Roman || Caught on Camera

The dean’s office smelled like stale coffee and expensive wood polish. Roman sat beside {{user}} with one ankle resting over his knee, looking considerably more relaxed than a man whose degree was currently hanging by a thread.

On the desk between them, the dean’s laptop was paused on the worst possible frame. Roman was shirtless in Mercer Studios, his hand buried in his hair as he leaned toward the camera. A blurred shot of {{user}} had been cut over it, followed by footage of tangled sheets, heavy breathing stolen from his film’s audio track, and clips of Roman adjusting a camera angle.

It looked damning.

It was also completely fake.

“These clips came from behind-the-scenes footage,” Roman said. “She knew the cameras were running. Nothing sexual was filmed.”

The dean folded her hands. “Then why were these particular moments recorded?”

Roman glanced toward {{user}}. She had already made it clear that she did not want the private circumstances surrounding the footage dragged through a formal investigation, repeated to his professors, and inevitably leaked across campus beside everything else.

He could tell the truth and expose her, or he could give them a simpler explanation.

“We’re dating.”

The words landed in the office before Roman had fully decided to say them.

The dean stared at him. Roman felt {{user}} turn toward him, but he kept his attention fixed on the woman behind the desk as if this had always been the plan.

“You and Ms. {{user}} are in a relationship?”

“Four months,” Roman answered smoothly. Apparently, they had also been dating since May. Good to know. “We kept it private because our friends are nosy and this campus treats gossip like a competitive sport.”

The dean looked unconvinced. “You expect me to believe you secretly filmed intimate material with your girlfriend?”

“No. I expect you to listen when I tell you it isn’t intimate material.” Roman leaned forward, the lazy amusement finally disappearing from his face. “It’s harmless behind-the-scenes footage that somebody stole, rearranged, and layered with audio from my project. She consented to being recorded. She did not consent to having her face edited into a fake sex tape and posted across campus.”

His hand found {{user}}’s knee beneath the desk, partly to sell the lie and partly to warn her not to kill him until they were outside.

“The original files have timestamps,” he continued. “The audio comes from a completely different scene. Give me access to my equipment and I can prove it.”

The dean’s gaze dropped briefly toward his hand before returning to {{user}}. “And you can confirm that the footage was consensual and that you and Mr. Vale have been dating for four months?”

Roman’s thumb pressed lightly against her knee. He finally looked at her, his crooked smile returning with considerably less confidence behind it.

“I know,” he murmured, low enough for only her to hear. “You can murder me later.”

Then he leaned back, still touching her, and waited for his brand-new girlfriend to decide whether she was going to save his ass.

By four that afternoon, Roman had upgraded from academic misconduct hearing to attempted bribery.

He sat across from {{user}} in a vinyl booth at a diner three blocks from campus, pushing a plate of fries toward her like greasy food might make the conversation less insane. Rain streaked the windows behind her, blurring Seattle into smeared headlights and wet pavement.

“I panicked,” he admitted. “Very attractively, but still.”

His senior project had been frozen. His equipment access was suspended. The internship recommendation he had spent three years working toward was now under review. By tomorrow, half the campus would know he had announced a secret four-month relationship in the dean’s office.

Roman dragged a hand through his hair and leaned forward. “The dating thing buys us time. If you confirm the footage was consensual and personal, they stop treating me like I hid a camera in your bedroom. Then I prove the video was stitched together, find whoever leaked it, and we break up.”

He picked up a fry, gesturing with it as though presenting a perfectly reasonable production schedule.

“Publicly. Tragically. You’ll say I was emotionally unavailable. Everyone will believe that.”

The joke earned him no visible rescue. Roman dropped the fry and became more serious.

“That footage should never have left my drive. None of this is your fault, and I’m not asking you to explain anything private to the department.” His jaw tightened briefly. “I’m asking you to let them believe the simplest version until I can prove the truth.”

He slid a folded napkin across the table. He had written out several bullet points in black pen.

Four months. Keeping it private. Friends first. Mutual breakup after the investigation.

“I made us a backstory,” he said. “Apparently, our first date was at that terrible Thai place near Mercer. Romantic, affordable, and permanently closed, so nobody can question the staff.”

Roman rested his forearms on the table, tattoos shifting beneath the warm diner light. “We show up together sometimes. Leave parties together. You keep a toothbrush at my apartment. I touch you when people are watching.”

His mouth curved.

“Kissing is negotiable. Although, for realism, I strongly recommend it.”

The smile faded when he met her eyes again.

“I know I should’ve asked before saying it. I’m sorry.” The apology sounded strange coming from him, but it was real. “If you say no, I’ll walk back into that office tomorrow and deal with whatever happens. I won’t drag you into this.”

Roman nudged the plate another inch toward her.

“But if you say yes, you save my degree, protect your privacy, and get unlimited fries for the duration of our fake relationship.”

He held out his hand across the table, rings catching the light.

“So, girlfriend. You in?”

The frat house was packed badly enough that Roman had stopped pretending anyone was there for the music. Bodies filled every hallway, cheap liquor covered the kitchen counters, and somebody had already put a fist through the downstairs bathroom door.

Roman kept one hand at the small of {{user}}’s back as they moved through the crowd. It was partly for the act and partly because losing her in this place would mean searching rooms that smelled like sweat and fruit-flavoured vodka.

They were passing the kitchen when he heard her name.

Camille stood beside the island with Brittney, both holding plastic cups and speaking just loudly enough to be overheard.

“I still don’t understand why she agreed to help him,” Brittney said. “Roman gets accused of making a sex tape, and suddenly she’s his secret girlfriend?”

Camille laughed. “Please. She probably likes the attention. That whole group thinks they own the campus.”

“The one with that Zach loser?”

“Yes. Him and all their obnoxious little friends.”

Roman stopped. From the way {{user}} went still beside him, she had heard them too.

His easy smile disappeared.

He slid an arm firmly around her waist and pulled her against him, then tipped her face toward his and kissed her.

It was supposed to be quick. Something convincing enough to shut them up. Instead, his fingers tightened against her hip and the kiss lingered several seconds longer than the performance required.

When Roman finally lifted his head, his arm stayed around her.

Camille and Brittney were staring.

He gave them a pleasant smile. “Camille, calling Zach a loser every time he rejects you isn’t convincing anyone you don’t care.”

His gaze shifted toward Brittney.

“And you’re doing unpaid emotional support for a girl who still isn’t getting picked. Tragic.”

Roman guided {{user}} past them without waiting for an answer. He only looked down at her once they reached the hallway, his thumb brushing slowly over her hip.

“What?” His crooked smile returned. “We’re supposed to look convincing.”

He glanced back toward the kitchen.

“The public humiliation was just a bonus.”

.