#er

The realisation hits you mid-sentence, pen freezing against the page as your textbook blurs in front of you.

Photos. Emails. Texts.

Solid proof of an existing relationship that you somehow agreed to provide by the end of the week. Your stomach drops.

"Oh my god," you whisper, your breath hitching in your throat. "Oh my god, oh my god—"

You'd been so laser-focused on the logistics of moving in. Breaking your lease before time (not that your roommate minded), coordinating when to pack, pretending to be casual about having to share a bathroom with Jack. Somehow, catastrophically, this part had slipped straight through the cracks.

Now, you only have four days until they're expecting proof of a relationship spanning months, while it has barely existed for weeks at this point. Oh, and most importantly, it's also a fake relationship.

You're so fucked.

With a harsh screech, you push your chair back from the desk and snatch your phone from the bed, your fingers trembling as you unlock the screen. You frantically scroll through your photos, months passing by. Familiar images blur together in a frantic attempt to find anything that could even be loosely interpreted as evidence of you and Jack together.

The first photo stops you cold. A blurry group snapshot taken at a bar, and yes, you and Jack are both in the frame, but you're seated at opposite ends of the table, half-obscured by someone's elbow in the foreground. You could just be coworkers.

You are just coworkers.

You keep scrolling, a sense of dread creeping in.

Another photo catches your eye. You're sitting next to each other at the park, beers in hand, both locked in conversation. Jack's talking to someone off to the side, while you're laughing at a completely unrelated joke, a solid two feet separating your bodies.

"Fuck," you mutter and scroll on.

Then, the last image draws you in. Jack leaning in, his mouth inches away from your ear, clearly whispering something to you while your face is scrunched up in laughter, eyes closed. It looks intimate. It feels intimate.

But it's also just one photo.

"One," you groan. "I have one usable photo." You drop down on the edge of your bed, hinges squeaking softly. Your chest tightens.

You open your messages next. Your heart hammers as you sift through banal exchanges between you. Coffee runs. Scheduling discussions. It's only your recent texts that could infer anything, and still, it reads as platonic.

There are no hearts. No inside jokes. No late-night rambling that feels so integral to any real relationship. Nothing points to the two of you being more than colleagues.

Emails are even worse. So much worse. There's barely nothing there. Just upcoming schedules. Residency stuff. Nothing again that could suggest you'd been hiding a relationship for months.

You drop your phone onto your lap, staring blankly at the ceiling, the brightness of your screen fading into darkness.

"They're going to know," you whisper to yourself. "They're absolutely going to know. Fuck."

Panic surges, sharp and overwhelming, a cold grip wrapping around your throat. You snatch up your phone again, heart racing, and fire off a desperate message to Olivia without thinking.

YOU: SOS

Almost instantly, your phone rings. "Hey," Olivia’s voice comes through, alert and focused. "What’s going on?"

You let out a shaky laugh that teeters on the verge of hysteria. "I’m completely fucked. Like—capital F. Totally. They’re going to know."

"Know what?" she asks, her tone filled with confusion and concern. You can hear the distant chatter in the background die down as she closes her office door. "Slow down."

"I’m going to lose my job," you rush out. "I’m going to be in debt for nothing. The last few years of my life will have been worthless—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," she interrupts firmly. "Pause. Breathe. Talk to me."

You suck in a breath that barely feels like it contains any oxygen and begin to explain everything—how you need proof, the impending deadline, the photos that aren’t really photos, the texts that scream ‘we’re just coworkers', the emails that can't be misconstrued in any way.

There’s a beat of silence on the line, and then Olivia snorts, amusement lacing her voice. "Babe," she says, sounding like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "Did you forget what I do for a living?"

"What?" you say weakly.

"I literally work in tech," she continues, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. "I can fix the metadata."

You stand up so fast that you nearly pull your duvet with you. "You—what?"

"I can fix it for you," she says, her voice steady and reassuring. "I’ll handle the timestamps, the locations—everything. "

"Wait," you interrupt, your mind racing. "You can actually do that?"

She laughs. "Please. This is child’s play."

Your shoulders sag as relief crashes through you, heavy and dizzying. You press a hand to your face, laughing breathlessly. "You’ve just saved my life."

"I know," Olivia replies smugly. "Now relax. We’ve got work to do." She exhales thoughtfully on the other end of the line. "Okay. Here’s the thing, though."

Your stomach tightens again. "Why do you sound like that?"

"Because you’re gonna need to give me something to work with," she says. "Different locations. Different outfits. I need variety so I can make this believable. If I have to use Photoshop too much, it’s going to take forever, and we don’t have forever."

You stare at the wall, dread creeping back in. "Different locations," you repeat faintly. "Different outfits."

"Yes," she confirms patiently. "It can’t look like you suddenly decided to document your relationship in one afternoon. That would be suspicious."

"This is insane," you mutter under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief. "This is actually unhinged." A wave of anxiety washes over you as you realise the gravity of your situation. You wince at the thought. "I’m going to have to coordinate this with Jack."

A heavy silence hangs in the air for a moment before Olivia’s voice breaks through. "Oh," she says slowly, as if processing the implications of your words. "You haven't discussed this yet?"

"No," you admit. "I only just realised now."

"Well," she replies, a hint of mischief in her tone, "I'm sure he won't mind. You're moving in with him after all."

You give her a smile that is halfway between panic and giddiness. "We're crazy. This whole thing is crazy. Have I lost my mind?"

"Maybe," Olivia agrees. "But you’ll still be employed."

"Barely," you mutter. "So what about the texts?"

"I’ll handle that," she says. "We’ll grab some of your more recent texts and make them look older, sprinkle in a little romance—"

You swallow as the anxiety begins to die down again. "And emails?"

She bursts into laughter, the sound brightening the heaviness of the conversation. "Come on! No one in a real relationship emails romantically from a work account. Professional emails actually work in your favour—they’ll show that you were trying to keep it discreet."

"Okay, yeah. I see your point." You let out a shaky breath. "I cannot believe this keeps on getting worse."

"Oh, I can," Olivia replies, a mischievous edge creeping into her voice. "You thrive in chaos, remember?"

You shoot her a half-hearted glare. "We need to send the proof by Sunday. Do you think we can do that?"

"Yeah," Olivia says. "We got this!" There's a distant knock, mumbling in the background. "Hey, I really have to go, but send me those texts ASAP, and I'll start on those until you can get me the photos. Love you."

As the call ends, you find yourself staring at the blank screen for a minute. You're about to move in with your attending. Create fraudulent texts and photos to hide a lie.

This is surreal. But you're in this far now. Might as well go all the way.

You take a deep breath. "Okay," you whisper to yourself. "Let's do this."

Jack tries to keep his eyes on the road, but his attention keeps drifting back to you. He can’t help but notice the way your fingers twist together in your lap. The way you've gone quiet in that particular, loaded way he's learned to recognise. It's the same silence when you're worried but trying not to make it a problem. It makes something tight settle behind his ribs, a feeling he can't quite pin down.

The blinker clicks. The engine hums. The radio croons softly. You don't say a word.

He makes it three more blocks before he can't stand it anymore.

"Hey," he says, his tone gentle. He’s already preparing himself for whatever’s weighing on your mind. "You wanna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?"

You startle slightly, like you didn’t realise you were being watched. Then you look over at him, worry already pulling lines into your forehead as you bite your lip. "We forgot about the photos and texts HR wants by the end of the week," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jack’s stomach drops. He lets his mind rewind—HR’s email, the checklist, the casual way you’d both nodded like it was no big deal. Proof. Documentation. He exhales a sharp breath through his nose. "Oh shit," he mutters.

"I looked through my photos…" you say hesitantly.

"And?" he prompts, steeling himself for the worst as he manoeuvres the steering wheel through the intersection.

"Nothing good. I found maybe one decent shot, but it’s not enough." You wince, then rush to add, "I’ve got it covered. Mostly. But it means we’ll need to take a lot more photos."

Pulling to a stop at a red light, he finally turns to you fully. You look stressed, but he also sees the spark of determination in your eyes—problem-solving mode engaged, already trying to protect both of you. It does something stupidly warm to his chest.

"Won’t they be able to tell they were taken the same day?" he asks.

Your brows lift at his question, a mischievous twitch creeping at the corner of your mouth, despite the situation. "Wow. Aren’t you up with the times, old man?"

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. "I’m not that old."

You give him a look that says otherwise.

He huffs, shaking his head. "I’m just saying. I know metadata exists."

You glance at him. "...So does Olivia."

He blinks, foot pressing the speeder again as the light turns green. "You told her?"

You pause, then shrug nonchalantly. "She works in tech, Jack. We need her help if we want this to work."

"I thought we promised not to tell anyone," he says, not angry, just careful. Protective.

You tilt your head in his direction, eyebrows raised. "Like you promised not to tell Robby?"

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Considers pretending to be confused. Then sighs, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Fair point."

A beat of silence stretches between you, softer now, charged with unspoken thoughts.

"So," he says, glancing at you again, "Olivia can actually help us?"

"She can," you nod, the tension in your shoulders slightly easing. "But we’ll need to give her something to work with."

He pulls into his parking spot, lines it up neatly, lost in thought. "Define ‘something.'"

"Variety," you say. "Different locations. Different vibes. We can’t look like we just took ten photos in one afternoon."

He laughs quietly, the absurdity of the situation breaking through the tension. "This is ridiculous."

"Completely," you agree, a small smile playing on your lips. But Jack notices your shoulders remain tense, hands still clenched.

He shifts in his seat, turning toward you fully now. "When does Olivia need them?"

"As soon as possible," you say. "I’ve already sent her some texts."

He nods slowly, already rearranging his week in his head. He's got the next few days off anyway—to help you move—so he's free. "Okay. We can do coffee after work. Your apartment. My place. Maybe dinner somewhere?"

"Dinner?" you echo, a hint of surprise in your voice as your eyes flick up to meet his.

"For realism," he says easily, even though it stirs in his chest—a warmth he can’t afford to let grow. "People in relationships eat food."

You laugh, and it’s like the tension finally cracks. Your shoulders drop. The sound is quiet but real, and Jack feels absurdly proud of himself for being the reason.

"Right," you say, your voice lighter. "Of course they do."

He glances at the clock on the dashboard. "We should probably head in. We’ll start with coffee."

"Okay," you say, drawing in a steadying breath. "Coffee tomorrow."

He hesitates, then smiles at you—soft, reassuring, the kind of smile he can't help but form around you. "Hey. We’ll figure it out. Moving in is the big thing. This is just… documentation."

"Documentation," you repeat faintly.

"Exactly," he says. "Very romantic."

You laugh again, quieter this time.

And as you reach for the door handle, Jack thinks—not for the first time—that if this is what fake looks like, he’s in deeper than he probably should be.

The coffee shop is nearly empty, the kind of empty that only exists in the early morning, before the city fully wakes up. A handful of patrons occupy the corners, their fingers wrapped tightly around steaming mugs like lifelines. Their computers switched on, ready for another workday. The soft morning light filtering through the windows is pale and gentle, illuminating the dust motes that float lazily in its glow. Everything in here smells like coffee and warm pastries.

Jack holds the door open with his shoulder, one hand braced against the frame.

"You go find us a table," he says, voice low and rough in that way it always gets after a night shift. "I’ll order for us."

Your mouth opens automatically to give him your order. "I’ll just—"

"Tea. Herbal. A dash of honey," he cuts in, already turning toward the counter. Then he looks back at you, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion, expression unreadable but certain. A look that says I remember. That says let me take care of this. He nods toward the tables. "Go sit."

Your chest tightens for a reason you refuse to examine again.

Nodding, you choose a small corner table by the window, positioned perfectly to view the street outside, which still seems half-asleep. A bus hisses by. Someone walks a dog like they’ve been up forever, too. The place is cosy—soft chairs, warm wooden surfaces, sunlight trying its best to break through the cloud cover. It's exactly the kind of place you might suggest for a date.

Not that this is a date, you remind yourself firmly. It’s not. It’s logistics. Damage control.

You rub at your eyes, suddenly aware of how tired you are. How thin your defences feel after twelve hours of controlled chaos and adrenaline.

Jack comes back a moment later with two cups. He moves carefully, like his body is running on muscle memory now. He sits beside you, not across from you, and the closeness is immediate. His knee brushes yours. His arm shifts against yours as he leans back.

He takes a long sip of his coffee, exhales, then hums, low, pleased, a sound that sends a pleasurable shiver through you, settling warmly in your lower stomach.

You stare at the table because looking at him while he makes that sound would be a mistake. Your brain is already unhelpful, constructing various scenarios of how you, and not a cup of coffee, could recreate it.

Forcing your hands into action, you pick up your phone. "Okay," you say. "Let’s get this over with."

Jack glances at your phone, then back at you, amusement flickering in his gaze. "And they say romance is dead."

"Ha," you respond dryly, a small smile betraying your feigned indifference.

You start with a few safe shots of the cups. His coffee and your tea side by side, steam rising together in the early light. Then there’s one of him alone, leaning back in his chair, dark circles shadowing his eyes, yet somehow still handsome in a way that feels unfair.

He catches you, one eyebrow raised. "You’re not sending that one, are you?"

"I might," you say, with a mischievous shrug. You won't send it, but you also definitely won’t delete it. It'll linger in your gallery.

Finally, after a few steadying breaths, you turn the camera around so it’s facing both of you. You hold it up, arm trembling just slightly.

Jack picks up on your uncertainty instantly. He always does. Without a word, he shifts his chair closer, and your shoulders align, a familiar touch that sends warmth coursing through you. His arm brushes against yours, and he carries the comforting blend of coffee, antiseptic, and that subtle, indescribable scent that is just him.

You share a tentative smile.

When you look at the photo, your heart sinks. It’s nice. Friendly. Comfortable. It looks like coworkers grabbing coffee before collapsing into bed. It doesn’t look like the kind of relationship that convinces an administration you’re stable, supported, settled.

"It’s not good enough," you murmur.

Jack leans in to look. "Too tired?"

"Too… professional," you reply, disheartened.

"Do you want me to take it for you?" The voice comes from a few tables down. A woman with messy hair and a half-drunk latte, clearly post-night shift herself. She’s already rising from her seat.

You hesitate. Then you think about the meeting. The warning. The way your future suddenly hinges on proof you don't have.

"Yes," you say firmly, your voice steadier than you feel. "Please."

She takes your phone, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "You guys work at the hospital?"

"What gave it away?" you say dryly. "The dead eyes?"

She laughs. "That and the scrubs. Okay—move closer."

Jack doesn’t hesitate. He slips an arm around your shoulders, pulls you in close. The contact is warm, solid, grounding in a way you’re not prepared for. You lean into him without thinking, your head fitting under his chin like muscle memory you never practised. His thumb presses lightly against your arm, hesitating just slightly before settling.

"Perfect, very cute." the woman says. "Hold that."

You try to smile like this means nothing. Like your heart isn’t pounding. Like the early morning light isn’t making everything feel softer, more intimate, more possible.

Snap.

When you see the photo, your throat tightens. It looks real. Not posed. Not forced. Just two exhausted people clinging to each other at the end of a long night. Tired—but real.

You look away quickly, afraid of what will happen if you let yourself believe it. Because it isn’t real. And you really, really hope you’re strong enough to remember that by the end of this thing.

Hours later, as sleep has eased the most stressful edges of the night, Jack finds himself parked again outside your apartment building.

He leaves the engine running, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other draped uselessly in his lap, fingers idly drumming as he watches the building for any sign of you.

His mind keeps replaying the coffeeshop. The way you leaned back into him like it was nothing. The casualness of it, the weight of you resting there, the way his body had gone utterly still because any movement felt like it might mean too much. He tells himself it was friendly. Just pretend. And yet—his arm had remembered you without instruction. His chest had known exactly where you fit. That’s the part that keeps looping in his mind, the part that makes his fingers tighten on the wheel. The ease. The terrifying, quiet ease of it.

The door flies open.

You bounce out like you’ve been shot from a cannon, hair a little wild, energy too big for the quiet afternoon. You’re dragging a massive bag behind you—bigger than necessary, clearly—and Jack lets out a quiet huff of a laugh before he can stop himself.

"Jesus," he mutters under his breath. "Of course you would."

You nearly trip on the steps, catch yourself, laugh at your own near-demise, then wrestle the bag down the sidewalk. When you spot his car, your whole face lights up, and you lift a hand in an enthusiastic wave, like you’re greeting someone you haven’t seen in weeks instead of… earlier today.

A twist of warmth unfurls in Jack's chest.

He's about to get out of the car to help you, but your dramatic gesture makes him stay. He obliges, not too willingly, but he does take some pleasure in watching through the windshield as you struggle with the bag, hitching it up onto your shoulder with melodramatic effort. You strike a brief, victorious pose when you conquer it.

He’s absurdly fond of you for it.

You finally make it to the passenger side and yank the door open. "Okay," you announce, breathless. "Before you say anything—I know."

He raises an eyebrow. "You’re moving in already?"

"It’s called being prepared," you huff, a mock expression of offence crossing your features. "Also, faking months' worth of pictures requires lots of outfit changes."

He snorts despite himself. "Yeah, I can see that."

You shove the bag in the backseat. "Careful. There’s a system in there."

"I’m terrified," he says.

You buckle into the passenger seat, your legs bouncing restlessly with leftover energy.

"Ready?" he asks, carefully casual.

You grin. "Born ready. Exhausted, but ready."

You hum under your breath, something tuneless and happy, and he has to look away so you don’t see how much that affects him.

The drive is quiet but not uncomfortable.

"So," you say, too bright after a few minutes. "I made a list."

Jack exhales through his nose. "I knew it."

"Outfits. Places," you add helpfully. "Oh, and poses."

"I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that."

"You say that now," you reply. "But when HR is convinced we’re soulmates, you’ll thank me."

He hums. "Bold assumption."

"You are welcome," you say, nudging his arm with your elbow.

He parks outside his place and gets out, grabbing the bag before you can beat him to it. It’s heavier than expected.

He winces. "You pack bricks in here?"

"Layers," you correct. "Texture. Narrative depth."

He shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

Inside, there's a soft glow of afternoon sunlight. You kick off your shoes immediately, toeing them into a corner like you’ve done this a hundred times.

Jack watches for half a second too long before clearing his throat. "Uh—kitchen first?"

You’re already halfway there, smoothing your hair into something passable, while Jack leans against the counter, still trying to reconcile the fact that you're here in his kitchen, acting as if you've been here all your life. You're dressed in slouchy clothes, an oversized tee slipping off one shoulder and soft pants, looking far too much like you'd just woken up at his place again.

Jack watches as you mutter something about mugs, opening the cabinet with a careful flick of your wrist. Two clink against each other as you pull them out.

"You got coffee?" you ask, the corners of your mouth twitching up, that bright grin lighting up the kitchen.

Jack shakes his head, stepping past you. "You could just ask me to make you a cup, you know." His voice has that soft huff, the one that makes him sound like he’s trying to sound annoyed but failing.

"Yes, but where’s the fun in that?" you shoot back, holding out the mugs.

He glances at you over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I think it’s just because you still don’t know how to use this beauty." His hand lands on the machine’s top with a gentle pat, like it’s a living thing.

You scoff, tilting your head. "Not my fault, you own the most fancy-pansy machine in the world."

Jack doesn’t argue. He flicks switches, the machine hissing and whirring, and soon enough a rich, dark aroma fills the kitchen. He passes you a mug.

You step back, just enough for your spine to brush against his arm, your weight leaning there casually. Jack freezes, heart stuttering for a split second before settling.

"Okay," you say, lifting your phone. "Casual. Like we’re just… standing here. Used to doing this."

"Yeah," Jack murmurs, the words soft, almost lost under the hum of the coffee machine.

You snap a photo, eyes flicking to the screen. Then back at him. "Maybe one more. But—uh—different angle." You snap it again.

Jack leans a little closer, taking a nonchalant sip of his coffee. Every snap of your phone makes the hair on the back of his neck lift. He doesn’t move away.

You drift toward the hallway without really announcing it, phone in hand, like momentum alone is carrying you forward. Clothes have been changed—yours, his, both of you arguing over the ridiculousness of coordinating outfits like it’s some kind of photo shoot, but ultimately yielding to it.

Stopping in front of the long mirror that stretches across the wall, you take in the reflection before you: the soft lighting and the way your hair frames your face.

Jack trails behind you, moving slower now, more hesitant. He halts a step behind, hands stuffed deep into his pockets.

You glance at him in the mirror, your brows furrowing slightly as you draw in a breath. "So... we need something affectionate."

His eyes flicker to your reflection, nodding quietly. "Like a hug?"

"Yes," you huff, letting out a nervous laugh that feels way too loud in the quiet hallway.

His gaze drops again. "I can— I mean, if you want. Only if you’re okay with it."

"Yes," you say quickly. Too quickly. You wince. "I mean, I think it’s fine. It’s just for the photo, right?"

"Right," he says. "Just the photo."

Neither of you moves. The air feels heavy with the space between, small but charged.

You take a breath and add, quieter, "If it’s weird, we can stop."

"It’s not weird," he says immediately. Then, amends, honest and careful, "I’m just… trying very hard not to do something you wouldn’t like."

That makes your chest tighten. "I’ll tell you," you promise. "If it’s too much."

He nods once, as if steeling himself for what’s to come, and finally steps closer. The warmth radiates from him, enveloping you before you feel anything else. "Okay," he murmurs, his voice steadier now. "I’m going to put my arms around you."

You can’t help but snort despite the situation. "That’s very reassuring."

"Sorry. Bad habit," he replies, a half-grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, easing some of the tension. "I narrate under pressure."

His arms come around you slowly, settling over your chest—not tight, not possessive. Careful. Like he’s giving you room to pull away if you want to. His body stays angled back, creating space even as he pretends closeness.

You lean back instinctively. Jack freezes for half a second, breath catching, then forces himself to relax.

"Still okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say. Then, because you’re also nervous, you add lightly, "You’re doing great. Five stars. Very affectionate."

He lets out a quiet laugh against your hair. "High praise."

You lift your phone, hands shaking just a little. In the mirror, it looks authentic—his arms around you, your back pressed against his chest, the way your shoulders have softened now that you’re leaning into him.

Snap.

For a brief instant, neither of you moves. Jack’s arms remain where they are, as if he’s waiting for your next cue. You hesitate, then gently touch his forearm with just a fingertip. "Okay," you say softly. "We got it."

He releases you immediately, maybe a little too fast, stepping back like he’s afraid he lingered a second too long.

In the mirror, you both look flustered, a little breathless, and undeniably convincing.

Clearing your throat, you glance over your shoulder. "Couch next?"

You disappear for a moment and come back wearing his hoodie, sleeves swallowing your hands. The fabric smells faintly like him—warm, faintly coffee-scented—and it hits Jack harder than it should. It’s not the first time he’s seen you in his clothes, yet the sight still hits him with a wave of unexpected intensity. He hides a quiet groan behind a cough, wishing he could unsee how right it looks on you. If he wants to survive this ordeal, he needs to get used to it… fast.

"Sit down," you command, flopping onto the couch.

"Bossy," he says, sliding down beside you, though his voice carries a low note of fondness.

You laugh—a little too sharp, a little too quick—and then, you lean in, head brushing against his chest. Jack stiffens for half a beat, like he’s caught in a trap of wanting to hold you and not wanting to cross a line. Then slowly, painstakingly slowly, he lets himself relax, arm coming around you, careful not to smother, careful not to claim.

"This okay?" he asks, voice quieter than he intends.

"Yeah," you murmur. "Is it okay for you?"

He swallows, the words coming too fast. "Yeah." Then softer, almost under his breath, "Yeah."

All he feels is the faint warmth of you, and the slightly erratic rhythm of his heartbeat beating under your head. He hopes you can't hear it.

Another snap.

The last stop is the bathroom.

Jack shuffles down the hall, reminding himself with each step: breathe, act normal, don’t collapse in your own house. He changes into softer clothes, hoping the cotton fabric will ease the tension curling in his chest and help him feel grounded again.

You emerge from your room in sleepwear that’s nearly indecent—a thin tank top that clings to your form and tiny shorts that leave little to the imagination. Jack feels his thoughts stumble over each other; he nearly trips over his own heart, a rapid beat echoing in his ears. He swears he can feel his pulse in his fingertips.

"Relax," you say, tossing a glance back at him, catching the look he can’t disguise. "It’s just brushing teeth."

"Very dangerous activity," he mutters under his breath, but the truth is that it’s not the brushing he considers risky; it’s the sight of you in that revealing outfit and the intimate space between you two.

You grin, a playful spark igniting your eyes as you grab the toothbrushes, leaning forward into the mirror. To him, it seems almost oblivious, the way you immerse yourself in the task, unaware of the charged atmosphere. You angle your phone, framing the perfect shot, posing with the ease of someone who doesn’t know the effect you have on him.

Snap.

Then, with an effortless leap, you hop onto the counter, your legs swinging slightly. You gesture for Jack to come closer, your inviting smile pulling him in. Suddenly, he finds himself standing between your thighs, a situation that feels both unintended and electrifying. He’s caught—cornered by the proximity, a sense of politeness tugging at him, and the palpable tension that suggests retreating too quickly would feel like letting you know exactly what's going on inside him. He braces his hands on the countertop, knuckles whitening, fighting the urge to move.

"You’re doing great," you whisper, a half-laugh escaping your lips as if to lighten the ridiculousness of the moment. "You look… very normal."

He shoots you a look—sharp, slightly exasperated, trying to mask how aware he is of everything—of the closeness, the heat, the way his body won’t stop reacting.

A small, nervous smile breaks across your face, and it’s infectious.

Another snap.

Neither of you shifts immediately. Jack exhales slowly, trying to convince himself he’s perfectly fine, even as the tightness in his shoulders (and pants) and the fluttering in his stomach suggest otherwise. You adjust slightly on the counter, careful not to bump into him, yet your leg brushes against his—a fleeting contact that sends a jolt through him. Neither of you reacts, neither of you moves away, and somehow that’s exactly the problem.

The photo captures it perfectly— how awkward, flustered and tense he feels—but he has to admit it looks convincingly real.

Jack stands in the hallway outside your apartment, a small bouquet of flowers clutched in one hand, the other hovering nervously near the doorbell. He had meant to just text, like a normal person, but… he can’t. He knows this isn't a real date, but he's old-fashioned. And if this is the only date he'll ever get with you, he's gonna take advantage of it. Make sure he treats you right.

He clears his throat, glances down at the flowers. Bright colours, a little messy, like you. Not too fancy, not too staged. Perfect.

With a deep breath, he presses the doorbell. Immediately, he hears the faint creak of the floors, then the shuffle of footsteps.

You appear, coat wrapped around you, hair tucked loosely behind one ear. For a second, he’s frozen. You look… breathtaking. He swallows, coughs lightly.

"Hey," he manages to say, voice casual but tight. "I brought you these." He holds up the bouquet awkwardly.

You glance at the flowers, then at him, and raise an eyebrow. "You really didn’t have to—"

"I know," he interrupts smoothly, forcing a grin. "But I wanted to. And, uh… figured it's a great mood setter."

You shake your head, laughing softly. You take the flowers and bring them inside quickly before you descend the stairs together. Jack watches your every movement, noting the way your bag swings lightly at your side, the soft fold of your coat, the way your hair catches the light. He keeps his expression easy, teasingly dry.

"Thought I’d give you the thrill of being escorted down," he adds, gesturing vaguely toward the street. "Better than a text, right?"

"Thrill? Really?" you ask, smirking, though there’s a warmth in your voice. "But honestly, you really didn't have to. I can't remember the last time someone I dated picked me up at the door."

"Well, then," he replied, trying not to let the quickening of his heartbeat show. "You haven't been dating real men, then."

You roll your eyes, but he catches the slight smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. He’s smiling now, though he tries to keep it contained, casual, as if he hasn’t been memorising every step you take since the bell rang.

Jack steps aside, holding the car door open. "After you," he murmurs. Allowing himself a moment to watch you slide inside, feeling like a fool for how much longing pulses through him all at once.

He climbs in after you and starts the engine. Quietly, carefully, he steals a glance at you. You’re talking, smiling lightly, and he thinks, God, how did I get stuck pretending this is casual?

The drive is calm, but his chest is not. He’s careful to sound nonchalant, cracking a small, dry joke about the traffic while secretly memorising the way the light hits your hair, the tilt of your head, the easy grace in your movements.

By the time you reach the restaurant, he’s still holding back, trying to keep the pining tucked under humour, casual commentary, teasing banter. But it’s there. Every glance, every pause in his voice, every stiff swallow betrays it.

Jack guides the car up to the curb in front of the restaurant, engine ticking down. You slide the door open, coat wrapped around you, and he follows behind with that calculated calm he’s been practising all evening—but the second you step inside, all pretence cracks.

The coat comes off, revealing the dress he hadn’t been able to see before. God. The colour, the cut—it’s perfect. It flatters you in all the subtle, infuriating ways he hadn’t thought imaginable. His chest tightens as his jaw clenches. He clears his throat subtly.

You catch him staring. "You look stunned," you say lightly, teasing him. "But I guess you haven't seen me in a dress before."

"Stunned? Me? No. I—I mean, yes. You look… good," he says quickly, fumbling with the words. "Very… good. Not too good. Perfectly good."

You laugh at him, the sound soft and familiar, and he feels the tension in his chest ease slightly, replaced by that quiet, warm ache he always tries to hide. He leans back, trying to act like he’s relaxed, though his eyes keep flicking to you.

Conversation flows easily, laughter coming naturally. You joke about work disasters, late-night shifts, and ridiculous coworkers. He teases you about something small—a clumsy gesture, the way you sip your water—and your laugh makes him grin so wide he worries he’s being too obvious. He’s careful not to let it show, but every glance, every brush of your hand against the table, every tilt of your head pulls him in closer.

Halfway through dessert, you remember the photos. "Right. HR," you mutter, pulling out your phone.

Jack leans back, trying to look nonchalant, but he’s tense, every muscle alert. You angle the phone and ask him to smile. He grins, but his eyes flick to yours instead of the camera. His chest tightens again—God, you look… stunning.

The waiter notices you struggling to get a decent photo with both of you in the frame. "Want me to take one for you both?" he asks.

You hand over the phone with a pleased smile.

The waiter snaps the photo. Jack’s hand brushes yours just slightly on the table enough to feel the warmth of you next to him, careful to act like it’s a casual touch. But inside, his chest is hammering, heart betraying what he’s been trying to hide all night.

He watches you eat, drink, laugh, leaning back slightly in his chair. The more he observes, the more aware he becomes: every smile, every glance, every little motion pulls him in, and pretending it’s all just for HR, just for photos, is getting harder by the second.

The car ride home is enveloped in a comfortable silence, the only sound the steady hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of your fingers flicking through your phone. After a few minutes of focused tapping, you send off all the staged photos to Olivia, feeling a rush of relief wash over you. Finally, it’s done.

Jack glances at you from the corner of his eye, one hand on the wheel. He doesn’t say anything, just watches, calm and steady, and somehow that makes your pulse tighten again.

As you pull up outside your apartment, streetlights stretch shadows across the pavement.

"I’ll walk you up," he says, breaking the silence.

You shake your head immediately. "I can—"

"I'll walk you up." His voice is soft but firm. It carries a sense of protection that you can’t quite shake, so you relent and follow him inside.

Once in your apartment, the sound of your shoes soft against the floor fills the space. Jack stands at the threshold.

Suddenly, your phone buzzes—once, twice, then a third time. You groan, feeling your skin crawl. "No," you mutter, exasperated. "No more. I’m done."

Jack shifts beside you, brow furrowing in concern. "…Everything okay?"

You glance at the screen, which is lighting up with messages. "Yep," you chirp, a little too brightly. "Everything's good. Totally fine."

Suspicion narrows his eyes. "What did Olivia say?"

"I don’t want to talk about it."

"Trouble," he says your nickname with a weight that makes you pause.

Cautiously, you meet his gaze. "She wants—" You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. "…more."

Jack nods, his expression unfaltering. "Another hug? Another—"

"No." You grimace. "Not that kind of more."

He waits, his patience both maddening and comforting. You finally choke it out, "She said HR wants a kiss."

The silence that follows feels electric, almost explosive. Jack freezes, processing the weight of your words. "…A kiss," he finally repeats, as if testing the sound on his tongue.

"Barely a kiss," you rush to clarify. "Microscopic. Blink-and-miss-it. We can fake it—angles, illusions, movie magic—"

He steps closer, measured, careful, like he’s approaching something fragile. "Breathe," he instructs softly, his voice steady.

You do. Or try to. His gaze stays steady on yours, grounded in a way that almost makes it worse.

"We don’t do anything you don’t want," he murmurs, low and even.

Swallowing hard, you nod, a tiny gesture that feels monumental. "It’s fine. We have to... for HR."

"Right," he replies, a beat of silence stretching between you. "HR."

You don’t back out. Pride wins. Or stupidity. Probably both. "Uh—come in. We can do it in my room."

Jack follows dutifully, hands clasped loosely behind his back. You place your phone in the corner, angle it just so, and hit play on the recording. Olivia can screenshot the part she wants, you're not gonna attempt to even pretend you can have a steady enough hand for this photo.

Jack steps in front of you, drawing close. There’s still room, too much of it, yet the tension is palpable, almost electric.

"This is ridiculous," you mutter, attempting to defuse the situation with humour.

"Extremely," he agrees immediately, a flicker of understanding passing between you. It helps, just a little.

You move closer before your thoughts can twist into doubt, your legs feeling like jelly beneath you.

"Do you want me to just…?" He gestures vaguely toward your face, fingers hovering at an awkward distance.

You let out a quiet laugh, the nerves bubbling over. "I’ve never staged a kiss before. Missed that elective in med school."

His laugh is soft and unguarded, slipping out before he can catch it. He exhales deeply, then raises his hand slowly, giving you ample time to back out.

Instead, you freeze.

His palm gently cups your cheek, warm and tender, his thumb grazing just below your eye. Your heart lurches, pounding so violently that you fear it might be captured on the recording.

"This okay?" he murmurs, voice careful again.

You nod. Barely.

He leans in and brushes your lips—just a whisper of contact. So light it almost doesn’t count. Almost.

Your chest jolts anyway.

Instinct kicks in before logic does. You lean in, closing the distance entirely. The kiss deepens—not rushed, not hungry, just… there. Real. His thumb strokes your cheekbone without thinking. One hand settles at your waist, light enough you could step away.

You don’t.

Your knees wobble. Your fingers curl, brushing the front of his shirt like you’re checking that he’s real. His breath stutters once before he steadies it again.

A sudden crash outside jolts you both back to reality.

He pulls away just enough so that your foreheads almost touch, breaths mingling in the charged air. "…That should probably satisfy the committee," he murmurs, his voice low and slightly breathless.

"Probably," you manage, voice embarrassingly unsteady.

Silence hangs thick and heavy, and neither of you moves.

His eyes flicker helplessly to your lips before he catches himself, swallowing hard. Then, slowly, deliberately, he steps back. "Okay," he says, his tone rougher than before. "We should… send it to Olivia."

"Right. For HR." You hit send, hands trembling slightly.

Jack just stands there, hands on his hips, ears faintly pink, chest rising a little too fast like he’s still catching up to his body.

Your phone buzzes again. You flinch. He doesn’t move.

"Relieved?" you ask lightly, because joking is easier than thinking.

"Relieved to be done changing clothes for the hundredth time," he says.

You grin, still slighlty shaky. "Okay, no more roleplaying… unless you wanna go to that medieval fair next month?"

That finally elicits a genuine snort from him—thin, tired, and undeniably real. "Count me out," he grins, a hint of warmth creeping back into his demeanour.

"Hmm, too bad," you laugh.

Silence settles in, heavy with the ghost of the kiss. The warmth. The fact that neither of you is quite looking at the other.

"Crisis averted. Photos done. Kiss completed. Bureaucracy satisfied. We did it."

Jack glances at you, pulse still racing, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, then he nods once. "Yeah," he says. "We did."