I peeked out from the blanket. “Do you think I’m glowing?”
Nora tilted her head dramatically. “Well, you’re definitely giving emotionally compromised with a side of horny repression, so.”
“Thanks for that.”
She waved her freshly dried hand. “I’m just saying. You kissed him in front of cameras and God and half the nation. And not like a ‘this is strategy’ kiss. That was an I know your soul by taste kind of kiss.”
My face burned so hot I thought it might peel off. “It didn’t mean anything.”
“Daphne.”
I paused. Her voice had shifted—softer now, less teasing.
She sat up, crossed her legs, and looked at me like she was trying to read beneath every layer I’d stacked to protect myself. “You don’t do things that don’t mean anything. That’s not who you are.”
I swallowed hard.
The silence pressed in between us. On the screen, the recap show had transitioned to another segment—clips of Kieren post-game, jaw clenched, eyes shadowed, that signature scowl fixed like armor. But beneath it, I’d seen something else that night. Something raw. Something real.
I remembered the way he looked at me in the tunnel. Quiet. Almost reverent.
And then his voice in the back of my mind, “Liar.”
I pulled the blanket off and stood again, pacing like it might shake the truth out of my bones.
“I don’t know what it is,” I admitted quietly. “But it doesn’t feel fake.”
Nora smiled, wide and knowing. “There she is.”
My phone buzzed mid-panic spiral, vibrating across the coffee table like it knew I needed more emotional instability in my life.
Photo shoot today. 3PM. Studio 6B.
A second buzz. I blinked.
Cam wants you there. Something about couple branding.
Nora let out a guttural sound from the depths of her soul. “YES,” she shrieked, grabbing the nearest throw blanket and screaming into it like it owed her money. “Get up. Get dressed. You are not showing up to that man’s work event looking like a rejected drama major.”
I just stared at the screen, thumbs hovering like I forgot how to function. My brain short-circuited on the words couple branding.
Couple. Branding.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream, cry, or throw my phone into the sun.
Still, I managed to type something back, because I was nothing if not a functional disaster:
Dress code? Flirty fake girlfriend or corporate trophy wife?
The typing dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then came back.
I waited. I should’ve known better.
Whatever makes me look lucky.
I made a sound that couldn’t legally be classified as human and launched the phone across the couch like it was on fire.
Nora caught it mid-air with one hand and cackled. “He’s going to kill you with one-liners,” she said, already dragging me toward the closet. “Death by slow-burn banter. What a way to go.”
