7
Nate
This was supposed to be a strategy meeting disguised as a meal.
Fake dating Hannah Reed began with her being exactly seven minutes late.
It wasn't the kind of lateness born of laziness; it was a specifically frantic, "Hannah" brand of lateness.
When she finally hurried through the front doors of Bellamy’s—the kind of Italian place two blocks off campus where students go to pretend they have a 401k—she looked like she’d just lost a fight with a hurricane and was preparing to send the wind a strongly worded apology.
Her blonde hair was half up, a few stubborn pieces framing a face that was flushed a deep, panicked pink. She was wearing a soft white sweater tucked into a dark green skirt, tights, and ankle boots. A blush-colored coat was draped haphazardly over her arm.
She paused just inside the foyer, her eyes darting across the room. When they landed on me, her shoulders dropped with visible relief. Then, she seemed to remember exactly *who* she was meeting, and the relief was instantly replaced by a fresh wave of nervous energy.
It was cute. Annoyingly so.
I stood as she approached, a reflex my mother drilled into me despite the campus-wide rumors that I was assembled in a frat basement from bad decisions and protein powder.
“Sorry,” she blurted out, reaching the table.
“I’m so sorry. My printer jammed, and then Ella couldn’t find her other earring, which somehow became my problem, and then I realized I had a coffee stain on my sleeve—hence the sweater change—but the first skirt I put on had a broken zipper, and then I couldn’t find my student ID,
which was in my pocket the entire time. It was honestly a very humbling ten minutes.”
I blinked, taking in the sheer volume of words she’d managed to exhale in one go.
She inhaled, her chest heaving slightly. “Hi.”
My mouth twitched. “Hi.”
She looked horrified. “Sorry.”
“That’s three apologies in fifteen seconds. We’re going for a record.”
“I’m efficient.”
“You’re vibrating. Sit down before you vibrate right out of the restaurant.”
I pulled out her chair. She froze, looking at the seat and then back at me with profound suspicion.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. I just didn't know you did that.”
“Pulled out chairs? I contain multitudes, Hannah. Don't believe everything you read on gossip accounts.”
She sat, watching me like I might be a sophisticated AI that hadn't quite mastered human social cues yet. “Apparently.”
I took my seat across from her. Bellamy’s was doing its best to set the mood—low lights, flickering candles, and a soundtrack that sounded like someone’s dad made a playlist titled *Romantic Dinner Vibes*.
I’d chosen it because it was public enough to be seen, but the tables were tucked into brick alcoves that offered just enough privacy to talk.
At least, that’s the professional reason. The truth was, I didn't want to take her somewhere that felt like a cheap stunt.
She smoothed her napkin over her lap with practiced precision, then folded her hands on top of it. Very proper. Very sweet. She was a stark contrast to most of the girls I ended up across a table from—the ones who leaned forward with glossy smiles and expectations I usually spent the night dodging.
“So,” I said, leaning back. “First fake date.”
She glanced around nervously. “Are we calling it that out loud? In public?”
“What should we call it? High-stakes pasta consumption?”
“Dinner. We should call it dinner.”
“You’re no fun.”
“I’m against public humiliation, Nate. There’s a difference.”
“Then you picked the wrong fake boyfriend.”
She exhaled a soft laugh, and the tension in her shoulders dipped an inch. “You keep saying that.”
“Fake boyfriend?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s the job title. I’m just keeping the branding consistent.”
The waiter arrived, and I watched her order chicken parmesan.
She asked three very specific questions about the acidity of the sauce, then apologized to the waiter for being "a lot."
I ordered the pasta carbonara and a side of garlic knots because she’d stared at the appetizer section for three minutes before sighing and closing the menu.
When the waiter left, she frowned at me. “You didn't have to get the knots. I know you’re probably on some athlete's diet.”
“You wanted them. I could hear your brain debating the carb-to-reward ratio from over here.”
“I do not think that loudly.”
“You do. It’s like a broadcast.”
She narrowed her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She was more fun than she let on, tucked behind the manners and the color-coded notebooks.
The restaurant door opened, and a group of students walked in—including two girls from my sociology lecture and a guy from the swim team. Their eyes hit me, then Hannah, then the candle between us.
*Perfect.*
I leaned forward, closing the gap between us. Hannah went still. “What are you doing?”
“Being seen. Look at me, not them.”
“Why?”
“Because if you look at them, you look like a hostage. If you look at me, you look like you’re actually enjoying yourself. Which, admittedly, is a stretch, but try for the sake of the season.”
Her eyes hit mine and stayed there. In the low, amber light of the restaurant, they were darker than they’d been in the café—less a clear blue and more of a deep, stormy teal.
“Don’t perform,” I said, my voice dropping. “Just be here.”
“You’re very good at this,” she whispered. “Being watched.”
“I’ve had practice.”
“Is it hard?”
The question was so sincere it caught me off guard. Most people ask about the perks—the parties, the attention, the status. Nobody asks if it’s hard. I felt a sudden, dangerous urge to tell her the truth, but I caught myself.
“Only when I’m ugly,” I joked.
She gave me a flat look. “So never, then?”
The words left her mouth before her brain could stop them. Her eyes went wide, and my grin spread slowly.
“Oh? You think I’m never ugly, Hannah Reed?”
She closed her eyes. “I meant objectively. From a… a sociological standpoint.”
“Sociological. Right. Very academic of you.”
“I hate this dinner.”
“You’re blushing. Your sociology is showing.”
She laughed, a real, bright sound that made the girls at the front of the restaurant whisper even harder.
The rest of dinner was easier than I expected. We argued about the best way to study (she’s a flashcard devotee; I’m a ‘read it until I can recite it’ guy), and she told me about the quiz she had to take in Professor Hale’s office while he stared at her like she was a suspected felon.
When the bill came, I slid it away before she could reach for it.
“Nate, this is fake. We should split it.”
“My manners aren't fake. My mom would fly here and check-trick me if I let a girl pay on a first date.”
“Fake date.”
“Still a date. I have a reputation to maintain, even the respectable version.”
I signed the check and stood, offering her my hand. She looked at it for a beat, her eyelashes fluttering, before sliding her fingers into mine. Her hand was cold, but it warmed against my palm as I led her out of the restaurant.
Outside, the air was crisp, the sidewalk still damp from a light evening rain. We started walking back toward campus, our hands still joined. I could have let go—we were a block away from Bellamy’s now—but I didn't. And she didn't pull away.
“So,” she said softly. “Was that believable?”
“I got four texts before the chicken arrived. Carter is currently convinced I’ve been kidnapped and replaced by a guy who likes Italian food and committed relationships.”
She smiled, but it looked a little wistful. “That’s good. That’s what we wanted.”
“Yeah. It is.”
We walked in silence for a minute, the only sound the rhythmic tap of her boots.
“If we keep this up,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, “you’ll be naked in Ethan’s bed by midterm.”
The joke was crude—typical locker-room humor I didn't even think about. But the reaction was immediate. Hannah’s hand went stiff in mine. Her entire body seemed to recoil, her steps faltering until she came to a dead stop.
She pulled her hand away.
The sidewalk felt suddenly ten degrees colder. She was looking at her boots, her face pale under the orange glow of the streetlamp.
“Hey,” I said, my voice losing its edge. “I was kidding. It was a joke.”
“It’s fine.”
It wasn't fine. She looked like I’d just slapped her. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, her fingers trembling.
I replayed the sentence in my head. *Naked in Ethan’s bed.*
My brain finally made the connection. The way she talked about being 'behind,' the way she guarded herself.
“Hannah,” I said carefully, stepping closer. “Are you a virgin?”
Her eyes snapped to mine, wide and vulnerable. “You can’t just ask people that!”
“I’m not people. I’m the guy who just put his foot in his mouth.” I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry. That was… I wasn't thinking.”
She let out a shaky breath, her gaze dropping back to the pavement. “It’s fine. It’s just… it’s not a joke to me.”
“I get that now.”
“I’m not ashamed of it,” she said, her voice growing stronger. “I just… I feel like I’m missing the instruction manual everyone else got. Like there’s this whole language I don’t speak, and eventually, guys get tired of waiting for the translation.”
I stared at her, moved by the honesty of it. “You’re not missing anything. You’re just waiting for something that actually matters. That’s not a defect, Hannah. It’s a choice.”
She looked up at me, surprised. “You really think that?”
“I know a lot of people who’ve had a lot of sex they don’t remember with people they don’t like. You’re ahead of them, if you ask me.”
Her lips parted, her expression softening. “Thank you, Nate.”
We stood there for a beat, the tension between us shifting from awkward to something thick and electric. The wind picked up, blowing a strand of hair across her face. Without thinking, I reached out and brushed it away. My thumb lingered on her cheek. Her skin was like silk.
“We should probably practice,” I said, my voice dropping to a gravelly whisper.
“Practice?”
“The kissing. If we’re going to do this, we can’t look like it’s our first time when Cross is watching. You’ll overthink it. You’ll be stiff.”
She swallowed hard, her eyes darting to my mouth. “You want to kiss me? For… research?”
“For the narrative.”
She took a breath, her fingers curling into the fabric of her coat. “Okay. For the narrative.”
I stepped into her space, my height towering over her. I moved slowly, giving her every chance to back away, but she stayed. I cupped her face, my palms framing her jaw. She was looking up at me with such trust it made my chest ache.
I leaned down and pressed my lips to hers.
It was supposed to be a clinical touch—a baseline.
But the second our mouths met, the 'fake' part of the evening evaporated.
She tasted like mint and the lemonade she’d had at dinner.
She was hesitant for half a heartbeat, then her hands came up, clutching the front of my jacket, and she kissed me back.
It wasn't the practiced, hollow kiss of a girl who’d done this a thousand times. It was honest. Soft. Exploring.
I groaned low in my throat, my hands sliding into her hair to tilt her head back. I deepened the kiss, my tongue brushing against her bottom lip. She let out a tiny, broken sound that went straight to my gut.
When I finally pulled away, we were both breathing hard. Her eyes were dazed, her lips slightly swollen and wet.
I was in serious trouble.
“Was that… okay?” she whispered.
I stared at her, my pulse drumming in my ears. “Yeah, Hannah. That’ll work.”
I walked her the rest of the way to her dorm in a daze. We didn't talk much; the air between us was too charged with the memory of that kiss. When we reached the steps of her building, she turned to me.
“Goodnight, Nate.”
“Goodnight, Hannah Reed.”
I watched her go inside, staying until the lobby door clicked shut. My phone buzzed.
**Carter:** *How was the date? Did you keep it respectable?*
I looked at the phone, then back at the door where she’d disappeared.
**Nate:** *Yeah. Respectable.*
Liar.
I turned and started the long walk home, the cold air doing absolutely nothing to kill the fire she’d just started under my skin.