Fake Couple, True Love

I woke to the sound of my phone buzzing incessantly. Groaning, I fumbled for it on the nightstand, knocking over a half-empty glass of water in the process. The screen showed three missed calls from Elena and a text that read: "Girl, your Instagram Live has 2 million views! You broke the internet!"

Right. The impromptu hostage situation featuring my brand-new husband. I flopped back onto my pillow, wondering how this had become my life. One day I was happily photographing Brooklyn's finest specimens of manhood, and the next I was legally bound to my childhood nemesis.

The apartment was suspiciously quiet. Had Jason already left? A small part of me hoped so, despite our parents' insistence on maintaining appearances. I pulled myself out of bed and padded to the kitchen, only to find a note stuck to the refrigerator:

"Out for a run. Don't touch my Honeycrisp apple. —J"

I snorted. Of course he'd claim ownership of fruit in my apartment. I opened the fridge and spotted it immediately—a perfect, gleaming apple sitting in solitary splendor on the top shelf. Without hesitation, I grabbed it and took an enormous, satisfying bite.

Two hours later, I was attempting to organize my photography portfolio when I heard a key in the lock. Jason strode in, his running clothes clinging to him in a way that made me momentarily forget we hated each other. His hair was damp with sweat, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold December air.

"Productive morning?" he asked, eyes scanning the apartment like he was conducting an inspection.

I gestured to my laptop. "Just working. Some of us actually have creative careers instead of pushing numbers around all day."

He rolled his eyes and headed for the kitchen. I waited, counting down silently. Three... two... one...

"Cole!" His outraged voice echoed through the apartment. "Where's my apple?"

I smiled sweetly as he stormed back into the living room. "Oh, was that yours? It was delicious. Very... crisp."

His eyes narrowed. "That was the last one."

"Tragic," I replied, turning back to my laptop.

That night, I crawled into bed exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the past two days. The heat in my pre-war Brooklyn apartment was temperamental at best, and December had brought a bitter cold snap. I burrowed under my comforter, shivering slightly.

I was just drifting off when a blast of cold air hit me. My eyes flew open to find Jason standing over me, my comforter clutched in his hand.

"What the hell?" I yelped, making a grab for the blanket.

"Payback," he said simply, his expression infuriatingly smug. "For the apple."

"It was just a stupid apple!" I lunged for the comforter again, but he held it out of reach.

"And this is just a stupid blanket," he countered. "Which I'll be taking to the guest room. Sleep tight, Cole."

I sat there in shock as he walked out with my only source of warmth. The radiator made an ominous clanking noise and then fell silent. Great. The heat had chosen this moment to give up entirely.

After fifteen minutes of shivering, pride battling with practicality, I finally gave in and stomped to the guest room. Without knocking, I pushed open the door.

Jason was sitting up in bed, reading something on his tablet. My comforter was wrapped around him like a cocoon.

"Give it back," I demanded, trying to stop my teeth from chattering.

He looked up, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "No."

"The heat's broken, and I'm freezing."

"Sounds like a personal problem."

I stood there, arms wrapped around myself, furious and freezing. "Fine. Move over."

His eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. If you won't give back my comforter, I'm getting in. It's my apartment, my comforter, and I refuse to freeze to death because you're being petty."

For a moment, I thought he might refuse. Then, with a sigh that suggested I was the most annoying person on the planet, he shifted to make room.

I climbed in, keeping as much distance between us as the narrow bed would allow. The warmth of the comforter—and his body heat—was immediate relief.

"If you tell anyone about this, I'll deny it," I muttered, turning my back to him.

"As if I'd want anyone to know I shared a bed with Stephanie Cole," he replied, his voice closer than I expected.

We lay in silence, the absurdity of our situation hanging in the air between us. My childhood enemy, now my husband, sharing a bed in my freezing apartment. And the worst part? As sleep finally claimed me, I couldn't deny that the solid warmth of him at my back felt strangely... comforting.

I woke before dawn to find myself wrapped around Jason like a vine, my head on his chest, his arm curled protectively around me. For one disorienting moment, it felt right—until reality crashed back in. I extracted myself carefully, heart pounding, and retreated to my room.

What had I done to deserve this twisted fate?