Page 32 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
Right, it’s Soren.The fake boyfriend, who apparently is currently MIA from our accidental almost honeymoon.
It’s not a honeymoon.Of course, it’s not.There was no champagne toast over whispered vows or passport stamps with hearts drawn in the margins.Just a glitchy reservation, a suite too big for one, not big enough to avoid sleeping with each other.There was also a very enthusiastic concierge who thought we have a love-hate relationship and might be watching from afar to ensure that Soren makes it out of here alive.
The Grand Terrace Suite still tries too hard, even with the lights dimmed and the city humming softly outside.The remains of the so-called romantic experience sit on the room service tray—empty glasses, a half-crumpled napkin, and a lone strawberry stem-like evidence from a crime scene.The towel swan is perched at the edge of the bed, slightly askew now, like it gave up halfway through judging us.
I sit up, rubbing sleep from my eyes, hair falling across my face in wild waves that can’t decide what direction they want to be in.I push it back, trying to pull myself into morning shape.I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and reach for the extra blanket folded at the foot, wrapping it around me like I’m prepping for some kind of negotiation with the universe.
Which I definitely should, because let’s be honest ...his manifestations might be what’s making all this wonky.
The suite is quiet, too pristine.Room service trays from last night remain untouched save for one missing strawberry and a half-drunk flute of champagne, like artifacts from a date we never really had.
I walk softly through the suite, past the overpriced minibar and the decadent armchair that probably gets ignored by every guest who’s ever stayed in this room.The kind of chair that looks better in photos than in real life—too stiff, too symmetrical, too committed to aesthetics to be of any practical use.
Then, I see him.
Soren’s standing on the balcony, back to me, framed by the low city glow bleeding through the glass—soft, silver light that smudges the skyline into something dreamlike.Barefoot, hair mussed, T-shirt wrinkled from sleep.He’s still, but not in a peaceful way.Still in the way that makes you wonder what’s going on in the silence between heartbeats.Like he’s holding himself in place.Like if he moves, something will unravel.
He hasn’t noticed me yet.
So, I let myself look.
Not in the obvious way.Not in the way that leaves a trace.
Just long enough to take inventory of a moment I didn’t expect to want to keep.
There’s something about the hush out here.The city is still breathing beneath us, lights flickering in apartments we’ll never know, while we hover in this borrowed space like we’re between scenes—between versions of ourselves.
I slide the glass door open just enough to slip through.
“You know there’s a bed inside, right?”I whisper.
He glances over, barely startled, like he already knew I’d follow him out here.“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Too many swans?”
He huffs out a soft laugh, low and breath-warmed, curling into the night but not quite taking off.“Something like that.”
“Is this because I snore?”I step outside, instantly regretting my bare feet.The balcony tiles are cold, biting through the soles like they’ve been storing Boston’s October air just for this moment.Not the fun, pumpkin-spice version of fall either—this is the breeze that smells like concrete and windburn, that cuts through whatever bravado you had when you left the blanket behind.
He notices.
Doesn’t say anything at first.Just shifts slightly, and without looking, holds out one side of the throw blanket he’s been wrapped in like a peace offering.
Or a truce.
Or something I shouldn’t think too hard about.
Wordlessly, he lifts the edge of the blanket draped over his lap.
I hesitate.
Then sit down beside him and tuck the blanket over my legs, curling into the oversized hotel bathrobe like a marshmallow in an existential crisis.
“Couldn’t sleep either,” I say after a moment.
He nods but doesn’t press.
This is a new dynamic between us.There’s no sarcasm.
