The door shuts behind us with a soft, final click.

Luke just stands there for a second, blinking, like someone who's walked into the wrong hotel room and is still deciding whether to apologize or run.

Then he looks at me.

"Okay," I say immediately. "Do not freak out."

He laughs once. Sharp. Disbelieving. "What do you mean do not freak out?"

"I mean—"

"What do you mean we're dating?" he cuts in. "You and me. Dating."

I gesture vaguely between us. "You know. When two people like each other."

"I know what dating is," he snaps. "I'm asking why we are apparently doing it."

"That," I say brightly, "is a very funny story."

He starts pacing.

Back and forth. One side of the room to the other. Hands in his hair. Then on his hips. Then rubbing his face like this is physically painful.

"This is unbelievable," he mutters. "I don't see you for ten years. Ten. And the first five minutes we're in the same country, I'm suddenly part of something I didn't agree to, don't understand, and am already pissed off about."

He turns to me. "It's like you're the physical embodiment of trouble."

I nod thoughtfully. "Wow. That's rude."

Then, considering it, "But also... kind of poetic."

He stops pacing. "You know exactly what I mean."

"Yes," I say. "You mean I'm chaos in human form. Honestly, I might put that on my résumé."

"I'm not joking," he says.

"Neither am I." I lift my empty glass. "Want to know what happened?"

"Yes," he says tightly. "Please. Enlighten me."

"Okay," I sigh. "But fair warning—I'm about to say things that make me sound bad."

He crosses his arms. "I'm listening."

"Well," I start, "it begins with Maya—"

"Of course it does," he interrupts immediately.

I wince. "Yeah. That reaction tracks."

"She told everyone," I continue, "that we're dating."

His jaw tightens. "Why?"

"She told everyone," I repeat quickly, "that we've been dating for... a few months. Two? Three? Time is a suggestion right now."

Luke stares at me.

"Everyone knows," I add. "It's... irreversible."

His chest rises and falls sharply. Once. Twice.

"Why," he asks slowly, "does everyone in your life make decisions like this?"

"Because it was needed," I say.

"That is not an answer."

"It was needed at the time," I insist.

"Why, Madison?" he says.

My stomach flips.

He never calls me that.

"Why Madison?" he repeats.

I hesitate. Then shrug. "Because Maya thought it would make Dylan jealous."

For a second, he just looks at me.

Then he laughs.

Not amused laughter. Not happy laughter.

The kind that escapes when something is so absurd it short-circuits your ability to react properly.

He runs a hand through his hair, still laughing. "Of course."

I shift my weight. "You're scaring me."

He keeps laughing, shaking his head. "After all this time," he says, "you drag me back into your life because of Dylan."

"I didn't drag you," I protest weakly. "You RSVP'd."

He finally looks at me again, eyes sharp now. Focused.

"So let me get this straight," he says. "I'm fake-dating you so your ex feels bad."

"Well—"

"And I found this out by getting champagne poured on me."

"Yes."

"And Victoria thinks I'm doing it to make her jealous."

"Also yes. But that's new for me too."

He exhales slowly. "This is a nightmare."

I offer a small, helpless smile. "Welcome back to my life."

There's silence.

Then Luke laughs.

Not a polite laugh. Not even an amused one. It starts low, almost disbelieving, and then builds until he has to bend slightly at the waist, one hand braced on the dresser like he's trying not to fall over.

I laugh too—nervous, uncertain, a please don't be losing it kind of laugh.

"This is... a lot," I offer.

He straightens slowly, breathes out, and looks at me.

"I've been here five minutes."

"Probably ten," I say. "Five feels a bit rushed and makes me look too bad"

He stares at me like I've personally offended physics.

"I've been here five minutes," he repeats, incredulous, "and I'm already tangled up in the problems of a life I escaped ten years ago."

"Not fully ten," I say automatically.

He cuts me off with a sharp look. "How can you be so—"

He stops, searching for the word.

"Amazing?" I suggest.

"Infuriating," he snaps. "Troublesome. Ridiculous. Madison, even for you, this is ridiculous."

There it is again.

Madison.

"Why can't you just tell the truth?" he continues. "Why can't you just tell Dylan you're single? That you don't need to make anyone jealous?"

"That would be great," I say quietly. "In theory. But I can't do that now."

"You can always turn back," he says immediately. "You just don't know how. You never did."

I stiffen.

"You don't know how to be real with yourself," he goes on. "You don't know how to accept that sometimes things don't go according to plan. Sometimes life sucks. And you can't admit that."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" he asks. "You broke up after what—seven years?"

"Eight," I correct sharply.

"Eight years," he says. "And he has someone. You don't. What's the problem?"

I swallow. "The problem is that he was cruel."

Luke scoffs. "Dylan has always been like that."

"That's not true," I say. "He was nice to me."

Luke lets out a humorless laugh. "Yeah? That's why he dumped you and showed up here with another woman?"

"Look," I snap, "I don't need you judging my life."

"You brought me into it," he shoots back.

"He broke up with me four months ago," I say, voice shaking now. "And now he's dating his best friend. Lauren. The one he told me not to worry about."

Luke freezes.

"Lauren?" he repeats.

I nod.

His jaw tightens. "Unbelievable."

"He is crazier than I thought," he mutters, more to himself than to me.

"So yes," I say softly. "I need a little compassion."

He exhales slowly. "It's still wrong. Lying is wrong. This isn't good, Madison."

There it is again.

"You want to live in reality for once?" he asks. "Then be honest. Stop lying to yourself."

Something in me snaps.

"If I wanted to be judged," I say sharply, "I'd ask you or my mom. You'd both be excellent choices."

He blinks.

"I don't want judgment," I continue. "I want help. If you can do that, great. If not, I honestly don't care."

"Oh, you care," he says calmly. "Because if I walk out there and tell everyone we're not dating, you'll look like a liar in front of your entire high school."

We stare at each other.

Same rhythm. Same tension.

Ten years and nothing has changed.

"I'm asking you one thing," I say finally. "Just one. Please."

He hesitates. "I don't know if I can."

"Yes, you can," I insist. "You just don't want to. If this were anyone else, you'd help."

He scoffs. "You're spiraling."

"Oh, I'm maniacal," I say sweetly. "But let's talk about you."

His eyes narrow.

"If this were Victoria," I say, "you'd jump right in. I mean you dated her, didn't you?"

The room goes still.

"That's none of your business," he says quietly.

"Funny," I reply. "You called me a liar. Turns out you were just better at it."

"That's not fair."

"Neither was you telling me for years that she meant nothing," I snap. "And then finding out—ten years later—that you dated her."

"Don't," he warns.

"Being a liar never looked good on you either, buddy."

"Don't call me that."

"What should I call you?" I ask. "Liar? Thinking about it, it suits you."

We're both breathing harder now. Arguing about everything and nothing, like always.

Like we never stopped.

And somehow—terrifyingly—it feels terrifyingly familiar.

Luke keeps pacing, words spilling out now, faster, sharper, like once he started he couldn't stop even if he wanted to.

"You realize how bad this is, right?" he says, running a hand through his hair. "You wanted to make Dylan jealous and somehow you managed to pull Victoria into it. Now she thinks this whole thing is fake—which, by the way, it is—and I hate that she's right."

I sink onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. The room smells faintly of clean linen and something citrusy, probably from the hotel detergent. My head is buzzing. Alcohol. Adrenaline. Ten years crashing down all at once.

"I didn't plan for Victoria," I mutter.

"You never plan," he snaps, then sighs. "That's the problem. Everything just... happens around you, and somehow I'm standing in the middle of it."

I look up at him. "I do plan things."

"Yes, you plan others people life's but can't seem the handle you own."

"So grumpy, age is really kicking you hard huh? I would love to know how that happened." I said quickly changing the subject

He pauses. "What?"

"You and Victoria," I say. "I would genuinely love to know how that happened."

He stops pacing.

I lean back on my hands, staring at the ceiling instead of at him, because if I look at his face I might say something worse.

"In high school," I continue, voice quieter now, "you looked terrified of her. You used to swear—fiercely—that there was nothing there. That she was just dramatic. That she was imagining things."

I laugh once, short and hollow. "You made me feel crazy for even bringing it up."

I can see it so clearly: lockers slamming, the echoing hallways, Victoria hovering just a little too close, touching his arm, mirroring my words like she was rehearsing for a role she wanted to steal. And Luke—Luke insisting, over and over, that I had nothing to worry about.

"You were always very sure of yourself," I add. "Never took you for a liar."

I finally look at him.

"So yeah," I say softly. "I'd really like to know when that changed."

He doesn't answer right away.

And somehow, that silence hurts more than if he had.

He doesn't answer.

Not about Victoria. Not about high school. Not about any of it.

He just goes quiet, staring past me for a moment like he's rearranging something in his head—moving pieces around until they finally make sense. Or at least until they stop screaming.

Then he exhales.

"Let's do it."

I lift my head so fast my neck almost cracks.

"What?"

He's by the window now, hands in his pockets, looking out at the Tuscan hills like this is a normal decision people make before dinner.

"Let's do it," he repeats. "The fake dating. The whole thing."

I blink at him. Once. Twice.

"Wow," I say slowly. "This must be an alternate universe. You... helping me?"

He turns his head just enough to glance at me. "It's not too late to back out. So be careful what you say next."

I scoff. "Oh, we're suddenly threatening?"

"I'm being realistic," he replies flatly. "This is a bad idea."

"And yet," I point out, "you're the one suggesting it."

He shrugs. "I said let's do it. I didn't say I liked it."

"Impressive distinction."

"Get up," he says. "We need to go back out there."

He crosses the room, grabs his suitcase, and sets it on the bed. It opens with practiced ease. Inside, everything is folded neatly—shirts stacked by color, socks rolled, toiletries arranged like they're following rules.

I roll my eyes. "Of course you're organized."

He ignores me, pulling out a dark blue shirt. Simple. Clean. Effortlessly him.

As he slips out of the champagne-soaked one, he glances over his shoulder. "Are you staying for the show?"

I look away immediately. "Please. I've already seen enough trauma today."

"Then turn around."

"I am turned around."

"Madison."

I sigh dramatically and face the opposite wall. "This is the most trust I've given you in ten years."

"Dramatic as ever," he mutters, changing quickly.

I hear fabric shift. Buttons. A zipper. The quiet, mundane sounds of someone getting dressed while my entire life feels like it's imploding.

"So," I say, still facing the wall, "what's the plan? Besides mutual destruction."

"We keep it simple," he says. "Three days. Public affection at a minimum. No overacting."

"Wow," I say. "You're really taking this seriously."

"If I'm doing this," he replies, "I'm doing it right."

I turn back just as he finishes buttoning the shirt. It fits him perfectly—of course it does.

"Do you want a full organised plan, maybe a schedule ?" I joked, well it wasn't really a joke I knew very well he could do that.

He meets my eyes. Something unreadable flickers there.

"By the way" he adds.
"This doesn't fix anything. It just gets us through the weekend."

I swallow.

"Yeah," I say. "I know."

We stand there for a moment, the air thick with everything we're not saying.

Then he grabs his key card.

"Come on," he says. "Let's go convince everyone we're a terrible idea."

And somehow—against all logic—I follow him.