My size.
My shape.
The way I filled space.
There was no hiding it now.
Not that there ever really was.
“So, let me get this straight. You want me to pretend to be your star-crossed love?” he said sharply, blue eyes glowing unnaturally in the storm light.
I lifted my chin.
Defensive.
Determined.
“I want you to help me pass,” I corrected. “Which includes charting a course and showing up with me at the festival.”
“That’s not required.”
“It literally says I need to bring my date,” I snapped.
“Then use your boyfriend.”
I laughed.
A short, humorless sound.
“Bold of you to assume I have one.”
He didn’t reply.
Just watched me.
Evaluating.
Weighing.
Like I was a problem he hadn’t decided to solve yet.
“No,” he said finally.
My stomach dropped.
Of course.
Of course he would say no.
Why wouldn’t he?
Why would someone like him agree to something like this?
“Look,” I said quickly, stepping closer despite myself, despite the warning still ringing in my ears. “If you help me—if you do this—I will?—”
I hesitated.
Then pushed forward anyway.
