There are exactly three types of emails you don't answer after midnight:
Anything from your ex.
Anything labeled "Congratulations, you've won!"
Anything involving the phrase fake boyfriend.
Naturally, I opened Scarlett's email at 12:03 AM like an idiot.
Hey. Saw your blog. Wanna be my fake boyfriend for a YouTube series? Could be funny. Could go viral. Let me know.—Scarlett Vance.
Scarlett Vance. The internet's definition of too much. Makeup always on point, 2.4 million subscribers, and enough chaotic energy to make a tornado feel underdressed.
I followed her channel, of course. Everyone did. She mostly did reaction videos and "rating ridiculous dating advice" content, with the kind of savage commentary that could make you laugh and cry within 30 seconds.
So naturally, she wanted me, of all people, to be the next character in her circus.
I responded in the only way a sleep-deprived, emotionally fragile barista could.
Sure. Why not.
By the time I woke up, it was too late to unsend.
—
We met in a park two days later, under the kind of filtered golden sunlight that made everything look slightly more important than it really was. Scarlett was already filming when I got there.
"Alright, everyone, this is Eliot," she announced to her camera, spinning around to shove her phone an inch from my nose. "The mysterious genius behind Avoiding Cupid, the blog that broke the internet."
I lifted a hand awkwardly. "Uh. Hi."
Her fans in the chat were already popping off.
"IS THIS THE GUY??""Not gonna lie, he's kinda cute in a disaster way.""OTP. I ship it. Hard."
Scarlett lowered the phone, winked at me like I'd just passed a test I didn't know I was taking.
"So," she said. "We're gonna pretend to date for a week."
I coughed. "What?"
"For content. Obviously. Fake boyfriend, real drama, maximum views. It'll be hilarious."
"This seems like a very bad idea."
"Oh, it is. That's why it'll work."
Scarlett moved fast. One minute, we were just standing there; the next, she had looped her arm through mine like we'd been a couple since high school prom.
Somewhere, in the back of my brain, I could hear Zoe's voice echoing: This is how rom-coms start, you absolute idiot.
"Besides," Scarlett said, lowering her voice so only I could hear, "if we make it convincing enough, we'll both get new followers. Win-win."
I should've said no.
I should've run.
But instead, I heard myself say: "Fine. One week."
"Perfect." She beamed. "Now smile like you like me."
"I don't even know you."
"Fake it, Romeo."
And as the camera clicked, I realized I had just become content.
—
That night, Zoe called me while I was halfway through eating instant noodles straight from the pot.
"You're trending again," she said dryly. "Congratulations. You're now officially hotter on the internet than actual romance novels."
"Scarlett ambushed me."
"I saw. Are you seriously fake dating a YouTuber?"
"It's just a bit for her channel."
"You realize this is going to blow up in your face, right?"
"I'm starting to think my whole life is one long explosion."
She was quiet for a second. "...Do you want it to be fake?"
That threw me.
"What?"
Zoe cleared her throat. "Nothing. Forget it."
But I didn't forget it.
Not that night. Not the next.
Not with Ava texting me for advice.Not with Rina sending me flirty memes labeled 'step up your game, loser'.Not with Dahlia shyly handing me a new chapter of her secret novel, cheeks pink.
I was surrounded. Drowning in romance I didn't ask for.
Worst of all?
Part of me wasn't sure I wanted to swim back to the surface.