---
By the time Saturday rolled around, Aira was already regretting everything.
She stared at herself in the mirror of her childhood bedroom, adjusting the soft blue dress that her mom insisted was "flattering but not *too* obvious." Her stomach twisted with nerves—not because of the dinner, but because of the man downstairs in the living room, charming the socks off her parents like he belonged there.
Imran Carter, professional fake boyfriend. And apparently, amateur heart thief.
She stepped out of the room and walked down the stairs slowly, watching from behind the railing as Imran laughed at something her dad said. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair slightly tousled, and there was a dimple in his cheek she did *not* remember from college.
"This is a bad idea," she muttered to herself.
"Too late now," her sister whispered, suddenly appearing beside her. Rachel's eyes sparkled with mischief. "He's cute. Where have you been hiding him?"
Aira rolled her eyes. "I wasn't hiding him. He's… new."
"Hmm." Rachel smirked. "I hope he's ready for Aunt Marian's interrogation."
As they entered the living room together, Imran turned and smiled. The kind of smile that made Aira's heart do a small, traitorous flutter.
"There she is," he said warmly. "My girl."
Aira blinked. *My girl?* Okay, maybe this was a worse idea than she thought.
He walked over and gently took her hand. "You look beautiful, Aira."
She wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or melt into the floor. But instead, she smiled and leaned into the act.
"You clean up alright yourself, Carter."
Their eyes locked for a moment, and something flickered between them. It was brief—so brief she almost missed it—but it was there. A beat too long. A look too soft.
"Alright, lovebirds," her dad called out. "Dinner's ready."
The table was full. Laughter filled the room, along with the scent of roasted chicken and freshly baked bread. Imran fit in too easily—helping her mom set plates, making her cousins laugh, even winning over the notoriously grumpy Uncle Leo with a story about getting lost in Italy.
Aira was impressed. And slightly terrified.
Later that night, after the dishes were done and the cousins had gone off to play board games, Aira and Imran stepped outside to get some air. The porch lights cast a golden glow over them, and the cool spring breeze wrapped around her bare shoulders.
He handed her a cup of tea. "Not bad, right?"
"You were too good," she said, eyeing him suspiciously. "You've done this before."
He grinned. "Maybe once or twice."
She sipped her tea. "We should set some ground rules."
"Ground rules?"
"Yes. For pretending."
He leaned against the porch railing. "Alright. Shoot."
"Rule one: No unnecessary touching. It'll confuse people."
He raised an eyebrow. "Wasn't the hand-holding your idea?"
She ignored him. "Rule two: No flirting unless someone's watching."
"Define 'watching.'"
"Visible. Within earshot. Peeking from behind the curtains."
He laughed. "Got it. Curtain-peeking equals green light."
"Rule three," she continued, ignoring the flutter in her chest, "We don't talk about what this *really* is. Not with others. Not even with each other."
His smile faded just slightly. "So we keep it simple. Fake boyfriend. One weekend. Then it's over."
She nodded.
But something in her heart didn't feel quite as firm as her voice sounded.
As they stood together under the stars, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. His profile was soft in the light, his expression unreadable.
Maybe this was pretend.
But her heart? It was starting to forget the difference.
---