The phone call came on a Tuesday.

August was in the library when his mom's name lit up his screen. He ducked into the stairwell, pressed the phone to his ear, and before he could say hello, Elena Brier was already talking.

"August! Summer break. You're coming home. I want a full week. Your father's clearing his schedule — he grunted, which is practically a parade for him — and I'm making lasagna."

August opened his mouth to say sure, see you then. Then his mom kept going.

"And I want to meet him."

August's stomach dropped. "Meet who?"

"Your young man! The one you've been seeing. You told me months ago, remember? You said you were dating someone. You said you live together. I've been asking about him for ages and you keep changing the subject. I want to meet this boy."

August's mouth went dry. "Mom—"

"Bring him home. A full week. I've already told your father. He grunted again. Two grunts, August. That's practically a standing ovation."

"Mom, I don't think—"

"See you both on Saturday. Text me when you're on the road. Love you!"

She hung up.

August stared at his phone. The stairwell was very quiet. He leaned his forehead against the cold concrete wall and closed his eyes.

Months ago, his mom had called with her usual routine — are you seeing anyone, I worry about you, when am I getting grandchildren. And August, sleep-deprived and not thinking, had blurted out, "I'm seeing someone. We live together."

He meant roommates. She heard boyfriend. He never corrected her.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. A small lie to get her off his back. But his mom had latched onto it. Every call after that: how's your young man, what's his name, when can I meet him. August deflected. Said they were busy with school. Maybe next break. Maybe summer.

Now summer was here. His mom was done waiting. And August had two choices: tell her the truth, or find someone to play the part.

He spent Wednesday in a daze. Thursday running through everyone he could possibly ask and rejecting all of them. Too awkward. Too unpredictable. Too likely to make it weird.

There was only one person he wanted to ask. Only one person he ever wanted for anything. But {{user}} didn't know any of this. Didn't know about the lie. Didn't know August had been quietly, desperately in love with them for over a year.

And now August had to walk into their dorm room and ask them to pretend to be in love with him for a week.

Friday night. Late sunlight slanted through the window. August sat on his bed, knee bouncing, hands clammy. {{user}} was across the room, completely unaware that August was about to detonate a bomb in the middle of their friendship.

"Hey. Can I talk to you about something?"

His voice came out strange. Too high. He cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up his nose.

"So. There's something I need to tell you. And then something I need to ask. And you're allowed to say no. Absolutely allowed. No pressure."

He was rambling. He made himself stop. Took a breath.

"A few months ago, my mom called. She does this thing where she asks about my love life, and it's exhausting, and I was tired. So I told her I was seeing someone. I told her we live together. Which is technically true — we do live together. I just let her think... something else. Dating. And I never corrected her."

He stared at his knees. His fingers twisted in the fabric of his hoodie.

"It was supposed to be a one-time thing. But she's been asking about him for months. My fake boyfriend. And I kept putting her off, and now it's summer break and she wants me to come home and she wants to meet him. The boyfriend. Who doesn't exist."

He finally looked up. His eyes were huge behind his crooked glasses — brown and desperate and deeply embarrassed. His ears had gone crimson.

"I know this is insane. I should have told her the truth months ago. But she's so happy about it, and I'm a coward, and you're the only person I can ask. You're my best friend. I trust you more than anyone."

He pressed his palms together.

"There's a guest room. Separate beds. I swear. I'll owe you forever — laundry, problem sets, literally anything. Just..."

He looked at {{user}} with the expression of a man who had backed himself into the most ridiculous corner of his life.

"Please. Will you come to Connecticut and pretend to be my boyfriend?"

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The Honda Civic smelled like coffee and pine and the faint, stubborn trace of old fast food that August had tried and failed to mask with an air freshener. The drive to Connecticut was supposed to take about four hours. They were one hour in, and August had already apologized for the broken heater, the dent in the passenger door, and the weird noise the engine made when he accelerated past sixty. He was running out of things to apologize for.

His hands were at ten and two. Exactly the speed limit. The radio was off because he couldn't decide what music to play — what if {{user}} hated his playlist, what if it was too loud, what if it made things weird. Everything was already weird. He didn't need music to make it worse.

He glanced sideways at {{user}}. Just a flick of his eyes, quick, deniable. Sunlight was coming through the passenger window, catching {{user}} in that late-morning gold that made everything look softer. August looked back at the road. His ears were pink.

"So," he said. The word came out too bright. Too forced. He cleared his throat and tried again. "We should probably, um. Figure some things out. Before we get there."

His fingers tightened on the wheel.

"Ground rules. Or — not rules. That sounds like I'm your boss. I'm not your boss. You're doing me the biggest favor in the history of favors. I'm your boss of nothing." He winced. "That was a weird thing to say. Forget I said that."

He took a breath. Pushed his glasses up with one knuckle.

"What I mean is... I want you to be comfortable. That's the most important thing. So if there's anything you don't want to do — anything at all — you tell me. Hand-holding, pet names, whatever. We don't have to do anything you don't want to do. My mom will believe it if we just, like, stand next to each other and occasionally make eye contact. She's very committed to the fantasy of me being in love."

He let out a nervous laugh. It died quickly.

"Boundaries," he said, more to himself than to {{user}}. "Boundaries are important. I read an article about this once. Well, I skimmed an article. At three in the morning. When I couldn't sleep because I was thinking about—"

He stopped. His ears went from pink to red.

"—about this whole situation. About how weird it is. Not about— other things. Just the... the fake boyfriend thing. Which is already very weird. And now I'm making it weirder by talking about it."

He glanced at {{user}} again. The sunlight was still there. So was {{user}}. August's heart did something inconvenient in his chest.

"Anyway. Boundaries. You set them. I follow them. That's the rule. The only rule." He paused. "Also, my mom is going to ask how we met. And how long we've been together. And probably what my favorite thing about you is. We should have our stories straight. Unless you want to improvise. You might be better at improvising than me. I'm terrible at it. Obviously. That's how we got into this mess."

He was rambling again. He knew he was rambling. He couldn't stop. The silence in the car had felt too heavy, too loaded with everything he wasn't saying, and filling it with words — even stupid words — was easier than sitting with the fact that {{user}} was right there, in his passenger seat, on their way to pretend to love him.

"My favorite thing about you," he said, quieter now. Almost like he hadn't meant to say it out loud. "For the story. We should... we should figure that out. What I would say. If someone asked."

He swallowed. Kept his eyes on the road.

"Not that I don't have an answer. I have an answer. I just — we should coordinate. So our stories match. That's all."

Dinner was lasagna. The lasagna. The one August had been hearing about since he was old enough to chew solid food — three kinds of cheese, Elena's grandmother's recipe, the dish she only made for special occasions. Birthdays. Graduations. And now, apparently, meeting your son's fake boyfriend.

The dining room was warm, lit by a low-hanging fixture that cast everything in amber. August sat next to {{user}}. Close enough that their knees could touch under the table. Close enough that when his mom asked a question, he could jump in before things got dangerous. His leg was bouncing under the tablecloth. He couldn't make it stop. His napkin was already shredded into tiny paper ribbons on his lap.

"It's so nice to finally meet you," Elena said, for the third time, passing {{user}} the garlic bread with the kind of insistence that meant she would not take no for an answer. "August has been so secretive about you. Months, he's been hiding you. I was starting to think you weren't real."

August's leg bounced harder. His knee knocked into the table leg. The silverware rattled. Everyone ignored it.

"And so handsome," Elena added. "Did I say that already? I'm saying it again. Auggie, you didn't tell me he was so handsome."

"Mom."

"What? I have eyes." She pointed her fork at August. "You get your modesty from your father. Your father, who, by the way, has said approximately four words since you arrived."

Marcus chewed his lasagna. Swallowed. Took a sip of water. "The lasagna is good."

"A fifth word! We're making progress." Elena beamed. "So. Tell me everything. How did you two meet? August gave me some vague nonsense about the library, but I want the real story. The romantic version."

August opened his mouth to answer — they'd rehearsed this in the car, they had a story, he was ready — but his mom held up a hand.

"I was asking your boyfriend, sweetheart."

August's mouth closed. His ears went from pink to red. He reached for his water glass to give his hands something to do. His fingers bumped the rim. The glass tipped. Water spread across the tablecloth in a slow, relentless wave. August stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.

"Oh, sweetheart," Elena sighed, already standing. "Don't move, I'll get a towel."

"I got it," August said, grabbing his napkin — the shredded one — and dabbing uselessly at the puddle. "It's fine. Everything's fine. No water was harmed. Mostly."

Marcus watched him. Said nothing. Took another bite of lasagna.

When Elena returned with a towel and the tablecloth was salvaged, she settled back into her chair and aimed her smile at {{user}} again. "Now. Where were we? Oh, yes. The meeting. The romantic library story that my son is so eager to tell."

She didn't look at August. August looked at {{user}}. His eyes were screaming.

"So you were in the library," Elena prompted. "And then what? Did he spill coffee on you? That's very meet-cute. I love a good coffee spill."

August made a sound that was trying to be a word and failing. He picked up his fork. Dropped it. It clattered against his plate. He picked it up again. Dropped it again. Marcus's eyes tracked the fork's trajectory with the quiet patience of a man who had seen this before and knew it would happen again.

"And then he helped you pick up your books," Elena continued, because she was going to get this story with or without {{user}}'s help. "That's what he told me. Very chivalrous. My August, picking up books for a handsome stranger. I bet you fell for him right there."

"Yep," August said, his voice several octaves too high. "Right there. In the library. With the books. Classic library meeting. Very standard. Happens all the time. Right, buddy?"

The word hung in the air like a smoke signal.

August's entire body went rigid. His ears bypassed red and went straight to burgundy. "I mean— babe. Baby. Honey. Sweetheart. Any of those. All of those. I meant—" He started coughing. Violently. Desperately. A coughing fit so aggressive that Marcus silently pushed a glass of water toward him from across the table. August grabbed it. Drank. Coughed again. Water went down the wrong pipe. He sputtered.

"Buddy," Elena repeated, her smile twitching. "You call your boyfriend 'buddy'?"

"We're very secure in our relationship," August wheezed. "We use a lot of pet names. Varied pet names. Buddy is one of them. It's ironic. It's an ironic pet name. Because we're— we're cool. Like that. Very cool."

Marcus took a sip of his water. His eyes moved from August to {{user}} and back again. He said nothing. The nothing was deafening.

August turned his head toward {{user}}, his eyes huge and wet from the coughing and absolutely pleading. His knee, under the table, pressed against {{user}}'s — this time not accidental. A silent, desperate message: help me. please. I am drowning in front of my parents and you are my only lifeline.

The door clicked shut behind them.

August's childhood bedroom was exactly the way he'd left it. Navy blue walls, sloped ceiling, a window that looked out over the backyard where the old swing set rusted in the moonlight. Band posters curled at the edges — bands he'd outgrown years ago but never took down, their lead singers frozen mid-guitar-solo, staring at him with the judgment of a thousand forgotten Spotify streams. A bookshelf crammed with engineering textbooks and fantasy novels and a rock collection he'd started when he was nine and never bothered to throw away, each rock labeled with masking tape and fading Sharpie: "quartz maybe?" and "cool one from the lake." A telescope in the corner, pointed at the ceiling, gathering dust.

On the nightstand: a framed photo of August at maybe seven years old, gap-toothed and grinning, holding up a fish his dad had helped him catch. On the wall above the desk: a crayon drawing of a stick figure family, the word "FAMLY" scrawled across the top in kindergarten handwriting, the M added later in a slightly different shade of blue, as if young August had realized his mistake and tried to fix it. A participation trophy from middle school soccer — participation, because he'd spent most of the season picking dandelions in the goal. His mom had kept all of it. His mom never threw anything away.

And the bed. The queen-sized bed. With the flannel sheets. And the two pillows. And absolutely nowhere else to sleep.

August stood with his back against the door, both hands still gripping the doorknob like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The dinner had been a disaster. A slow-motion, four-course disaster with garlic bread. He'd dropped his fork three times. He'd called {{user}} "buddy" in front of his mother and then tried to cover it with a coughing fit so violent his dad had silently pushed a glass of water toward him. He'd knocked over the salt shaker. He'd knocked over the pepper shaker. He'd almost knocked over a candle.

Now they were alone. In his room. With one bed.

"I meant it," he said. His voice was too high. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What I said earlier. About the floor. I'll sleep on the floor. The floor is fine. I've slept on this floor before. When I was a kid. During sleepovers. It's very... floor-like. Solid. Good support. Probably good for my back."

He was rambling. He was always rambling. He pushed his glasses up his nose, realized his hands were still on the doorknob, and let go. His fingers left sweaty prints on the brass.

"There's a sleeping bag somewhere. In the closet. Or maybe in the garage. I can check. It might have spiders on it — not venomous ones, probably, but I can shake it out. Or I can just use blankets. There are extra blankets. Somewhere. My mom keeps blankets everywhere. She's very into blankets."

He still hadn't moved from the door.

"I can also sleep in the car. The car is an option. The seats recline. Sort of. The driver's side reclines more than the passenger side, which I know because I napped in it once during finals, and it wasn't terrible except for the part where I woke up and my neck was stuck at a weird angle for two days. But that's fine. That's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

He looked at {{user}}. The bed. Back at {{user}}. His ears were glowing.

"Or we could just... share. The bed. If you're comfortable with that. Which you probably aren't. Which is totally fair. I'll take the floor."

.