32
Nate
By six forty-five, my apartment looks like a man with his life together lives here.
Which is how I know I’m lying to everyone, including my furniture. The counters are scrubbed, the blanket is folded over the back of the couch with aggressive precision, and two bottles of water sit on the coffee table like I’m hosting a very small, very tense corporate retreat.
I stand in the middle of the living room and stare at the couch. The couch stares back. Judgmentally. It has earned that right after everything it’s witnessed lately.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
**Carter:** *u alive*
**Nate:** *Stop asking me that.*
**Carter:** *stop acting questionably alive. rules talk tonight?*
I frown at the screen. I didn't tell him that.
**Nate:** *Did Ava tell you?*
**Carter:** *ella told ava who told me nothing because she respects privacy but has loud eyebrows. It’s handled?*
**Nate:** *It's handled.*
**Carter:** *famous last words from men who do not have it handled.*
I toss the phone aside. Carter doesn’t know the details, but he knows the fake dating is a mess.
He knows Hannah is more than the easy campus story everyone thinks they’re watching.
He just doesn't know that I'm about to end the very thing that has been saving my reputation while creating a private disaster I can't name.
Because tonight, the deal officially changes.
Ethan noticed her. He asked her out. He wants to see her again. The mission is a success, and that should make ending the act easy. But it means no more hand on her back. No more public excuse to be near her. And private excuses are getting harder to believe.
A knock sounds at the door. I inhale, steadying my pulse, and open it.
Hannah stands there in an oversized navy sweatshirt that swallows her hands. Her hair is in a messy ponytail, and she looks like she’s been arguing with herself the entire walk here.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey. Did you put out water?”
“I’m a host.”
“Your apartment is starting to feel like a very responsible hostage situation.”
My mouth curves. Nervous or not, she’s still Hannah. I let her in, and the click of the lock feels louder tonight.
“Kitchen table?” I ask, nodding away from the living room.
Her eyebrows lift. “Avoiding the couch?”
“Yes.”
The honesty slips out before I can mask it. Her cheeks turn pink, and we move to the neutral territory of the small wooden table. No pillows. No ghosts.
“So. Rules,” she says, twisting the cap on her water bottle.
“Rules. Not scary.”
“Just logistical.”
“Right.”
She narrows her eyes. “Why does that sound like a lie when you say it?”
“Because logistics are scary now.”
I lean back, trying to look composed when every nerve is on edge. “The fake dating worked, Hannah. Ethan asked you out. Twice. Coach is off my back. The headlines have cooled. The public part did what it needed to do.”
She looks up slowly. She knows where this is going. “So we stop,” she says. The words sound wrong. Too final.
“Publicly, yeah. No more couple act. No more dates for show. No more using me to get a reaction from him.”
“And no more using him to pretend what happens here doesn't matter,” I add, my gaze holding hers.
She goes very still. “Okay. Clearer can be scary.”
“Yeah.”
I stand up to get some distance, gripping the kitchen counter. “I don’t want to hurt you, Hannah. And I don’t want to be the reason things get more tangled. But I don’t want to stop the lessons.”
The confession is out before I can stop it. Hannah’s eyes widen, and I see the relief move through her—and then the stubbornness.
“I don’t want to stop either,” she says.
We spend the next hour drafting the new boundaries. They go into her notebook because of course they do.
1. **No public couple act.**
2. **Lessons only if Hannah asks clearly.**
3. **No lessons on 'Ethan days.'** If she sees him, we only talk.
4. **Talk before and after new things.**
“No lessons on Ethan days?” she asks, her brow furrowed.
“Because I don’t want to be the guy you come to when he makes you feel confused,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck.
“So you’re making rules for me,” she counters.
“I’m making rules for us. I have to follow them too. By not saying yes when I want to.”
The room goes silent. The refrigerator hums. Hannah’s knee accidentally brushes mine under the table, and it feels like a physical shock. I pull my leg back first.
“I’m not pulling away because I don't want to touch you,” I mutter.
“I know,” she whispers. “But you can still touch me, Nate.”
My chest clenches. I look at her—really look at her—and I know that if I reach across the table now, the rules won't matter.
I walk her to the door at eight-thirty. Earlier than usual. No couch, no kissing. Just rules and the smell of salt and vinegar chips.
“Text me when you’re back,” I say.
She hesitates at the threshold. I know she’s thinking about the cheek kiss—the habit we’ve built. I shake my head once, barely. Not tonight. Not when we just drew the lines.
“Goodnight, Hannah Reed.”
“Goodnight, Nate.”
I lean against the closed door, the apartment feeling too quiet and too empty. Five minutes later, my phone buzzes.
**Hannah:** *Back at dorm. No décor injuries. That still works, by the way.*
I stare at the text. Of course she sent that after two hours of being responsible.
**Nate:** *Noted. Goodnight, Hannah.*
The fake dating is over. The lessons are not. We have rules now. Clear, smart, responsible rules.
I look at the couch. It still looks unimpressed. Rules are easy to write down; keeping them is the part that might ruin us.