His thumb hovers over the screen for three seconds that feel like three years.
Then he presses post.
The photo uploads. Me and Giovanni Rivers, looking at each other like we're the only two people in the world. The caption is simple: "Sometimes the best things happen when you're not looking."
Within seconds, the likes start rolling in. Hundreds. Thousands. Comments flooding faster than I can read them.
My phone-which has been silent for years-starts buzzing. Notifications. Messages. People I haven't talked to since college suddenly want to know who I am.
I watch the numbers climb and my chest tightens.
"Hey." Giovanni's hand covers my phone screen. "Don't look at that. Look at me."
I do. His eyes are concerned. Understanding.
"We don't have to read any of it," he says quietly. "Marcus will handle the press. We just... exist. Together. That's all."
Just exist together. Like it's simple. Like my entire life didn't just become public property.
But his hand is still on mine. Warm. Steady. Real.
"I should go home," I hear myself say. "My father-he'll see this. He'll have questions."
Giovanni nods slowly. Doesn't let go of my hand. "Let me drive you."
"You don't have to-"
"I want to." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. The gesture is so casual, so intimate, it makes my breath catch. "Please."
Twenty minutes later, we're pulling up to my father's apartment above the record store. The sun is setting, painting everything gold and amber. Giovanni kills the engine but doesn't move.
"I'm sorry," I blurt out. "About the restaurant. The panic attack. Ruining everything before it even started."
He turns to face me. "You didn't ruin anything."
"I fell apart in front of cameras. That's literally the opposite of what you need."
"Hae." He says my name like it matters. "If anything, you made it real."
I blink. "What?"
"The whole point is to look like a real couple. Real couples aren't perfect. They're messy and complicated and..." He gestures between us. "What happened today? Me helping you through a panic attack? That's more real than any staged photo could ever be."
My throat tightens. "You're being kind because you feel sorry for me."
"I'm being kind because I know what it's like." His voice drops. Raw. "The panic attacks. The feeling like you're dying. The shame after."
I study his face. See the truth there.
"When's the last time you had one?" I ask softly.
"Three weeks ago. Middle of a recording session. Had to lock myself in the bathroom for an hour." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "The label thinks I was being difficult. Diva behavior. They have no idea I was on the floor trying to remember how to breathe."
"Why didn't you tell them?"
"Because they'd see it as weakness. Liability. Another reason to drop me." He meets my eyes. "You're the first person I've told. The first person who might actually understand."
The confession sits between us. Heavy. Important.
"I understand," I whisper.
His hand finds mine again. Fingers lacing through mine like it's natural. Like we've done this a thousand times.
"I know you do." He squeezes gently. "That's why this might actually work."
We sit in silence. The sky darkens. His thumb traces patterns on the back of my hand and I'm acutely aware of every point of contact. The warmth of his skin. The calluses on his fingers from guitar strings. The way my pulse jumps every time he moves.
"I should go in," I say. Don't move.
"Yeah." He doesn't let go of my hand.
"My father's probably worried."
"Probably."
Neither of us moves.
Then I do something brave. Something terrifying. I reach out with my free hand and touch his arm. Brief. Tentative. My fingers barely grazing the tattoos I've been wanting to trace since I first saw them.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For not giving up on me."
He goes very still. His eyes drop to where my hand rests on his forearm. When he looks up, something in his expression makes my stomach flip.
His other hand covers mine. Trapping it against his skin. The touch is gentle but deliberate.
"I'm not sure I could." His voice is rough. "Give up on you."
The admission hangs in the air between us. Both of us seem surprised he said it out loud.
My fingers flex against his arm. I should pull away. This is too much, too fast, too real for something that's supposed to be fake.
But his skin is warm under my palm. I can feel his pulse jumping in his wrist. Fast. Like mine.
"Giovanni-" I start.
"Don't." He shakes his head. "Don't overthink it. Not tonight. Just... let it be what it is."
What it is. A contract. An arrangement. A lie we're telling the world.
But his hand is still covering mine and nothing about this feels like lying.
I pull away first. Have to. Before I do something stupid like lean across the console and kiss him.
"Goodnight," I manage.
"Goodnight, Hae."
I get out of the car. Walk to the door. My hand is on the handle when I hear his car door open.
I turn. He's standing beside his car, watching me.
"What?" I call.
"You're going to be okay." It's not a question. It's a promise. "We both are."
I want to believe him. Want to believe this insane arrangement could actually work. Want to believe I can do this without destroying myself in the process.
Instead, I just nod and slip inside.
The stairs to the apartment feel endless. Each step echoing. When I reach the top, I hear music from the store below. My father, closing up for the night. The familiar sound grounds me.
I lean against the door and pull out my phone. The photo is everywhere. Trending. Everyone speculating about who I am. But I don't look at the comments.
Instead, I open my email.
One new message from D.R.
My finger hovers over it. Then clicks.
Veil,
I met someone today. Someone who understands breaking. Someone who might understand me.
I'm still hoping you'll take the commission. But I wanted you to know-you're not the only one who saves me anymore.
- D.R.
I close my laptop.
Walk to my closet.
Pull out my tablet and stylus.
And start painting.
