The BuzzBeat team arrived on a Sunday morning, all oversized cameras, glowing ring lights, and aggressive cheerfulness. The lead writer, a woman named Jade with red lipstick that dared anyone to interrupt her, had clearly done her homework.
"Love in the digital age," she said, setting up her tablet on Emery's coffee table. "It's not about how long you've been together—it's about vibes, engagement, and emotional fluency. You two? Goldmine."
Emery tried to smile through the mild existential dread pooling behind her eyes.
Liam, of course, looked unbothered. He wore a plain white t-shirt and jeans like a Calvin Klein model pretending to be humble. He'd brought croissants. He brought croissants.
Show-off.
"Let's start with some photos," Jade chirped. "Natural light, cozy energy. Pretend we're not here."
The photographer, who hadn't said a single word but kept adjusting his lens with the solemnity of a brain surgeon, gestured toward the couch.
Emery and Liam sat. Close. But not too close.
The photographer frowned.
Liam looked over and murmured, "Can I?"
Before Emery could ask what he meant, he slid his arm around her shoulders and tugged her in like it was second nature. Like it hadn't sent a quiet shiver down her spine.
The camera clicked.
"Beautiful," Jade said. "Now lean in like you're sharing a secret. Something tender."
Emery leaned in.
"Why is this so awkward?" she whispered through her teeth.
"Because we're lying for a living," Liam whispered back.
Click.
"Perfect!" Jade beamed. "Now let's talk story. You met…?"
"At a friend's engagement party," Liam said smoothly. "She hated the cake. I made fun of her."
"It had a weird fondant situation," Emery added. "I was right."
"Instant connection," Liam said, looking at her.
And the worst part?
He wasn't faking the look.
Emery tried not to blink too fast.
Jade tapped away on her tablet. "And when did you know this was serious?"
Emery opened her mouth, but Liam beat her to it.
"I think I knew the night we stayed up talking until sunrise. No phones. Just us."
That wasn't part of the script.
That never happened.
Emery turned toward him, trying to catch the punchline in his expression. But he wasn't smiling.
He looked… sincere.
She cleared her throat. "Same here," she lied. "Something just clicked."
Jade looked up. "What's one thing you've learned from each other?"
Liam didn't hesitate. "She's taught me that vulnerability isn't weakness. It's just honesty with a better wardrobe."
Emery laughed—too loud, too sharp. "And he's taught me that good hair can't fix bad taste in documentaries."
Liam grinned. "She hates my obsession with unsolved crimes."
"Only because you watch them while eating spaghetti. It's offensive."
Click.
Jade tilted her head. "You two are honestly adorable. But—and forgive me if this is too invasive—how do you handle conflict? Arguments? Setbacks?"
Emery paused.
She didn't know how to answer. Because they didn't argue. They didn't exist.
But Liam filled the silence.
"We're honest," he said. "Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
Emery blinked at him. "Are we?"
Liam looked at her, just for a second too long. "Trying to be."
Click.
Jade sat back, clearly delighted. "You two make love look effortless. I'm jealous."
Emery smiled tightly. "Well, that's the magic of a good edit, right?"
After the BuzzBeat team packed up and left, silence filled the apartment.
Emery crossed her arms, staring at the now-too-bright living room. "What the hell was that?"
"What?"
"That—sunrise story? You made that up."
Liam leaned on the counter, unconcerned. "So did you. That's how this works, remember?"
"Yeah, but we don't usually invent intimate details. We're usually on the same page."
Liam studied her. "So what's the real problem?"
Emery opened her mouth. Then shut it.
Because the real problem wasn't the fake story.
It was the fact that it didn't feel fake when he said it.
She walked toward the door. "This is getting messy."
"It's been messy," he said, voice lower now. "You're just finally admitting it."
She stopped, hand on the doorknob.
"This was supposed to be controlled," she said. "You said you didn't want anything real. You said—"
"I know what I said," he cut in. "And maybe I didn't expect it to feel real. But it does. At least to me."
The words hung in the air like electricity.
Emery turned slowly. "You don't get to rewrite the terms now."
"And you don't get to pretend you're unaffected."
"I'm not—"
"You are," he said softly. "I see it. You're scared, and instead of talking about it, you run."
Her throat tightened.
He stepped closer.
"I don't know what this is," he said. "But I know I'm not pretending anymore."
That was it.
That was the line.
The one she'd built everything to avoid.
She looked at him—at the man who was supposed to be her buffer, her illusion, her safe joke—and all she could think was:
This is exactly how the real stories start.
And she wasn't ready.
So she did what she always did.
She ran.