Elaina woke up with that heavy, dragging feeling in her ribs — the kind that didn't hit fast but leaked in slow, like dread rising under a door.
For half a second she forgot why.
Then she remembered.
Rome Riley.
Fake dating.
Her own voice saying yeah, okay like an idiot.
She rolled onto her back and let out a breath that sounded like defeat. The ceiling stared back, unhelpful as always.
The first thing she did was check her phone. Not for Rome — she told herself that twice — but for the girls. Maybe they'd texted last night. Maybe someone had backtracked. Maybe the whole plan had collapsed while she slept.
Nothing.
No messages.
No reconsiderations.
Just silence.
Her stomach tightened.
She got ready slower than usual, brushing her hair three separate times even though it never behaved. She kept adjusting her sweater, her backpack straps, the angle of her ponytail — small things she could control because everything else felt like it was slipping.
She stood in front of the mirror for a moment longer than necessary, staring at her reflection like she could talk herself out of the day.
I can avoid him, she thought.
At least this morning. I can avoid. I'm good at avoiding.
But then she imagined her friends searching for her, trying to "check in," pulling her into the plan whether she was ready or not. And she imagined Rome — unpredictable, unbothered, orbiting life like gravity didn't apply to him — showing up at the exact worst moment.
Her chest tightened again.
By the time she grabbed her bag and headed downstairs, she'd built a list in her head.
Don't walk in early — too much quiet, too much risk of crossing paths with him.
Don't walk in late — crowds make her anxious.
Don't go through the courtyard.
Don't go through the main doors.
Don't—
"Elaina?" her mom called from the kitchen. "You're going to be late."
Right.
She always left at the same time.
She cursed herself under her breath for being predictable and put-together even when she didn't want to be.
Outside, the air felt colder, sharper. The kind of morning where everything looked too clear, too close.
Her brain kept looping the same useless thought.
Maybe he forgot about it overnight.
Maybe he woke up and changed his mind.
Maybe I'm off the hook.
But she didn't believe it.
She knew exactly what Rome Riley was like.
Unpredictable.
Chaotic.
Annoyingly memorable.
Which meant he remembered.
Of course he remembered.
And no matter how much she told herself it was fake — and temporary — and manageable —
Her feet still felt heavy as she approached school. Like she was walking straight into something she wasn't built for.
Something she should've said no to.
Something she couldn't back out of anymore.
Elaina stepped out of her mom's car and the morning air hit her first — cool, thin, nothing dramatic — and then the weight of her hair hit second.
She'd taken the ponytail out before they even turned onto the main road. The more she'd thought about yesterday, the tighter it had felt. Like a hand around her scalp. Like the elastic was holding every thought she didn't want to deal with.
So she pulled it out.
Now her curls were down, doing whatever they wanted, catching the breeze in ways she couldn't control. It felt reckless. Not dramatic-reckless — just... different. Exposed in a way she couldn't name.
She adjusted the strap of her backpack and started toward the front doors.
Students drifted in clusters. Backpacks thumped. Someone laughed too loud across the courtyard. Everything looked normal, which somehow made her nerves worse.
Because she knew — she just knew — Rome Riley would be here somewhere, existing like he owned the oxygen and the right to use it however he wanted. And she had no script for that. No plan. No rules beyond the ones they'd agreed to, which all felt too thin now that she was actually stepping into the building.
She kept walking, head down for a second, then up — like she was bracing herself for impact.
Her hair fell over her shoulder in a loose curl.
She pushed it back.
Elaina slipped through the hallway traffic and into homeroom, the door clicking shut behind her. The room buzzed with the usual low-grade morning noise — desks scraping, someone unwrapping a granola bar like they were defusing a bomb, muted gossip drifting in pockets.
A few newer friends — people she'd gotten close to this year without meaning to — were already at their usual cluster of desks near the windows.
Maya waved her over first.
Not best friend energy. More we sit near each other, share homework panic, and bond over mutual academic suffering energy.
"There you are," Maya said as Elaina slid into the desk beside her. "You look different today."
Elaina blinked. "Different how?"
"Your hair," Maya said, gesturing. "It's... down."
"Yeah." Elaina tucked a curl behind her ear, shrugging like she hadn't spent half of yesterday internally combusting. "I felt like it."
"It looks good," said Jacey, the girl in front of them, turning slightly in her chair. "Like soft good. Not trying too hard good."
Elaina huffed a tiny laugh. "Thanks."
Jacey grinned. "Big day?"
"No," Elaina said too fast. Then softer: "Just... tired."
Maya stretched her arms over her head. "Same. I didn't even finish the English reading. I'm gonna fake my way through whatever discussion he throws at us."
"You always fake your way through," Jacey said.
"It's a strategy."
Elaina almost smiled. This — the normal noise, the light teasing, the absence of her friends' intense concern — felt grounding. A small island of regular.
"What about you?" Jacey asked. "Anything new?"
Elaina opened her mouth, brain fumbling for something safe, something ordinary.
Before she could answer, the classroom door opened again.
A wave of hallway sound rushed in for half a second.
And then Rome Riley walked in.
Effortless. Like the room adjusted to him, not the other way around.
He didn't look at her. Didn't scan for her. Didn't do anything suspicious or fake-boyfriend-ish.
He just sauntered to his seat in the back, dropped into the chair like gravity was a suggestion, and started talking to the guy next to him like the universe was exactly the same as yesterday.
No change.
No tension.
No sign that he'd even registered her walking in with her hair down, heart trying to rearrange itself.
Maya leaned toward her, voice low. "Ugh. Rome Riley in first period should be illegal."
Jacey snorted. "Illegal why?"
"He disrupts my sense of academic purpose."
Elaina forced a small eye roll. "You're fine."
But her pulse hadn't steadied.
They'd been talking for about fifteen minutes — mostly Maya venting, Jacey making everything funnier, and Elaina pretending she wasn't running at 3% mental battery — when it happened.
Her eyes drifted.
Back corner.
Rome was talking to Zach, who looked half-asleep and half-bored, staring at his binder like it might magically complete his homework if he glared at it hard enough. Rome didn't seem to notice; he was too busy reenacting some story with his hands.
Elaina dragged her attention back to her table.
Maya snapped her fingers once. "Are you alive?"
"Yeah," Elaina said. "Sorry. I didn't sleep much."
"Uh-huh." Maya didn't sound convinced.
Jacey twisted her straw wrapper into tiny knots. "You keep doing that look."
"What look?"
"That tiny side-eye thing." Jacey demonstrated by darting her gaze to the left and back. "Like you're pretending not to be checking something."
"I'm not checking anything," Elaina said, a little too quick.
Maya lifted an eyebrow. "We're literally just sitting here, and your eyes are doing parkour."
Elaina opened her mouth to deny it and then, traitorously, her gaze flicked back to Rome again.
Rome didn't see.
He was busy lightly smacking Zach's arm to emphasize whatever ridiculous point he was making. Zach blinked, confused, clearly lost in the conversation and also in life.
Jacey followed Elaina's line of sight again — slower this time.
She chewed her straw wrapper.
"Wait... do you know him?"
Elaina's pulse tripped. "Who?"
Maya didn't bother playing along. "Rome Riley."
Elaina felt heat crawl up her neck. "I don't— not really. We have... classes."
Maya squinted. "Classes? Plural?"
Elaina wished the earth would crack open and swallow her. "One class. Maybe two. Sometimes."
Jacey frowned like she was trying to remember a vague memory. "Isn't he friends with Zach?"
Maya nodded. "Kinda. I think they sit near each other because everyone else in that corner is loud and annoying."
Jacey turned back to Elaina, thoughtful. "So... are you looking at Zach, then?"
Elaina choked. "No!"
Both girls blinked at her, then looked at each other.
Maya shrugged. "Okay."
Jacey nodded, accepting it like she'd never cared that much in the first place.
The topic should've died right there.
But Maya leaned in, curious but not nosy. "He's just... loud," she said, meaning Rome. "Hard to ignore. If he's in your line of sight, your brain kind of catches him whether you want it to or not."
Elaina seized on that explanation like oxygen. "Exactly. He's just— loud."
Jacey smirked a little. "Visually loud."
"That too," Elaina muttered.
But down in the back of the room, Rome said something that made Zach snort awake — a short, surprised laugh.
Elaina had to force herself not to look again.
The bell rang — loud, mechanical, too sharp for the sleepy first-period energy.
Chairs scraped. Backpacks slung over shoulders. Everyone funneled toward the door.
Elaina fell into step beside Maya and Jacey, doing her best impression of a normal human on a normal morning.
And then she heard it.
A short laugh behind her. Not loud. Just... unmistakably Rome.
She stiffened before she could stop herself.
Zach's voice drifted up right after: "What are you laughing at?"
Rome — sounding like someone trying and failing to smother amusement — said, "Nothing."
Not convincing.
Not even trying to be.
Jacey glanced sideways at Elaina. Not suspicious, just curious. Like she'd noticed a sound in the hallway and was waiting to see if anyone else heard it too.
Maya kept walking, oblivious.
Elaina's mind raced.
Did he see her looking earlier?
Did he overhear the girls talking?
Was this about her?
Was it something unrelated?
Did Rome even think far enough ahead for it to be about her?
Her shoulders tightened, but her face didn't show it.
She kept her steps even. Controlled. Normal.
She didn't turn around.
She didn't check.
She didn't give him any reaction.
If Rome Riley was laughing about her?
He wasn't getting bonus entertainment from her looking flustered.
So she set her jaw, kept talking lightly to Jacey about the dumb worksheet they'd been assigned, and pretended she hadn't heard a thing.
But her ears stayed locked on every footstep behind her anyway.
Just in case he said something else.
Study hall in the office was usually Elaina's sanctuary.
A small desk. A window. Filing cabinets humming. The receptionist typing like her keyboard owed her money. It was quiet, predictable, controlled — exactly what she needed after a morning spent pretending her brain wasn't sprinting circles around itself.
She'd barely pulled out her notebook when the door swung open.
Not slammed. Not kicked. Just opened with the casual, unbothered confidence of someone who'd been here... a lot.
Rome Riley walked in.
Of course he did.
Mr. K — tall, cheerful, unstoppable grin — looked up from the printer.
"Ah," he said. "My favorite recurring guest star."
Rome gave a lazy salute. "I'm available for autographs after detention hours."
Mr. K's smile didn't budge, but the eyebrow he raised carried a very obvious What did you do this time? energy.
"Sit," Mr. K said, pointing at the chair across from his desk. "Before the school decides to name a chair after you."
Rome dropped into the seat like gravity worked harder on him than anyone else. Then he slouched. Then he slouched more. He eventually achieved a posture that could only be described as "folded human disaster."
Mr. K sighed not angry, not disappointed, just... fondly exhausted.
"So," he said, steepling his fingers. "How'd we end up in my office before lunch? Again."
Rome shrugged with one shoulder. "Semantics."
"Rome."
"Fine," Rome said, picking at the edge of a sticker on the desk. "Apparently saying 'I'd rather join Al Qaeda than do this' out loud counts as disruptive."
Elaina's head snapped up so fast her pencil nearly fell out of her hand.
Mr. K closed his eyes like he was rebooting his entire nervous system. "Rome. You cannot say that in a classroom."
Rome shrugged, unbothered. "It was a joke."
"It's never a joke when terrorism is involved," Mr. K said, still massaging his forehead. "Ever. At no point. In no context."
"I mean—" Rome tilted his head. "It got the class's attention."
Elaina stabbed her worksheet a little too hard.
Mr. K pointed at him. "You see, that right there? That is exactly the problem. You say something insane and then act like you're reading the morning announcements."
Rome nodded like he agreed with the diagnosis but not the conclusion. "I thought it was pretty clear I wasn't submitting an application."
Mr. K stared at him with the resigned patience of a man who'd had this exact type of conversation with Rome at least twenty-six times.
"Just... sit," Mr. K said. "Quietly. Please."
Rome held up both hands in surrender. "I'm sitting. I'm quiet. I'm a model citizen."
Elaina did not look at him.
Because if she did, she was ninety percent sure he'd be smirking.
Mr. K let out the kind of sigh that sounded practiced — the sigh of a man who cared but had been dealing with Rome Riley since, presumably, the dawn of time.
"Sit," he said, pointing to the chair across from his desk.
Rome dropped into it like gravity was optional.
Mr. K flicked open the email from the math teacher, skimmed, and pinched the bridge of his nose — but he was smiling anyway. He always smiled. It was his curse.
"Okay," he said slowly. "So according to Ms. Lambert, you were talking over her entire intro, refused to put your phone away, and then announced—" He paused, eyes darting back to the screen. "—that you would 'rather join Al Qaeda than solve for x.'"
Rome shrugged. "Technically true."
"Technically horrifying," Mr. K corrected, tapping the desk as if rhythm could keep him sane. "Rome, buddy. Why are we doing this?"
Rome blinked at him, dead serious. "The assignment was three pages."
Mr. K stared. For a long moment.
Then he stood, muttering, "I'm going to go get the packet before you say anything else that gets the FBI involved."
As soon as he left the office, the room fell quiet.
Rome lasted three seconds alone before boredom shoved him out of his chair.
He drifted across the room with the lazy confidence of someone who had never once suffered consequences. When he stopped beside Elaina's desk, he didn't lean in or hover obnoxiously — he just stood there, staring down at her notes like they'd personally insulted him.
Then, without emotion, like he was narrating a nature documentary about her.
"So. What crime is this?"
Elaina blinked. "It's homework."
Rome nodded solemnly. "Tragic."
She didn't respond, which only encouraged him.
He hooked a thumb at her worksheet.
"...What is that? Taxes?"
Elaina didn't even look up. "It's biology."
Rome nodded like that explained everything.
"Yeah. Same vibe. Both ruin lives."
She sighed. "Please go sit down."
Rome ignored that completely, eyes drifting over her color-coded notes with genuine offense.
"Why is there... organization happening?" he asked. "Are you trying to summon a demon? Is this how kids do it now?"
"Rome."
"What? I'm asking for safety reasons. Mine specifically."\
Rome planted himself beside her desk like he'd been banished from the rest of humanity and decided her personal space was the next best option. He stared at her notes for a long, uncomfortable second.
Then, in the flattest voice known to mankind:
"...Wow. You're doing...the forbidden worksheets."
Elaina pinched the bridge of her nose. "They're literally chapter review questions."
Rome nodded, slow and solemn.
"Yeah. That's what they want you to think. Next thing you know, you're knee-deep in a pyramid scheme run by a guy named Uncle Dennis who sells artisanal windshield wiper fluid out of a storage unit."
She stared at him. "...What are you talking about?"
"I'm protecting you," he said. "Duh. Last time someone tried to do schoolwork during daylight hours, a raccoon stole their identity and opened a Macy's credit card. The police got involved. Whole mess."
She blinked. "And you're telling me this because...?"
Rome lifted a finger, very serious.
"Because you're sitting in the exact posture of someone that raccoons target. They love overachievers. They can smell hope."
"Rome," she said, monotone. "Go sit down."
"Can't. Mr. K locked me in here for saying terrorism stuff again."
"...I heard."
Rome shrugged like gravity no longer applied to his shoulders.
"Anyway, if a raccoon comes through that vent and tries to take your social security number, don't say I didn't warn you."
Elaina exhaled through her teeth. "I don't even have my social security card with me."
"That's what the last guy said," Rome replied, already wandering toward the empty chair beside her.
"And now he's legally married to a possum named Vicky."
She closed her notebook with a slow, controlled tap — the academic equivalent of slamming a door.
"Do you ever," she said, voice low, "stop talking?"
Rome considered that. Earnestly.
"...No?"
She inhaled. Counted to three. Tried again.
"Rome, I'm actually trying to work. Can you— I don't know— not?"
He leaned back in the chair, arms folded behind his head like he lived here.
"Why? You're doing fine. Very... upright posture. Very raccoon-bait, but academically strong."
She dropped her forehead to her hand.
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say any of that."
Rome nodded like that was perfectly reasonable.
"Good call. That's what my therapist used to do."
"You had a therapist?"
"No," he said instantly. "Just sounded cool."
Elaina dragged her eyes back to her worksheet, refusing — absolutely refusing — to let him derail her again.
Annoyance settled warm and tight in her chest, not explosive, not dramatic. Just... tired. The kind of tired you get from carrying a conversation you didn't ask to be part of.
She started writing again.
Rome watched her for a second, then said, quieter, almost normal:
"...I'll shut up. You look like you're actually doing stuff."
Elaina didn't look at him.
"Thank you," she muttered.
Rome dropped into the chair beside her like he'd been assigned to annoy her specifically. He didn't say anything this time — blessed silence — just pulled his phone from his pocket and stuck one wireless earbud in.
Not two.
One.
Which somehow made it worse.
He angled the screen away from her like he was guarding state secrets, thumb flicking with lazy precision. The faintest sound leaked from the earbud — something chaotic, fast, probably stupid — and his lips pressed together like he was physically fighting a smile.
Then his shoulders shook.
Just once.
Barely.
Elaina stared at him.
He was absolutely trying not to laugh.
At whatever unhinged thing he was watching.
In the middle of being "in trouble."
During study hall.
Next to her.
She waited.
Another silent, suppressed laugh hit him — a tiny exhale through his nose, the kind people do when they're losing it but trying to look composed.
He even did that thing where he tilted his head back like he was trying to swallow the laugh before it escaped.
Elaina closed her eyes.
"Are you—" she started.
Rome held up a finger without looking at her.
A universal sign for wait, I'm in the middle of something deeply stupid and important.
His thumb froze on the screen. His jaw clenched. Another micro-laugh escaped — a strangled, nose-snort that he tried to convert into a cough.
Elaina pressed her palms to her eyelids.
"I hate you," she whispered at the universe.
Rome, still not looking at her, whispered back at whatever was on his screen.
Elaina stared at him again, deadpan.
He breathed out in one sharp, contained wheeze — the quietest explosion of amusement known to man — and she finally asked:
"...Why are you like this?"
"...There's no way that man actually survived that microwave."
Elaina closed her eyes. "I'm not asking."
"You wouldn't believe me anyway," Rome said, still scrolling, still fighting a smile.
He let a beat pass. Two.
Then he looked up at her, deadpan, as if the thought had just shown up and sat in his lap.
"Alright," he said. "Then let me ask you something less complicated."
He leaned back in the chair, balancing it on two legs like he had a death wish.
"What does being a couple mean to you?"
Elaina froze.
Her brain immediately tried to produce a flowchart.
She hated that he could just ask that. Casually. Like he wasn't the reason her entire nervous system had been malfunctioning since yesterday.
She opened her mouth — nothing came out.
Rome blinked once, slow, like he actually noticed the panic forming.
Then he corrected himself, quiet but dry.
"Fake couple. I mean fake couple. Don't look at me like I'm proposing or something."
She exhaled — one sharp, startled breath — because that was exactly where her brain had gone.
Rome didn't move, didn't shift, didn't even look over — just kept staring at the far wall like it was airing a TV show only he could see.
Then, quietly, almost like he was checking if she was still conscious:
"...So what does it mean?"
Elaina's grip tightened on her pen.
She didn't look up. "I don't... know yet."
Rome nodded once, slow, like she'd given him the results of a blood test he expected.
"Fake version," he clarified. "Not the real thing. The real thing sounds like taxes."
Her mouth twitched. "The fake version still matters."
"Yeah," he said, leaning back, arms folding again. "That's why I'm asking. What does it mean to you? Not in poetry form. Just... baseline settings."
Elaina finally looked at him.
His expression wasn't teasing.
Wasn't mocking.
Wasn't anything sharp.
Just curious in that careless, Rome way — like he wanted the answer, not the drama around it.
She exhaled, steady. "It means... not making me look stupid. Not blindsiding me. Not turning this into entertainment for other people."
Rome stared at her for a beat.
Then he let his head fall back against the chair with a dull thunk.
"We already talked about all that yesterday," he said, flat. "Like—word for word. Are you just gonna repeat everything forever? Because if this is gonna be a loop, I'm not emotionally equipped for the Groundhog Day relationship arc."
Elaina's jaw tightened. "I'm not repeating—"
"You literally are," he said. "I have the receipts. Mentally. Because I'm not writing anything down."
She shut her mouth.
Rome shifted, sitting up a little, finally looking at her instead of the ceiling.
"And if you're this on the fence already," he said, tone still lazy but edged with something a shade more real, "just tell me. I'm not gonna waste time trying to make this work if you don't actually want it."
Elaina didn't look up at first. Her pencil hovered over the page like it was waiting for her pulse to steady.
"I do want this," she said finally, voice low but not shaky. "I want it to work. I just..." Her throat tightened. "If we screw it up, the rumor gets worse. And I'm the one who pays for that."
Rome went still — Rome, who never went still.
Like someone had pressed pause on a video that was always buffering.
Then he let out a short breath, almost a laugh but not actually funny.
"That's the whole point," he said. "That's literally why we're doing the relationship thing."
She glanced at him, wary, like she expected him to undercut the moment.
He didn't.
He kept talking, hands gesturing loosely like he couldn't function without them.
"Because right now? People are making up whatever they want. And if we look like we're together, they shut up. Simple math."
Elaina folded her arms, not defensive — more like bracing.
"And yet," Rome continued, "You walked ahead of me. I walked behind you. We looked like two kids in a divorce settlement. Zero overlap."
verlap."Her voice came out steady, not dramatic, not emotional.
"Fine," she said. "Then let's stop looking divorced."
Rome blinked. Once. Twice.
"You're—" He gestured vaguely at her new position. "—doing a thing."
"That's the point," she said. "We keep talking about how to pull this off. I'm trying something."
He stared at her for a beat too long, thrown off in a way he would never admit.
"...Okay," he said, voice a little quieter. "That's— yeah. That's commitment."
Elaina shrugged, like it was nothing, though her foot tapped once under the desk.
"You said we needed overlap," she said. "So here's a start."
Rome leaned in, elbows on the table, a lazy grin forming — not mocking, not chaotic, but real enough to be disorienting.
"Guess we're finally doing the assignment."
"Guess so."