I nod, still too shaken to speak, and watch as he turns and walks away, his shoulders tense but his steps sure.
The air feels heavier without him there, and I exhale slowly, leaning back against the wall as I try to steady my racing heart. His words echo in my mind, and no matter how hard I try to push them away, they refuse to leave.
This isn’t fake.
I press a hand to my chest, willing the knot there to loosen. But deep down, I know it won’t. Not anytime soon.
The coffee shopShelley chose for my "date" with Jake is picture-perfect, like something out of a curated Instagram feed. Soft lighting, cozy corners, and just enough charm to scream “casual romance.” It’s painfully obvious we’re not here for coffee.
The second we step inside, the cameras outside press closer to the windows, their flashes bouncing off the glass like tiny explosions. My heart beats a little faster, but I remind myself why we’re here. This is for the public, for the show. None of it is real.
Jake holds the door for me, his hand hovering at my lower back as we walk in. His touch is light, careful, but even that small gesture sends a ripple through me that I wasn’t expecting. I force a smile, hoping it looks natural, and head toward the corner table Shelley insisted on.
We settle into our seats, and I can feel the weight of the world—or at least the cameras—on me. Every move, every glance, every smile is for them. It’s exhausting.
The barista approaches, and Jake glances at me, one brow lifting in silent question. “Just a cappuccino, thanks,” I say, my voice steady, practiced.
He orders something black and no-nonsense, the same way he approaches most things. When the barista leaves, he leans back in his chair, his gaze settling on me like he has nowhere else to be.
“You good?” he asks softly, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
I nod, the smile still plastered on my face. “Of course. This is exactly what Shelley wanted.”
His eyes narrow slightly, his expression thoughtful. He doesn’t say anything right away, but the way he looks at me makes my stomach twist.
When our drinks arrive, I reach for mine, keeping my movements deliberate, polished, every bit the picture-perfect image Shelley is hoping for. Jake, however, doesn’t play along. He takes a sip of his coffee, then rests his elbows on the table, leaning slightly toward me.
“You know you don’t have to pretend with me,” he says quietly, his words cutting through my carefully constructed wall like a knife.
I blink, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
Jake’s lips quirk into a small, almost sad smile. “This,” he says, gesturing between us. “You don’t have to act like you’re enjoying yourself for the cameras. If you hate this, just say so.”
I should brush it off, laugh, say something dismissive. But his voice, low and calm, tugs at something buried deep inside me.
“I don’t hate it,” I say finally, the words more defensive than I mean them to be. I clear my throat, forcing a lighter tone. “Iknow how important this is for the show, for the image Shelley wants to sell.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes soften, the faintest crease forming between his brows. “Ash, this doesn’t have to be about the show.”
The knot in my chest tightens, and I look down, fiddling with the edge of my napkin. “Of course it does. That’s the whole point, right?”
Jake shakes his head, his gaze dropping to his coffee before lifting back to me. “Maybe it started that way. But that’s not why I’m here.”
His words hang in the air, heavy and warm, wrapping around me in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
“This is for them,” I murmur, more to myself than to him, though I know he hears it.
Jake doesn’t respond immediately, but then he reaches across the table, his hand brushing mine. The touch is light, almost hesitant, but it sends a ripple of warmth through me that I can’t ignore.
For the cameras, I tell myself. It’s for the cameras.
But when I glance up, Jake’s eyes are on me, steady and unguarded. There’s something in them—something real—that makes it impossible to look away. The tenderness there, the intensity, feels too genuine to be fake.
“Ashlyn,” he says softly, his thumb grazing the back of my hand, before repeating his words, “This doesn’t have to be pretend. Not with me.”
My breath catches, my heart stuttering in my chest. His words unravel something inside me in the same way West’s words did, leaving me exposed in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
The cameras outside continue to snap away, capturing what must look like the perfect intimate moment. And maybe it is. But that’s what scares me the most.
