Ethan
He led me away from the mixer, our hands still intertwined. The cool night air was a welcome relief after the stuffy, crowded room. We walked in silence for a while, not towards the dorms, but towards the older, quieter part of campus, where ivy-covered buildings and ancient oak trees created a world far removed from the buzz of student politics.
"Where are we going?" I finally asked, my voice soft.
"I don't know," he admitted, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. "Away. I just needed to get away from the noise. From the performance."
We ended up in the university's botanical garden, a hidden gem that was usually deserted at night. The only light came from the moon and the soft glow of a few antique-style lampposts. The air smelled of damp earth and blooming night jasmine. It was peaceful.
He led me to a stone bench tucked away in a small alcove, surrounded by fragrant rose bushes. We sat, leaving a careful, deliberate space between us. But he didn't let go of my hand.
"I hate those events," I confessed into the quiet. "It's all so… transactional. Everyone is sizing each other up, looking for an angle."
"I know," he said. "It's exhausting. Playing the part. Saying the right things." He looked at me, his face serious in the dim light. "You were jealous back there."
It wasn't a question or a tease this time. It was a simple statement of fact.
I didn't deny it. "Yes," I whispered. "I was."
He squeezed my hand. "For what it's worth, I was, too. Earlier. When I saw you talking to Mark Renshaw from the debate team. He was looking at you like you were his next national championship trophy."
I was stunned. "Mark? I was just asking him about his research on campaign finance reform."
"I know. But I still wanted to punch him."
The admission was so blunt, so honest, it made me smile. "So we're a matched set," I said. "Two jealous, fake-dating political rivals."
"Sounds like the worst sitcom ever," he said, his own smile returning.
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, just listening to the crickets and the distant hum of the campus. The tension from the mixer had evaporated, replaced by the same easy intimacy we'd found during our late-night text session and the trivia night. Here, away from the eyes of the university, we weren't rivals. We weren't even a fake couple. We were just Olivia and Ethan.
"Your speech to the business school was good," I said, breaking the silence. "The investment fund is a genuinely smart idea."
"And your town hall on arts funding was brilliant," he replied. "You had them eating out of the palm of your hand. You're going to be a hell of a lawyer someday. Or a senator."
"President," I corrected him softly.
"Right. President," he said, his voice full of a respect that felt more valuable than any vote.
He shifted on the bench, turning to face me. The space between us disappeared. He was so close now, I could count the individual lashes framing his eyes. He lifted his free hand and gently brushed a stray curl from my forehead. His touch was feather-light, but it sent a cascade of fire through my veins.
"You're incredible, you know that?" he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion I couldn't decipher. "You're the most passionate, determined, infuriating, and brilliant person I've ever met."
My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the quiet garden. This wasn't part of the bet. This wasn't a performance. This was real.
He leaned in, his gaze dropping to my lips. This was it. The moment from the media room, the moment from the conference room, replaying itself, but this time there were no ringing phones, no janitors, no interruptions. There was just us, the moonlight, and the heavy, charged air.
"Ethan," I breathed, a last, desperate grasp at the rules, at the reality we were supposed to be living in.
"Shh," he whispered, his lips just a breath from mine. "Just for tonight, can we not be rivals? Can we not be a bet? Can we just be… this?"
I couldn't speak. I could only nod, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.
That was all the encouragement he needed. He closed the small distance between us and his lips met mine.
It wasn't a chaste, public-facing kiss. It was hesitant at first, a soft, tentative question. But then I responded, my own lips parting, and the kiss deepened, becoming something else entirely. It was a kiss filled with all the unspoken words, the simmering tension, the grudging respect, and the undeniable chemistry that had been building between us for weeks. It was a kiss that tasted of cheap party punch, expensive beer, and a truth that was far more potent than either.
His hand left mine to cup my face, his fingers tangling in my hair. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer. The world outside our little garden alcove, the campaign, the bet, my perfectly planned future—it all melted away. There was only the solid warmth of him, the soft pressure of his lips, the dizzying, terrifying feeling of falling.
But just as the kiss was escalating, just as I was about to lose myself in it completely, a loud crash echoed from somewhere nearby, followed by a string of drunken shouts. The spell was shattered.
We sprang apart, our breaths coming in ragged gasps. We were both flushed, our lips slightly swollen. A group of drunk students stumbled past the entrance to the garden, their laughter jarring in the quiet space.
Reality came rushing back in, cold and unwelcome. We had just broken Rule #5. The most important rule. The one that meant immediate forfeiture.
I stared at him, my heart pounding with a mixture of exhilaration and pure panic. He looked back at me, his eyes wide with the same realization.
Neither of us said a word. We didn't have to. We both knew what this meant. The game had changed. The bet was compromised. And we were in very, very deep trouble.