose petals. Candlelight. Acoustic guitar playing something heartbreakingly earnest. Couples shared meet-cute stories that made my teeth ache. I tuned most of it out-until Ivy reached under the table and laced her fingers with mine like it was second nature.

When our turn came, I leaned forward with a 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.

"I did," she said sweetly, squeezing my hand. "But only because he brought hot chocolate."

We passed.

Later, as we walked back through the cool mountain air, Ivy was quiet.

"You're a good liar," she said eventually.

"Not about everything."

She stopped walking. Looked at me like she could see straight through the bravado.

"I know," she said softly.

Then she turned and walked up the porch steps, leaving me alone with a question I didn't want answered.

If pretending feels this real...

What the hell happens when it's over?

And the truth is, I had no answer. Because the line between pretend and real had already blurred. Every touch, every glance, every laugh we’d shared had me wondering if we were fooling everyone—or ourselves. And I knew, deep down, that pretending might have been the easiest part.

I glanced back at her disappearing form, the way her hair caught the fairy lights, the little curve of her smile that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the world. My chest tightened. She was more than a project, more than a partner-in-fraud. She was the kind of problem you never solved, only experienced. And I had fallen—headfirst, stupidly, irrevocably.

Ivy

The next morning started with cinnamon tea, a plate of organic muffins, and my complete inability to look Ivy in the eye. The sun slanted lazily through the cabin windows, warming the kitchen in that golden-hour way that made everything look like it belonged in a movie. Birds flitted outside, chirping as if oblivious to the awkward tension inside.

We hadn't talked about the kiss. Correction: the makeout session that left us both panting like teenagers, caught somewhere between curiosity and impulse. I could still feel her lips, warm and insistently soft, against mine. She'd woken up, shoved her glasses on, and mumbled something about a morning walk. I didn't stop her. I didn't stop her because maybe, deep down, I was still trying to figure out what had happened last night-or maybe I was scared of what would happen if I said something.

I sipped my tea and pretended to read the brochure Willow had handed us yesterday, detailing "Couples Connection Circle" exercises. The words blurred into a jumble of motivational fluff: vulnerability is the soil where love grows. I rolled my eyes at the cliché, but even in my skepticism, a tiny part of me hated that it sounded like something I needed.

By mid-morning, we were corralled into the "Couples Connection Circle," a cozy setup of oversized pillows arranged in a perfect circle on the cabin floor. Willow, wearing her trademark sparkly scarf and an expression that could only be described as painfully bright, clapped her hands to signal the start.

"Today," she said, her voice bubbly and a little too loud for my current mood, "we're going to open up by sharing a secret. One you've never told your partner."

Ivy tensed beside me. I could practically feel her calculating the lowest-impact confession possible. She'd always been careful-meticulous, controlled, precise. She glanced down at her hands folded neatly in her lap, fingers twisting around one another like a human lie detector.

"And remember," Willow continued, "vulnerability is the soil where love grows."

I wanted to roll my eyes again. Instead, I muttered a low, sarcastic, "Uh-huh." The others shot me sympathetic smiles. Maybe they'd been through this enough times to know my kind of cynicism.

The circle began. Couples took turns sharing secrets, some sweet, some awkward, and some laugh-out-loud ridiculous. One man admitted he cried at a commercial about baby goats. Another confessed that he secretly hated his wife's gluten-free muffins. There were whispered giggles, nods of understanding, and the occasional audible groan.

Then it was our turn. Ivy's turn.

She straightened her spine, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I talk to my plants," she said, voice calm and deliberate. "I name them and talk to them. Out loud. Like, conversations."

The group aww'd, cooing at her sincerity. I smirked, more amused than anything else. "Do the plants talk back?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Only when I've had wine," she said with a small, teasing grin. Laughter rippled around the circle, a few people snorting like they weren't supposed to. She looked radiant for a moment, and I had to admit, the sight made my chest tighten in an unfamiliar way.

Then all eyes turned to me.

I should've played it safe. Something mundane, something shallow, something unthreatening. "I liked candy bars when I was eight," or "I'm terrified of clowns." Anything that wouldn't expose the scar tissue I usually kept hidden under a layer of charm.

But Ivy was laughing beside me, relaxed and radiant in a way I hadn't seen before. And something in me wanted her to know... me. The real me. Not the cocky smile, not the teasing banter, not the easy charm that worked on cameras and strangers alike. Me.

So I said it.

"I don't believe in love."

The laughter stopped. The room tilted ever so slightly, or maybe it was just me noticing the sudden, stunned silence.

"I used to," I added, keeping my eyes on the floor. "But someone I loved once... she left. Crushed me. Haven't really believed in forever since."

Iris of sunlight fell on my hands folded together, but it didn't make them feel warmer. Silence stretched across the room, soft but heavy, pressing against my chest like a weight I couldn't shrug off.

I risked a glance at Ivy. She wasn't smiling anymore. She wasn't teasing. She was watching me like she was seeing something new. Something raw. Something unpolished. And it terrified me.

"Thank you for sharing, Lake," Willow said gently, placing a hand over hers. "Sometimes the deepest wounds are the ones that shape our walls."

I wanted to punch a wall just for that sentence.

After the session, we didn't speak. Not immediately. We walked through the woods behind the cabin, the sun high above us, casting long dappled shadows across the path. Birds chirped insistently, oblivious to the awkward, loaded quiet between us.

Ivy finally broke it. "You really don't believe in love?"

"Not the kind that stays." My voice was soft, but it carried.

She was quiet for a long moment, walking beside me with her hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket. "I did. Once," she said finally.

"What happened?" I asked, forcing the curiosity out in a casual, neutral tone.

"He married someone else."

The words hit me like a cold wave. We walked in silence again, two people who had been burned, scarred in different ways, yet somehow marching side by side.

"I guess we're both pretending harder than we thought," I said, letting my words trail off into the trees.

She looked at me, eyes softened now, tinged with a hint of something I couldn't name-sympathy? Recognition? Or maybe she was measuring the walls around me, the ones I thought were invisible. "Maybe. Or maybe pretending is just peeling things back we didn't expect."

I didn't answer. Because maybe she was right. Maybe the fake marriage, the research grant, the laughter, the teasing, the stolen glances-it wasn't just a game. Maybe, somewhere in the middle of this chaos, something real was trying to surface.

That thought scared the hell out of me.

We stopped by a small stream, the water catching the sunlight in dancing patterns that made the surface look like liquid gold. Ivy crouched down, letting her fingers skim the water's surface. I stayed standing, leaning against a tree, pretending to be casual, while my chest felt like it was being rearranged by emotions I didn't trust.

"You're quiet," she said, tilting her head to the side.

"Just taking it all in," I replied, trying not to sound like I was about to say something I'd regret.

"I didn't know you were like this," she said softly, almost to herself.

I looked at her, curious. "Like what?"

"Like... serious. Vulnerable. Honest. Not just a guy who smiles and jokes."

I let a small, wry smile slip. "You mean you're disappointed I'm not perfect?"

She rolled her eyes, but there was a softness there that almost undid me. "Not disappointed. Surprised. That you let me see it."

I wanted to tell her everything-the ghosts I carried, the love I had lost, the nights I spent replaying memories I could never reclaim. But I didn't. Words like that were dangerous, especially when they might change everything between us.

So instead, I said nothing.

We walked back to the cabin, side by side, the silence no longer oppressive but charged with unspoken possibilities. For the first time, I wondered if maybe pretending, for once, wasn't about deception-it was about survival, about feeling safe enough to risk something real.

Later, in the quiet of our shared cabin, Ivy made tea again, and we sat near the window, shoulders brushing. I didn't touch her, didn't lean in, but just the proximity felt electric. Her laughter from a trivial comment about muffins made my chest ache in a way that was both unfamiliar and dangerous.

"Lake?" she asked, her voice low, hesitant.

"Yeah?"

"You really think love doesn't stay?"

I turned to her, meeting her eyes for the first time without flinching. "Not always. But... maybe it can. For the right person. Maybe."

She smiled then, a small, tentative thing, like a flower pushing through concrete. And I realized that the lie we had agreed to-fake marriage, fake smiles, fake connection-was starting to blur. Reality, messy and frightening, was creeping in.

And maybe, just maybe, we weren't as fake as we thought.