Page 22 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
So I do what any totally calm, rational woman would do: I march next door like I’m conducting a surprise home inspection and ring Soren’s doorbell with the energy of someone who just realized their fake boyfriend might be a fashion risk.
He opens the door with the same expression he reserves for barking dogs and noise complaints.“You know we leave in less than an hour, right?”He checks his watch.“Actually—twenty minutes.And unless that pile of clothes under your arm is your entire strategy, you’re running about five stages behind.”
I blink at him, arms full of rejected options, hair wild, mismatched shoes—don’t judge, I was in a hurry.“This is my strategy.”
I swoop inside before he can stop me.“This is urgent.I don’t have time for your nonsense, Soren.”
“You brought your entire closet, and I’m the one with the nonsense?”
“No,” I scoff.“I brought the possibility of a storybook weekend.But to execute it, I need to see what I’m working with.”
His townhouse is technically the same layout as mine, but it could not be more different.Mine is sunset-meets-hues-colors-during-a-rainbow-explosion with string lights and throw pillows that spark joy and at least two mugs that say something ironic about caffeine and anxiety.
His?It’s like walking into a “Masculine Minimalism” catalog—very clean, very serious, very emotionally unavailable.Hardwood floors.Charcoal everything.A couch that’s definitely never witnessed a cry-session or a good binge-watch spiral.I should change that, but this is a problem for another day.
“How is your place so clean?”I ask, peering into his dust-free soul.
“I live alone.”
“I also live alone,” I say, fluffing a joyless pillow that feels like it judges me.“But I believe in surrounding myself with comfort.And emotional support textiles.”
He sighs.“Why are you here again?”His eyes flick to the pile of clothes draped over my arms.“You don’t have luggage?”
“This is about outfit coordination.”
He lets his head fall back against the doorframe like I just told him I’m planning a vow renewal.“You’re joking.”
“This is important,” I say, plopping my armload onto the couch and pulling out my phone.“Do you own anything in these tones?”
He squints.“What ...tones?”
“These.”I turn the screen to him.“Warm neutrals.Think: relaxed, romantic, slightly better than everyone else, but not in a way that’ll get us disinvited.”
Soren looks at me like he’s rewatching a movie about every life decision that led to this exact moment.His brows draw together, his jaw tics and one corner of his mouth twitches like he’s torn between groaning and laughing.
“You can never do anything halfway, can you?”
I beam.“Of course not.This isn’t fake dating.It’s curated delusion.We need to make sure you don’t ruin the vibe.We’re going for ‘so in love they finish each other’s sentences and coordinate—without trying.’”
He narrows his eyes.“You’re trying to fucking hard, Fred.”
“Stop calling me Fred,” I snap.“I don’t like it, and your family will notice.”
“I’m already packed, Win.”The way he says it is a little irritated, but I like the Win a lot better than any Fred or Freddy he’s said.
“Don’t worry, this won’t disturb your packing.It’ll just enrich it.”
He drags a hand over his face.“Fine.You can look in my closet.But I’m not wearing linen.”
“Obviously, it’s fall.”I roll my eyes, already striding toward the hallway.“Let’s build our brand.”
His bedroom is just like the rest of the house—minimalist, tidy, and entirely lacking in natural fibers.No cozy throws.No personality.Just sleek lines and emotional repression.
I smirk to myself as I open his closet door.
He has no idea what he’s signed up for.
We’re packing together.Because nothing screams, “these two are madly in love,” like coordinating outfits under extreme time pressure and mutual emotional denial.
