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.

Lake

I'd survived shooting in the Amazon rainforest, sleeping in a car in New Mexico, and dodging feral goats on a documentary set in Morocco.

But nothing-nothing-had prepared me for the sheer chaos of one damn mosquito in a tiny, overly romantic, couples-retreat cabin.

It was around 2:37 a.m. I knew that because the clock on the nightstand kept blinking like it knew I wasn't going to sleep anyway. The red numbers pulsed softly in the dark, taunting me. The kind of glow that said, You're awake. You'll stay awake. Let's talk about your bad decisions.

The bed creaked as I shifted, already warm from Ivy's body being three feet away-and yet somehow radiating across the mattress like the sun itself had chosen her side as home base.

She slept on her back tonight, one arm flung over her head, the other resting loosely on her stomach. Glasses abandoned on the nightstand. Hair escaping its bun in slow rebellion. The soft rise and fall of her breathing made something in my chest tighten in a way I didn't appreciate.

This was supposed to be simple.

Fake marriage. Temporary proximity. A means to an end.

Instead, I was lying awake cataloging the shape of her collarbone and wondering when exactly my life veered into romantic-comedy hell.

And then I heard it.

The sound.

That high-pitched, whiny buzz of doom.

Bzzzz.

Close to my ear.

Too close.

Then-sharp, sudden pain on my neck.

"Shit," I hissed, slapping at the air.

The buzzing veered off. Somewhere in the dark, wings flapped like a horror movie villain preparing a sequel.

A rustle came from Ivy's side of the bed.

"Did you just curse?" she asked, voice thick with sleep.

"No," I muttered, rubbing my neck. "I just... passionately objected to being bitten in my sleep."

She sat up slowly, squinting. Her hair was a wild mess of bun remnants and frizz, strands sticking out like she'd been electrocuted by bad dreams.

"Mosquitoes?" she asked.

"Unless you've got vampire fantasies, yeah."

She groaned and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Hold on."

She disappeared into the small hallway connecting the bedroom to the kitchenette. I heard drawers opening. Something clattered. A muttered curse that made me smile.

A second later, she reappeared.

Holding a plastic swatter.

Pink.

Heart-shaped.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

"...Where did you even find that?" I asked.

"In the camp's supply room," she said flatly. "Under the label 'Love Bug Swatters.'"

I snorted. "They think they're clever."

"They think they're hilarious."

She climbed onto the bed, knees first, raising the swatter like she was about to charge into medieval battle.

"Don't move," she whispered.

I froze instantly.

Not because I feared the mosquito.

But because Ivy-barefoot, in a thin tank top and soft sleep shorts-had just straddled me.

Her knees sank into the mattress on either side of my hips. One thigh brushed my side. Then lingered. Her weight shifted as she balanced.

My breath stalled.

Every nerve in my body lit up like I'd been struck by lightning.

"I see it," she said, squinting into the darkness. "It landed right... there."

She leaned closer.

Her knee pressed into my hip. Her hand brushed my chest as she steadied herself.

I stared at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed me.

"You're the boss," I said, my voice lower than intended.

"I am," she replied absently.

"Always," I murmured.

She didn't respond. Focused. Determined.

She swung.

Missed.

"Damn it," she whispered.

She adjusted her position.

Which somehow brought her closer.

Too close.

And then-

She stumbled.

Her balance went sideways, and before I could think, my hands were on her waist. Reflex. Muscle memory. Protection instinct.

Her full weight shifted onto me.

We froze.

Her palms landed flat against my chest. Her knees sank deeper into the mattress. Her hair slipped free from the bun, one curl sliding down to brush my cheek.

The swatter fell from her fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Neither of us moved.

Her breathing hitched.

Mine followed.

The world narrowed to the inches between our faces.

"Ivy," I whispered. "You okay?"

"I..." Her voice faltered. "Uh..."

She didn't finish.

Her gaze dropped.

To my mouth.

My fingers tightened at her waist without permission from my brain.

She was warm. Soft. Tense. And terrifyingly real.

Every instinct screamed and kissed her.

"You're... very close," she said weakly.

"Is that a problem?" I asked.

"No," she said too fast. "I mean-yes. I mean-shut up."

A laugh slipped out of me, low and quiet. "Gladly. If you let me shut up with my mouth on yours."

Her breath stuttered.

For one suspended second, I thought she was going to lean down.

I could already feel it-the press of her lips, the way she'd probably hesitate just a fraction before giving in.

Then-

She bolted.

Full launch mode.

Scrambling backward off the bed like she'd just sat on a live wire.

Her face was flushed. Pink bloomed across her cheeks and down her neck.

"I was just-trying to kill a mosquito," she blurted.

"Sure," I said calmly, pulling the blanket over my lap to deal with the very obvious situation I was now in. "Just that."

"Nothing happened," she added quickly, staring at the wall.

"Definitely nothing," I agreed. "Just you straddling me at two in the morning with a heart-shaped weapon. Totally casual."

She made a frustrated noise and grabbed the swatter from the floor. "You're insufferable."

"And you're a surprisingly sexy exterminator."

Her glare could've ended civilizations.

"If you tell anyone about this-"

"Ivy," I said gently. "Who would I tell? The mosquito?"

She huffed, spun on her heel, and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door.

The light snapped on.

I lay back, exhaling slowly, staring at the ceiling again.

Heart pounding.

Body buzzing.

Mind spinning.

We were in trouble.

Real trouble.

Because that didn't feel fake.

Not even close.

That felt like the start of something we couldn't unsay, undo, or unscrew.

And the worst part?

I didn't want to stop it.

I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours-or maybe minutes. My brain refused to cooperate, bouncing from memory to memory: her hair falling over my face, the press of her thighs against mine, the sound of her breath, the way her fingers lingered for just a moment. Every detail etched itself into my mind like a tattoo I didn't ask for.

I thought about how wrong this was. How dangerous. How-insane-it was for a pretend husband and wife to feel like this.

And yet, every time I thought about stopping, about stepping back, I realized something: it wasn't stopping itself. It wasn't accidental. It wasn't just the mosquito.

It was Ivy.

And the truth was, I wasn't sure I wanted it to stop.

The night stretched on. I listened for the mosquito, half-expecting it to return. But silence fell, heavy and almost intimate. I could hear Ivy moving in the bathroom-running water, a low murmur of irritation-and I imagined her face in the mirror, hair wild, eyes sharp, lips curved in that way that made me stupid.

By the time she returned, the first light of dawn had begun to creep through the curtains. I pretended to be asleep, but my heart was still racing, adrenaline keeping me wide awake.

Ivy climbed back into bed, her side facing me. She gave me a small, almost imperceptible nudge with her elbow as if to say, don't make this weird.

I didn't respond. Couldn't. Not without betraying the mess of feelings I was already drowning in.

And in that quiet, shared space, lying three inches apart but feeling a world between us, I realized one terrifying, undeniable truth: we were way past pretending.