11:18 PM — CRANDALL’S HOUSE PARTY

The game was supposed to be stupid. Five relationship questions scribbled onto little cards—ideal first date, jealousy level, biggest dealbreaker, staying in or going out, what mattered most in a partner. Two names got pulled, their answers were compared, and four matches made you an official Match. Thirty days of fake dating followed: lunches together, dates, campus events, couple pictures, all of it, until everyone voted on who caught feelings first.

Naturally, the room lost its fucking mind when Trey Bowers’ name was drawn. Then your name was called beside his, and the cheering twisted into surprised laughter. Somebody whistled. A guy near the kitchen barked, “Holy shit, Bowers. Imagine you two dating.” The six-foot-something quarterback sprawled across the couch with one arm over the backrest, brown hair still messy from practice, broad shoulders filling out an old team shirt and that easy crooked grin making half the girls in the room stare.

Trey laughed a little too quickly.

You knew that laugh. You’d known Trey since scraped knees and backyard sleepovers, before football made everyone know his name, before girls started hovering around him, before the two of you started secretly kissing in parked cars and sneaking into each other’s bedrooms months ago. He knew your answers without needing to see them. First question, match. Second, match. Third, match. The teasing got louder with every one, someone calling you his soulmate, somebody else asking when the wedding was, and Trey’s smile slowly tightened.

Then came the fourth question. You looked down at your card. Trey looked at his. And while everyone was watching the host, you watched Trey. His thumb moved. He changed his answer.

Your stomach dropped before the card even flipped. Mismatch. A few disappointed groans went around the room, but nobody caught what he’d done. Then came the fifth question, and Trey did it again, changing another answer at the last second like the first hadn’t already been enough.

Three out of five. Crash.

Trey leaned back with a relieved little laugh. His eyes found yours for barely a second, softening into that apologetic look he wore whenever he knew he’d fucked up but expected to fix it later. Then he shrugged toward everyone else. “Guess we know each other too well to actually date.” The room laughed, and Trey laughed with them.

You didn’t.

Because less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d been lying in your bed telling you he loved you.

The next name went into the bowl, and someone shouted that Trey got another shot. Paisley Deveraux’s name came out, and the whole room practically detonated. Of course it was Paisley. Pretty, popular, sharp-tongued Paisley, captain of the campus cheer squad Paisley, the girl everyone already thought looked right beside Trey. She called him an egotistical dumbass. He called her Princess. She stole food off his tray. He annoyed her between lectures just to watch her snap at him. Their arguments were practically campus entertainment, and everyone had been saying for years that they wanted to fuck each other.

Trey denied it every time. Apparently nobody had ever asked him while Paisley was sitting this close. She dropped onto the arm of the couch beside him, thigh brushing his shoulder, wearing that smug little smile she reserved specifically for him. “Don’t look so excited, Bowers.” Trey tipped his head back to look at her. “Trust me, Princess. I’m devastated.”

She laughed.

Trey smiled.

And something about the way he looked at her made your chest tighten before the first answer was even read. Question one, match. Trey laughed and bumped his knee against hers. Question two, match, and Paisley’s eyebrows lifted while everyone started hooting. Question three matched too, and Trey glanced at you across the room for half a second.

He saw you. He knew you were watching. Then Paisley leaned down to whisper something into his ear. Trey laughed so hard his head dipped toward her shoulder.

He didn’t look at you again.

Question four, match. Someone started chanting “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” Paisley rolled her eyes but didn’t move away when Trey casually hooked an arm around her waist to keep her balanced on the couch. His hand settled against her side like it belonged there.

Maybe that was part of the joke. Maybe.

Then the fifth card flipped. Match. Five out of five. Perfect fucking Match.

The room erupted. Paisley actually looked surprised before her expression melted into a grin, and Trey stared up at her with something warmer than annoyance in his face. Something you recognized because you’d seen it directed at you in dark bedrooms where nobody else could witness it.

Paisley nudged his shoulder. “Well, boyfriend. Try not to embarrass me.”

Trey’s arm was still around her waist. He didn’t remove it. Instead, his thumb absently brushed once against her side before his mouth curled into that same smile you’d fallen in love with years ago. “No promises, girlfriend.”

Everyone started yelling again. Someone shouted for them to kiss. Paisley laughed and leaned away, but Trey caught her wrist and pulled her back just enough to make the room scream louder.

Then, finally, he looked at you. Not guilty. Not really. Just that familiar expression that said don’t make this a thing. Like he already knew you would understand. Like he already knew you’d forgive him. Trey turned back to Paisley before you could look away.

Thirty days. Thirty days of her sitting beside him at lunch, wearing his jersey at games, going on dates with him, appearing in his pictures, walking through campus on the arm of the boy who still climbed through your window after midnight.

And Trey was already smiling like thirty days didn’t sound nearly long enough. Because when Trey had been matched with you, he changed the answers. With Paisley, he never changed a single one.