Emery stood in front of the mirror, holding two scarves and scowling like she'd just been forced to choose between taxes or dental work.
"Which one says 'adorable fake girlfriend who doesn't believe in love, but still has great taste in outerwear'?" she asked aloud.
No one answered.
She went with the burgundy plaid. It looked soft. Approachable. The kind of thing someone might imagine borrowing after a long, romantic walk through a crunchy-leaf-filled park—even if the only thing she wanted to borrow from this date was peace of mind.
Outside, Liam was waiting by a coffee truck, holding two steaming cups and wearing a flannel shirt so offensively well-fitted it should've been illegal. Emery slowed for half a second as she spotted him—just long enough to catch her reflection in the glass behind him.
She looked…like a version of herself that might actually want this. The thought made her stomach twist.
"You ready for our first staged memory?" he asked, handing her one of the cups.
"Only if you remembered to ask for extra foam," she replied.
"I live to serve." He grinned and held out a gloved hand. "Shall we?"
She hesitated.
It was a simple gesture. Small. Performative.
But it still counted as touching.
She took the cup instead of his hand and gave a tight smile. "Walk beside me. Casual. We'll do the hand-holding later when I set up the shot."
"Copy that," he said, clearly amused.
The park was filled with couples and dogs and children throwing leaves at each other in Instagrammable bursts of autumn joy. Emery's eye twitched.
She had a mental checklist—wide-angle shots under trees, laughing candid over the coffee cups, maybe even a forehead-lean if they found the right bench. She didn't need to feel anything. Just make it look good.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, sipping their drinks. Liam adjusted his scarf in a way that looked unintentional and model-worthy, and Emery hated how photogenic he was.
"I feel like you've done this before," she said, narrowing her eyes.
"Worn scarves?"
"No. Been fake charming in public."
He smirked. "Would it ruin the illusion if I said this is my first PR romance?"
"A little. But I'll allow it."
When they found the perfect photo spot—golden leaves, soft sunlight, romantic bench vibes—Emery pulled out her phone. "Alright. Sit. Smile like you're having the best date of your life."
Liam sat and gave her a smirk. "I am having the best fake date of my life."
She rolled her eyes and set up the timer. "You're lucky you're cute."
"Wait, did you just—"
"Don't get excited. That was purely observational."
The timer beeped. Emery leaned in, wrapped her arm around his, and forced a laugh that she hoped looked spontaneous. Liam tilted his head slightly toward hers, and just for a split second, their cheeks touched.
Click.
Emery pulled away like she'd been shocked.
"Was that too much?" he asked, looking genuinely concerned.
"No, it was… fine." She swallowed. "Let's just do a few more."
They ran through the typical poses: cozy laughter, him adjusting her scarf, her leaning into his shoulder. To any outside observer, they were that kind of couple. The ones who had inside jokes and shared playlists and probably said "babe" unironically.
Emery reviewed the photos later with practiced detachment.
They looked good. Natural. Warm. Marketable.
They didn't look like two people pretending.
They didn't look like two people who were absolutely not catching feelings.
She hated that.
Liam leaned over her shoulder. "Okay, I hate how cute we look. This is dangerous."
"I know," she said, tapping through the photos. "We might accidentally cause a serotonin overdose on the internet."
He laughed, but there was something quieter in the way he looked at her. Emery didn't meet his gaze.
Instead, she typed out a caption draft on her phone:
"When your 'boyfriend' brings you coffee and tolerates your four-photo-minimum policy. Autumn: 10/10 would fake date again."
She paused, then deleted "boyfriend" and replaced it with "date".
Safer.
Less loaded.
More pretend.
"You always write your own captions?" Liam asked.
"Of course. Authenticity is everything," she said with a straight face.
"Except when it's not."
"Exactly."
They sat in silence for a moment as the wind rustled through the trees. A kid nearby shouted with delight as he launched a fistful of leaves into the air, and Emery, unthinking, snapped a photo of it.
Not for the column.
Not for her feed.
Just… for herself.
She immediately frowned and turned off her phone.
"Okay," she said. "I've got everything I need. You're free to go back to your flannel-based lifestyle."
"Flannel is a lifestyle?"
"You wear it like it is."
He stood and stretched. "This wasn't as terrible as I thought."
"Give it time. You'll be emotionally exhausted by week two."
He laughed again, easy and unguarded, and Emery hated that she liked that sound.
This was the problem.
She'd built walls, and now someone was standing just outside them with coffee and charm and really great shoulders, asking to come in—even if neither of them would admit it yet.
She stuffed the thought down, deep where it couldn't do any damage.
After all, it wasn't real.
It was Instagram.
It was image.
It was illusion.
She could control this.
She had to.