When the song slows, our bodies drift closer naturally, automatically—as if they’ve done this before. As if they know how. And a charged silence settles between us, like the sharp inhale before a thunderstorm breaks open. His chest presses against mine and I can feel his heartbeat.
Fast.
Not steady.
Too fast.
Matching mine.
My stomach drops and for one reckless, terrifying second, I think that he’s going to kiss me.
Not for the audience.
Not because we’re pretending.
Just because—but he doesn’t.
And there we are again. Back to pretending.
The night keeps moving around us in that easy, chaotic way weddings always do, with music spilling out of every corner of the reception hall, champagne being refilled before anyone even realizes their glass is empty.
I stay where I am anyway, anchored in a way that feels increasingly less like a choice and more like gravity, because Colton’s hand is still around mine under the table and at some point I stopped questioning when that started feeling normal, and because every time I think about letting go it feels slightly harder than it should.
We end up dancing again later, and then again after that, because there is always another song and always someone pulling us back onto the floor, and I don’t even remember agreeing to most of it, only that somehow I always end up in front of him again, his hand at my waist, his voice in my ear, moving in a way that stops feeling like effort and starts feeling like instinct.
There are people around us the entire time—his friends, strangers, half-drunk relatives, whoever happens to drift into our orbit—but none of it really registers in the same way anymore, because every time Colton looks at me like that or laughs like that or just stays a little too close, it starts to feel less like pretending and more like something I’m not supposed to admit I’m used to.
Like my body has already decided it likes this.
Too much.
We leave when it’s early enough that the world feels washed out and soft at the edges, and I’m pleasantly tipsy by the time we make it back to his apartment, my heels dangling from my fingers as I kick the door shut behind us and let the quiet settle in after hours of noise.
It hits me immediately how different it feels here.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Too aware of everything I’ve been trying not to think about.
Colton slows a few steps ahead of me and then just stops, like he’s waiting for something that isn’t part of the usual routine,and suddenly saying goodnight feels weirdly complicated in a way it shouldn’t after a fake wedding date and a night of pretending we’re both very normal about each other. We’re not.
His eyes meet mine, and I can tell I should just say something simple and end this cleanly, but my brain doesn’t cooperate, because all I can think about is how close he is and how easy it would be to just close the gap between us instead of standing here pretending there isn’t one.
I want to kiss him.
Which is ridiculous, because nothing about this arrangement is supposed to go there, and yet it’s all I want. But maybe it’s the alcohol. It must be.
“Goodnight, then,” he says after a beat, quiet, like he’s trying not to make this heavier than it already feels.
“Goodnight, Colton,” I manage.
I reach for my door handle and pause there for a second too long, because turning it suddenly feels like making a decision I can’t take back.
And I do turn it and go inside.
I close the door behind me.
