I was curled up on the couch with Ansel —fake boyfriend Ansel,don’t forget that part, Juniper— legs tangled up and a bowl of popcorn between us, his hoodie swallowing me whole. He smelled like cedar and vanilla and the leather seats of his stupidly expensive rental car. I’d buried my face in the collar once and caught myself doing it again.
It was too warm in here. That was the problem. Not the hand that had settled low on my waist, just under the edge of the sweatshirt. Not the scrape of his thumb on the bare skin above my hip.
Not the fact that I wanted him to do it again.
I don’t even know how we ended up this close. He’d gotten us a snack, settled down on the other side of the couch… and then I must have blacked out because… I was tucked into his side, one hand resting on his chest, and his hand just under the hem of my —his— sweatshirt.
It had been less than an hour sinceIhad come up with these rules. No touching, unless I just can’t stop myself.
No PDA, unless he’s so close and so warm and I just fit against his side like I wasbornto lay there.
“I should post something,” I murmured. “Make it seem… legit.”
His eyes flicked to mine. “You want to?”
I nodded, trying to ignore the way my heart was beating like it cared too much. “Better it come from me. You’re already tabloid poison.”
That earned a grin. “Harsh but fair.”
I sat up enough to grab my phone, and he leaned in — like it was muscle memory. His nose skimmed my cheek, and before I could even register the shift, his lips brushed the corner of my mouth. Not a kiss. Notreally. But close enough to ruin me.
I snapped the photo as it happened. His hand curled under the hem of the hoodie — not indecent, but intimate. Like he’d been there a thousand times.
Like I was his.
And maybe the scariest part was how much I wanted to be.
Stupid, foolish, girl.
I typed the caption before I could second-guess myself:
soft launch energy
Posted.
I didn’t check the comments. I didn’t have to. I shoved my phone under the couch cushion and looked over to where he sat. My heart beating just the slightest bit off kilter.
Because Ansel was still there, still close, still looking at me like I was the sun and he hadn’t seen daylight in years. “I didn’t realize you were taking the picture.” He muttered, and I was close enough to feel his chest move with each breath. “I would have actuallyposed.”
I just shook my head, unable to force the words out of my mouth.
I was in so much trouble.
The movie kept playing, but neither of us were really watching it. My phone was wedged under the cushion like it had betrayed me. Like I could pretend the post —that photo— didn’t exist if I just didn’t look at it. But it did. It was out there now. Me in his hoodie. Him kissing the corner of my mouth like it meant something. That meant we were doing it right… right? It wassupposedto look like it meant something.
I shifted slightly, and his hand moved with me — a quiet, unconscious slide over my hip. He didn’t pull back.
And… I didn’t ask him to.
“Is this okay?” he murmured, barely audible over the sound of the TV. I nodded. My voice wouldn’t work yet.
Ansel didn’t move for a long moment. Then his thumb began to trace light, absentminded shapes against my skin. Tiny circles. A figure-eight. The slow drag of affection that should’ve meantnothing.
But it felt like everything. Everything that I’d been repressing, been holding back, beenconvincingmyself that I didn’t feel when I was in the same room as Ansel fucking Barlowe.
I couldn’t look at him. Not yet. If I did, I might?—
“I used to do this,” I said softly, eyes still on the screen. “Back when I was… you know. Lay on the couch like this. Watch something dumb. Pretend we were happy.”
