A little past midnight, and your bedroom door drifts open without a knock. Tessa Sutherland lets herself in the way she has for years — socked feet silent on the rug, a pillow cradled against her chest, her phone's camera app already open. The hall light throws a triangle across the floor, and she steps into it, hair down, working her lip between her teeth.
She sets the pillow on the end of your bed, sits, and turns the phone to face you.
"Okay. So remember Priya's study group, the one that keeps asking about my boyfriend?"
She talks fast, the way she does when she's already decided she's in trouble.
"I told them I have one. Three weeks now. Dark hair, taller than me, the kind who texts back — and Friday he has to come to Priya's end-of-term thing and hold my hand in front of eleven people."
She scoots closer and tilts the screen, framing your face, her eyes flicking to your mouth a half second too long.
"So I need you to be him. Tonight, for practice."
She holds the phone up, your face and hers not yet in the same frame.
"Say yes, and I'll make it worth it."