"Okay," Emery said, flipping to a blank page in her notebook as if she were drafting battle plans. "Let's get one thing straight: if we're doing this, we're doing it on my terms."
Liam blinked. "I didn't realize fake-dating came with a contract."
"Everything comes with a contract," she replied. "Just most people don't write it down. Then feelings get involved, someone starts monologuing about fate, and the whole thing ends with ice cream, tears, and a passive-aggressive playlist."
He let out a low chuckle. "Have you always been this romantic?"
"I peaked in third grade when I gave someone a ring pop and he threw it in the sandbox." She tapped the pen against her notepad. "Let's begin."
He leaned back in the booth of the café, watching her like someone who'd wandered into a movie mid-plot and was deciding whether to stay. Emery ignored the weight of his stare and drew a bold line across the top of the page.
"Rules of Engagement"—she wrote it in all caps.
"Rule number one," she said, glancing up at him. "No real feelings."
Liam's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Don't you need feelings to sell this as a relationship?"
"Fake feelings. Carefully curated ones. What we're doing is marketing, not... emotional strip poker."
"I have so many follow-up questions."
Emery continued. "You're a decent actor—"
"Thank you?"
"—and I'm professionally dead inside, so this should be manageable."
Liam pressed a hand to his heart, mock wounded. "You think I'm decent?"
"I think you're passable," she corrected. "Don't get ahead of yourself. Rule number two: No touching unless it's for an audience. That includes Instagram stories, your conveniently nosy coworker, or my editor. Otherwise, personal space stays intact."
"So no cuddling during Netflix marathons?"
"You'll survive."
He smiled. "Rule noted. What's next?"
"Kissing." She made the word sound like a contractual liability. "Only if required. And I mean required. If we have to sell the illusion, fine. But don't just kiss me because the mood feels right or the lighting's romantic."
"Do you often find yourself tempted by mood lighting?"
"I don't trust any lighting that makes people look better than their personality."
Liam laughed again, and Emery tried not to notice the way his eyes crinkled when he did. Or how he hadn't once looked at his phone since they sat down. He was focused. Present. Annoyingly charming in that whole "I still believe in people" kind of way.
"Rule four," she continued. "No emotional confessions. I don't want to hear about your high school heartbreak, or how Natalie was your first real love, or how your mom always made pancakes in the shape of dinosaurs. We keep it light. Publicly affectionate, privately distant."
"Wow," he said. "You've really thought this through."
"I write about love for a living," she replied. "The best way to understand a system is to stay outside of it."
"Or you're just scared."
Emery froze.
Liam didn't say it with cruelty. No heat, no smugness. Just a quiet observation that slid under her skin like cold water.
"I'm not scared," she said, adjusting the strap on her bag. "I'm realistic."
"You say that like it's a defense mechanism."
"Because it is," she said, more sharply than she meant to. Then she exhaled. "Look. I'm not going to fall for you. This isn't going to turn into some slow-burn, eyes-across-the-room, rain-kiss situation. This is content. Strategy. PR."
Liam didn't flinch. He just nodded, slowly, like he understood something she didn't want to admit.
"Okay," he said softly. "Then rule five: if either of us starts catching feelings, we end it."
She blinked.
"That's your rule?" she asked.
He gave a half-smile. "Seems fair. You get to protect your deadlines, I get to protect what's left of my heart."
She didn't like how reasonable it sounded coming from him. Or how he said it with a kind of quiet dignity that made her chest ache in a place she hadn't acknowledged in years.
"Fine," she said. "If feelings happen—we abort mission. Deal?"
"Deal."
They shook hands across the table. Emery's palm was warm against his—too warm, like her body was trying to betray her rules before they'd even gotten up from the table.
"Alright," she said, pulling her hand back quickly. "I'll build a content calendar—dates, key photo moments, captions. We'll start light. Coffee shop date, bookstore, something visually appealing but not too couple-y. Then we build up to a few 'awwww' moments."
"Like what?"
"Pumpkin patch. Matching scarves. Something with fairy lights. You'd be surprised how many people will believe you're in love if you're standing under string lights holding a cider."
Liam shook his head, amused. "You're terrifyingly good at this."
She slung her bag over her shoulder and stood. "Thank you. I weaponize charm for survival."
As they stepped out into the late afternoon light, the sun dipped low behind the buildings, casting everything in a warm, golden haze. Liam looked over at her, his tone quieter.
"You know," he said, "you don't have to be this guarded all the time."
"I'm not guarded," she said automatically.
He just smiled. "Right."
They parted with a wave and no backward glance. Emery walked away briskly, heels clicking, heart steady.
This wasn't real.
It was content. A narrative. A curated illusion for clicks and columns and deadlines.
Nothing more.
And yet, hours later, as she sat in bed scrolling through Instagram locations tagged "romantic fall dates," she found herself wondering what Liam's ex had looked like when she first fell for him—and if Emery had just unknowingly started to do the same.