The Aftermath
T he silence that settled after their agreement was heavier than Harper expected.
She sat in her room later that evening, staring at the ceiling as the rules replayed in her mind.
Temporary. Minimal PDA. Absolutely no kissing.
Easy enough, right? Except her pulse still stuttered every time she remembered the warmth of Ethan’s arm around her shoulders, the way his voice had sounded when he’d said my girlfriend.
This was supposed to be pretend. It needed to stay pretend.
She shoved the thought aside and pulled out her laptop, determined to bury herself in work. But just as she opened her inbox, a soft knock came at her door.
“Harper?” Ethan’s voice, low and cautious.
She hesitated, then sighed. “What?”
The door cracked open. He leaned against the frame, looking almost sheepish—though with him, she could never quite tell where sincerity ended and teasing began. “I just wanted to say... thanks.”
“For what?” she asked, arms folded.
“For going along with it. I know I threw you in the deep end.”
Her brows lifted. “You think?”
He winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, yeah. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you. But you saved me back there. I owe you one.”
Harper studied him, wary of the vulnerability threading through his words. It wasn’t the usual smirk-and-shrug Ethan. This was softer, quieter. For the first time, she glimpsed the man beneath the bravado.
“You really cared what she thought, didn’t you?” she asked carefully.
Something flickered in his eyes—pain, quickly masked. “Melissa always liked to have the upper hand. I just... wanted her to see I’m not broken over it.”
Harper’s chest tightened despite herself. She knew the sting of someone walking away, knew how badly pride could bruise. For all his jokes, Ethan wasn’t immune to that kind of hurt.
“Well,” she said gently, “you don’t look broken.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, small but real. “Thanks, Harper.”
Before she could overthink it, he turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving her heart rattling in her chest.
—
T HE NEXT DAY, HARPER found herself in the living room surrounded by Ethan’s chaos: a guitar on the couch, sneakers kicked under the coffee table, and a half-finished crossword on the counter.
Normally, the mess would have sent her into orbit.
But for once, she just sighed and started gathering his things into a neat pile.
“You know, that’s my system,” Ethan said, suddenly appearing with two mugs of coffee.
“Your system is entropy,” she muttered, but she took the mug gratefully.
He sat beside her on the couch, unbothered by the pile she’d made. “So. If we’re doing this, we need a backstory.”
Her stomach flipped. “Backstory?”
“Of course. No one’s going to believe you fell head over heels for me without some kind of story.”
She glared. “I’m regretting this already.”
“Too late.” He grabbed a notebook from the table and clicked a pen. “Okay, when did we meet? Coffee shop? Bookstore? Something cute and cliché.”
Harper groaned. “This is ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously important,” he corrected. “Come on, give me something. Otherwise, I’m telling Melissa we met at a karaoke bar when you swooned over my rendition of Livin’ on a Prayer.”
She snorted before she could stop herself. “Fine. Coffee shop. I was working, you annoyed me, end of story.”
“Perfect,” he said, scribbling it down like a diligent student. “First date?”
“We didn’t have one,” she argued.
He ignored her. “Picnic in the park. I brought sandwiches, you brought that plant of yours for atmosphere.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. For all his nonsense, he was... kind of fun.
When he glanced up from the notebook, his grin was softer than usual. “See? We’re good at this.”
Harper’s chest squeezed in a way she wasn’t ready to name. Pretend, she reminded herself. Just pretend.