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Eric: Hey. I’ve been thinking a lot about the farmer’s market run-in. I’d really like to do something mature and healing. How about a double date? You and Roman. Me and Bianca. No pressure. Just friends.

I sat up slowly, wrapping the blanket around me like it could shield me from the emotional minefield waiting inside that text. The words blurred a little, and I rubbed my eyes, hoping it would make them look different. Less polished. Less… him.

I read it again. And again.

Of course, he’d have curated the text to be just self-aware enough to sound evolved, just casual enough to pretend it wasn’t an ambush. Perfectly staged to look like a peace offering while dropping a neat little bomb wrapped in neutral language and fake maturity.

And the worst part was that I felt the old ache. That small, pathetic corner of me still wanted him to look at me and regret everything. That part of me, the one I kept stuffing down, whispered maybe.

Maybe this meant he missed me. Maybe I could finally feel chosen.

But I knew better. This wasn’t about reconciliation. This was about control. About him proving he could keep things civil. About showing off his shiny new yoga girlfriend and smiling through it like I never mattered.

The thought of watching him be perfect with someone else, of sitting across from his peaceful, barefoot, green-juice soulmate while pretending I didn’t feel like throwing up? It made my stomach turn. Grief and embarrassment and guilt rolled into a ball of nausea.

Still, the guilt crept in like it always did. What if he really meant it? What if this was his version of closure, of trying to be kind? Was I being childish by not meeting him halfway?

A soft knock at the door pulled me out of the spiral. “You sleep better after the nightmare? I didn’t hear any more moaning,” Roman said through the door, his voice rough with sleep.

I let out a half-laugh. “Yep. Slept like a baby. Just… got a text.”

The door creaked open. Roman stepped inside like he always did—uninvited, unbothered, half-dressed. He was shirtless, because of course he was. Hair mussed, chest distractingly broad.

I held up the phone. “Eric wants to get together. With Bianca. And you. Like a mature double date. No pressure, just friends.”

Roman raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Mature and healing?”

“I’m going to say no. It’s weird. Right?”

His mouth curved into a devious smile. “I think we should go.”

“Uh, why?”

“Because I was born to play the role of your fake boyfriend,” he said smugly. “And because watching Eric squirm when he realizes how hot you look with me is a dream I didn’t know I had.”

My lips twitched despite the storm inside me. It was all a game to him. A joke. That should’ve made it easier. Should’ve. But it didn’t. It just made me feel like I was hanging on a thread that could snap at any second, and I wasn’t sure which part would hurt more, the fall or the pretending.

Still, I typed the message.

Maggie: Sure, that sounds fine. What time?

I hovered over the send button for a second, then tapped it before I could overthink. Again.

Eric: Six p.m. will be perfect. Can’t wait.

I looked up. “He says six.”

Roman let out a groan. “I’ve got a pack meeting right before, but I’ll make it work.”

My heart stuttered. He didn’t even hesitate to rearrange his whole evening because I asked him to play pretend with me.

“Thanks,” I murmured as I got out of bed.

He stepped back from the door, leaning casually against the wall like he lived there. Okay, technically he did, but the hallway was narrow, and our timing sucked. I tried to pass, but my shoulder brushed his chest—his firm, bare, warm chest.

His gaze dropped, caught on me for a second too long. My brain registered the look as heat climbed up my spine.

Then it hit me.