“Partner pong?” Alex appears, already setting up cups. “Ethan and Piper versus me and Tara!”
“I’m terrible at this,” I warn.
“Perfect, so am I.” Ethan grins. “We’ll lose together.”
Except we don’t lose. By some miracle (or maybe Ethan’s surprisingly good aim compensating for my disasters), we win three rounds straight. The punch is strong and sweet and makes everything feel lighter.
“Photo!” Alex produces a Polaroid. “Document the champions!”
Ethan pulls me close, and I’m hyperaware of his bare skin against my lights. The camera flashes. In the developing photo, we look like we belong together—him all golden confidence and ridiculous leaves, me glowing literally and figuratively.
“You’re having fun,” he observes as we retreat to the kitchen for water.
“Is that so surprising?”
“You said parties weren’t your scene.”
“Maybe I just needed the right party.” The words come out more honest than intended.
He studies me over his Solo cup, and something passes between us—not quite the fake relationship, not quite real, but something.
“Dance with me,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
“Come on.” He takes my hand. “Can’t fake date someone without at least one dance.”
The living room is packed, sweaty bodies moving to some throwback that has everyone screaming lyrics. Ethan pulls me into the crowd, and suddenly we’re dancing—nothing fancy, just moving together, his hands on my waist, my fairy lights blinking between us.
He spins me, and I laugh—actually laugh, not the carefully controlled sound I usually make. When he pulls me back, we’re closer than before.
“I like that,” he says, mouth near my ear to be heard over the music.
“Like what?”
“When you laugh for real. When you forget to be careful.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest. This is fake, I remind myself. We’re pretending.
But the way he’s looking at me doesn’t feel fake at all.
Then the front door opens, and the temperature drops ten degrees.
Harper enters first wearing what looks like an expensive bedsheet draped into an elegant toga, held together with gold pins and rope. It should look cheap, but of course, she makes it look like haute couture. Behind her, Miles wears a matching white sheet toga with a laurel crown—or tries to. Harper stops in the doorway, yanking at his toga with sharp, efficient movements.
She turns, scanning the party, and her gaze lands on us.Something flickers across her face—not just recognition, but a kind of weary knowing.
My stomach drops.
Ethan notices immediately. His hand slides down to mine, fingers interlacing. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I lie.
But I’m not fine. I’m watching Miles adjust Harper’s toga strap, watching her laugh at something he says, watching them be everything I wanted and could never have.
“Bedsheet togas,” Ethan mutters. “How original.”
Despite everything, I snort. “Don’t be mean.”
