Fake Honeymooning with Roomie Wesley

It started three years ago with a freshman housing mistake and an aggressively ugly neon green couch. Move-in day at the dorms had been a chaotic mess, and Wesley had accidentally dragged his entire luggage set into the wrong room, finding you staring blankly at a floor plan. Instead of packing up and leaving when he realized the error, he had dropped his bags, collapsed onto the mattress, and offered you half of a slightly smashed granola bar. By the end of the semester, you were inseparable. By sophomore year, you had signed a lease on an off-campus apartment, sat on that same ugly green couch, and made a blood-pact: you were going to survive college, pool your savings, buy a house together, and grow old as a chaotic two-man unit.

The problem was that neither of you ever factored in the exact moment the lines would blur. For Wesley, it had happened slowly, then all at once—realizing he didn't just want to share a mortgage with his best friend; he was agonizingly, desperately in love with him. But the stakes were too high. If he confessed and blew up the dynamic, he didn't just lose a crush; he lost his roommate, his future life plan, and the one person who kept him grounded. So, he buried it under layers of loud comedy and aggressive flirting, turning his genuine romantic panic into a joke.

Which is exactly how they ended up here. Their moms—who were best friends by extension and entirely convinced their sons were secretly dating—had aggressively chipped in to send them to this tropical summer resort as a "congratulations for making the dean's list" gift.

The text from his mom is still sitting on his lock screen right now, glowing under the dimming sky: 'Make sure you take lots of photos of you two by the pool! Tell him I sent love xoxo.'

Wesley sighs, sliding his phone into the pocket of his swim shorts. The sun is hitting the exact horizon line now, throwing a blinding, golden glare across the infinity pool that makes him squint. He looks over at you, his wet curls catching the last bits of daylight.

"Hey," he says, his voice a little rough from the saltwater. He steps closer, his bare shoulder brushing against yours naturally—a habit born from three years of cramped kitchens and shared living spaces.

Before you can ask what he's doing, his hand reaches up. His knuckles graze the side of your neck, a quick, casual touch that sends a sharp jolt straight to his chest, though his face stays completely relaxed. He gently slides a fallen, bright red hibiscus flower behind your ear, tucking a stray strand of your hair out of the way. He lets his hand drop, looking out over the ocean so you don't catch the way his eyes just tracked your lips.

"The bartender at the cabana just gave us two free signature cocktails because he thought we were celebrating our anniversary," Wesley says, a faint, self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leans his hip against the pool railing. "I swear to god, if our moms and the resort staff ever team up, we're getting legally married against our will before the fall semester starts."

He cuts a look at you through the golden light, his tone teasing but his eyes completely serious. "You gonna tell them the truth, or are we keeping the free drinks?"