Marrying Him Was Easy, Loving Him Was Hell

Lake

It started as a joke. At least, that's what I told myself so I wouldn't have to admit how quickly it stopped being funny.

Willow handed out the couples' activity schedules during breakfast, smiling like she was distributing lottery tickets instead of relationship landmines. The spread on the long wooden table was aggressively wholesome-homemade granola, neatly sliced fruit, yogurt that tasted like regret. I stared at it, spoon halfway to my mouth, missing bacon with a longing that bordered on grief.

Ivy, meanwhile, was already circling tasks in her planner. Her handwriting was neat, precise, like her thoughts were always lined up in single file. She leaned closer to the page, brow furrowing.

"Kissing practice?" she murmured.

I leaned over her shoulder, deliberately invading her space, sipping what might've been green tea but tasted like lawn clippings. "Let me see."

There it was in bold print, completely unapologetic. Welcome Dinner: Couples expected to demonstrate a shared moment of affection - kiss, story, or dance.

I grinned because that's what I do when things make me uncomfortable. "Well," I said lightly, "guess we better make out then."

She whipped her head around so fast I nearly lost an eye. "We are not actually-"

"We are," I cut in, lowering my voice. "Unless you want to get eliminated before dessert."

Her eyes narrowed, assessing, calculating. "You really think people care that much?"

"Babe," I said, emphasizing the fake pet name just to see the reaction, "we're surrounded by couples who probably have matching tattoos and joint savings accounts. If we show up acting like awkward roommates, we're toast."

She stared back at the schedule, jaw tight. I could practically hear the gears spinning. Finally, she exhaled sharply. "One practice," she muttered. "Just one."

I tried not to smile too hard.

We moved outside to the back porch of the cabin. The fairy lights strung through the trees cast everything in soft gold, like the universe was mocking us by setting the mood. Ivy perched stiffly on the edge of the railing, posture rigid, like she was preparing for impact. I stayed a respectful distance back. I wasn't trying to scare her off.

She crossed her arms. "How do we even... start?"

I tilted my head, pretending to think. "Step one: stop looking like you're about to get audited."

She shot me a look. "Funny."

But her voice cracked just a little, and I caught it. That tiny fracture told me more than she probably intended.

"Okay," I said, holding up my hands. "No kissing yet. Let's rewind." I held out my hand. "Just touch."

She stared at it like it might explode. Slowly, cautiously, she placed her hand in mine. Her fingers were colder than I expected. Small. Slightly trembling.

I brushed my thumb across her knuckles, gentle. "See? Still alive. No tongue required."

She rolled her eyes, but her shoulders relaxed. "Step two?"

"Step two," I said, stepping closer, "is pretending you actually like me."

Her breath hitched. She didn't pull away.

I moved slowly. Gave her time. Let her read my body language, my intent. When our faces were inches apart, she looked up at me, eyes conflicted and searching.

"Is this okay?" I asked quietly.

She nodded. Barely.

I leaned in. Our lips brushed-just a whisper of contact. Soft. Careful. She leaned into it, just a fraction, enough to tell me yes. I deepened the kiss slightly. She responded without hesitation.

That was the moment everything shifted.

Her hands came up, fists curling into my shirt like she was anchoring herself. Her body moved closer, aligning with mine like it had been waiting for permission. I slid my hand to her waist, pulled her gently in, and the air changed completely.

She kissed me like someone who was tired of restraint. Tired of rules. Tired of holding herself together. A soft, startled sound escaped her, and it nearly wrecked me.

My hand moved up her back, slow and steady. Her mouth opened against mine, warm and curious. And God help me, I kissed her like she was mine.

Not fake.

Not temporary.

Mine.

We pulled apart slowly, both of us breathing hard. Her lips were swollen, parted. Her eyes were wide and dazed.

"Okay," she said finally, voice unsteady. "We're convincing."

I licked my bottom lip, still tasting her. "Yeah. Dangerously so."

She stepped back like gravity had suddenly returned. Cleared her throat. "That was... thorough."

"I aim for realism."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. "We should get ready for dinner."

"Right," I echoed. "Dinner."

She turned toward the cabin, adjusting her shirt with trembling hands. I stood there longer than necessary, heart pounding like I'd just sprinted uphill.

We were in trouble.

The welcome dinner was a romantic fever dream. Rose petals. Candlelight. Acoustic guitar playing something heartbreakingly earnest. Couples shared meet-cute stories that made my teeth ache. I tuned most of it out-until Ivy reached under the table and laced her fingers with mine like it was second nature.

When our turn came, I leaned forward with a grin. "Ivy and I met when I was hired to film her field research in Arizona. I wrote her name in the snow on a mountain peak and proposed before I froze to death."

The table swooned.

"She said yes," I added, glancing at Ivy.

"I did," she said sweetly, squeezing my hand. "But only because he brought hot chocolate."

We passed.

Later, as we walked back through the cool mountain air, Ivy was quiet.

"You're a good liar," she said eventually.

"Not about everything."

She stopped walking. Looked at me like she could see straight through the bravado.

"I know," she said softly.

Then she turned and walked up the porch steps, leaving me alone with a question I didn't want answered.

If pretending feels this real...

What the hell happens when it's over?

And the truth is, I had no answer. Because the line between pretend and real had already blurred. Every touch, every glance, every laugh we’d shared had me wondering if we were fooling everyone—or ourselves. And I knew, deep down, that pretending might have been the easiest part.

I glanced back at her disappearing form, the way her hair caught the fairy lights, the little curve of her smile that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the world. My chest tightened. She was more than a project, more than a partner-in-fraud. She was the kind of problem you never solved, only experienced. And I had fallen—headfirst, stupidly, irrevocably.