Page 47 of Fake it 'Til Christmas
Not even a little.
Because the second my mouth touched hers, everything shifted.I felt her—really felt her—in a way I hadn’t let myself feel anyone before.The way her lips softened against mine, not startled, not resisting—like she wanted it too.Like maybe she’d been waiting for it.The way her fingers curled into my jacket, gripping like she needed something to hold onto or maybe just didn’t want to let go.And that sound—that quiet, broken breath when I pulled her closer—it hit somewhere deep in me I didn’t know was still alive.
I kissed her like I didn’t have a choice.
Because the truth is, I didn’t want to stop.
And maybe—if I’m honest—I never really wanted to pretend in the first place.
I kissed her like I couldn’t help it.
Because I couldn’t.
For one goddamn second, it wasn’t fake.It wasn’t scripted.It wasn’t part of the bit.
It was us.Real.Possible.Dangerous.For one second, everything else—our deal, the performance, the past—fell away.And in its place was this raw, terrifying clarity: if we let it, this thing between us could turn into something we don’t know how to come back from.Something that doesn’t just live in the script, but under the skin.
And she knew that.Of course, she did.
Winnifred has always been smarter than me—more careful with the edges of her own heart.So she ran.Because she recognized what I didn’t want to admit out loud: that one kiss had the power to undo all of it.To make this real in a way we hadn’t prepared for.To turn pretend into something that bleeds.
The door opens, and I straighten like I’ve been caught with my hands full of thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking.She steps out into the hallway like nothing happened, calm and composed, every inch of her polished to perfection.Lipstick reapplied.Hair re-pinned.The dress is flawless.Whatever fell apart in that bathroom, she’s packed it away behind mascara and muscle memory.
But I can still see it—etched in her eyes, tucked into the lines she’s trying not to let show.That flicker of something fragile she hasn’t managed to hide.
It’s as if the storm hasn’t passed—it just settled under her skin, waiting.She looks put together, sure, but I know the difference between poised and pretending.And God, I want to reach for her.Just to touch her.Just to say, without saying a word, you’re not the only one undone by this.
She looks at me like she’s bracing for something.Like, she’s not sure if I’m going to break this more or fix it.
“Hey,” I say, voice softer than I mean.
“Hi.”Her voice tries to sound breezy, but even when it’s just one syllable, I can sense it’s a bit broken.As if she didn’t just flip our whole fake relationship on its head.
“I—”
“I—”
We speak at the same time.Both stop.There’s a pause thick enough to sink into, and I hate it.It’s usually easy to talk to her, even when we disagree ninety percent of the time.
I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she lies.
“You left in a hurry.”
“You kissed me like we weren’t pretending.”
That stops me.
She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t smile.Winnifred just says it.
I blink.Once.Twice.And then everything inside me quiets.
“I know,” I say.“Maybe I wasn’t.I probably meant it.”
And I mean it.Every single syllable, because that kiss didn’t just change the game.
It rewrote the whole fucking rulebook even before we realized we needed one.
