The day after the article, the internet felt like a room she couldn’t leave.
Everywhere Tessa looked—her phone, the TV in the food court, even the headlines on the newsstand outside the bus stop—someone had an opinion about her life.
Her ring, her job, her clothes, her *worth*.
She could’ve thrown her phone in the river. She considered it. Twice.
“What if we just… went off the grid,” she muttered as she fumbled with the ancient coffee machine in the break room. “Moved to the woods. Raised goats. No Wi‑Fi.”
Leah, perched on the counter swinging her legs, snorted. “You wouldn’t last ten minutes without indoor plumbing.”
“I’d learn,” Tessa said. “For goats.”
“Your boyfriend—sorry, *fiancé*—would absolutely build you a luxury goat barn with radiant heat and imported hay,” Leah said. “You’d become an influencer again, but with goats.”
Tessa banged the coffee machine with the heel of her hand. It made a sad gurgling sound.
“Did you read the article?” she asked.
Leah’s face tightened. “Yeah.”
“And?” Tessa braced.
“And I wanted to personally head‑butt the author into a display of half‑price chokers,” Leah said. “But then I remembered violence is frowned upon in the workplace.”
Tessa let out a weak laugh. “Corporate really ruins all the fun.”
Leah slid off the counter, came closer, leaning her hip next to Tessa’s.
“You know what I noticed?” she said. “Between all the thinly veiled classism and fangirling over his bank account?”
“What?” Tessa asked dully.
“They couldn’t drag *you* without making him look like an idiot,” Leah said. “So half the time, they were bending over backwards to explain why you’re, like, ‘a breath of fresh air’ and ‘down‑to‑earth’ and ‘exactly what he needs.’”
Tessa rolled her eyes. “They wrote that. Then the comments wrote ‘she’s using him’ and ‘this is for PR.’”
Leah’s jaw clenched. “The comments are where humanity goes to rot. You’re not allowed to go down there without a hazmat suit.”
“I know,” Tessa said softly. “It just… got in my head. All the ways I *could* be what they’re saying. If I’m not careful.”
“That’s the thing,” Leah said. “You *are* careful. Pathologically so. You’re the least gold‑diggery person I know. You feel guilty when I buy you a pretzel.”
“That’s because you keep paying in coins from your car and I’m pretty sure half of them are foreign,” Tessa muttered.
“Point is,” Leah said, bumping her shoulder gently, “you and Moneybags need to decide what the story is. Not some bored content mill with a backlog of royal wedding think pieces.”
“We’re working on it,” Tessa said.
“Oh?” Leah perked up. “We?”
“We… talked,” Tessa said, the word ‘talked’ doing a lot of heavy lifting. “Last night. He wants to… say something. Publicly. About us. I told him… if we do, we do it together. One photo. Honest caption. No… spin.”
Leah’s brows rose. “That’s… big.”
“I know,” Tessa said. “I’m trying not to throw up.”
Leah’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then at Tessa.
“He just texted me,” Leah said slowly.
Tessa blinked. “What?”
“He got my number from you that time he needed to coordinate the staff party exit,” Leah said. “Remember? He said he’d only use it for ‘operational emergencies.’”
“You qualify as an operational emergency,” Tessa said.
“Aw,” Leah said. “He says: ‘Could you make sure Tessa takes a real lunch break? She’s going to pretend she isn’t hungry.’”
Tessa groaned. “He did not.”
“He did,” Leah said. “And now I have blackmail for life.”
“Don’t tell him you showed me,” Tessa pleaded.
“Oh, I absolutely will,” Leah said. “Just not yet. I’m saving it for sweeps week.”
The coffee machine finally coughed out a grudging stream. Tessa poured it into a chipped mug and took a cautious sip.
“So,” Leah said. “When’s the big ‘we’re not PR, we just have poor boundaries’ post going up?”
Tessa sighed. “I don’t know. We’re… supposed to meet tonight. Talk. Pick a photo.”
“You have… photos,” Leah said, waggling her brows.
“Engagement shoot,” Tessa said quickly. “Nothing scandalous.”
“Well, that’s a waste,” Leah said. “Anyway. Whenever you do it… I’ll be in your comments. Violently supportive.”
Tessa smiled around her mug. “Thanks.”
“And if anyone comes in today asking if you can get them a ‘Caleb discount’ or some shit?” Leah added. “I’ll handle them. You get to be Switzerland.”
Tessa’s chest warmed. “You’re the best.”
“I know,” Leah said. “Now go sell commitment to people who still think it’s all rings and rose petals.”
***
By eight that night, Tessa’s nerves were a live wire.
Her phone buzzed as she was about to leave her apartment.
> Caleb: Car’s downstairs. Take your time. No rush.
He always said that—*no rush*—like he didn’t understand that she’d lived her entire life feeling like she was late for something.
She took the stairs a little slower than usual, trying to breathe past the tightness in her chest.
He was leaning against the car, as always, but tonight his face looked more drawn than usual. His jaw was tight; his eyes had that focused, distant look she recognized from his boardroom stories.
“You look tired,” she said by way of greeting.
“You look beautiful,” he said automatically. Then, blinking, “And… also tired.”
“Compliment sandwich,” she said. “Nice.”
He opened the passenger door for her. “You still want to do this?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
Halfway to his building, he broke.
“I hate this,” he said suddenly, fingers tightening on the wheel. “Knowing you’re being… talked about. Judged. Because of me.”
“It’s not *because* of you,” she said softly. “It’s because of… us.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” he said.
“It makes it… accurate,” she said.
They took the elevator up in silence. His apartment felt strangely… smaller tonight. Or maybe it was just that she was hyper‑aware of every inch of space between them.
He gestured toward the couch. “Want anything? Water? Tea? Flamethrower for the internet?”
“Tea would be great,” she said. “Save the flamethrower for later.”
While he busied himself in the kitchen, she sat and pulled out her phone.
The photo she’d bookmarked stared back at her. The dock. The lake. Their backs.
He came over with two mugs, handed her one, and sat beside her—close, but not touching.
“You picked one?” he asked.
She turned the screen toward him.
His expression softened. “I love that one.”
“It doesn’t show our faces,” she said. “Just… enough.”
“Just us,” he said quietly. “Not the… rest.”
“Exactly,” she said.
He pulled his own phone from his pocket.
“I talked to PR,” he said. “Told them this would be… personal. No editing. No pre‑approval. They weren’t thrilled, but… they trust me not to tank the stock price with one Instagram post.”
“Imagine if you did,” she muttered. “Over my sweater.”
He smiled. “Sweatergate.”
They opened the app together. His feed was… curated. Occasional work shots. The gala photo. A few throwbacks. No messy candids. No memes.
“Caption,” he said. “You start.”
“Me?” She almost choked.
“You’re better with words,” he said. “Mine come out sounding like press releases.”
She rolled her eyes, but her thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
“This doesn’t… have to be huge,” he said gently. “Just… something true.”
Something true.
We met. We lied. We’re trying.
She typed.
> We didn’t plan this. We didn’t plan any of it. > > We met on a bad day in a mall and made a complicated choice. It wasn’t a fairy tale. It was two people trying to survive. > > Somewhere between pretending and late‑night takeout and hard conversations with our families, we stopped acting. > > This is real now. Messy, imperfect, loud, and ours. > > We know you have opinions. We’re listening to the ones that come from love. The rest… we’re letting go. > > – T & C
She stared at it. It looked… dramatic. Vague. Honest.
“Too much?” she asked, handing it to him.
He read, mouth moving silently.
When he looked up, his eyes were bright.
“It’s perfect,” he said. “Can I… add something?”
She nodded.
He typed a line at the bottom.
> (Also, for the record, I’m the lucky one.)
Tessa groaned. “You’re going to make people vomit.”
“Let them,” he said. “They can unfollow.”
He selected the photo from his camera roll, adjusted the crop so their hands—their fingers laced between them—were clearly visible.
“Ready?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Do it.”
He hit share.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the wifi icon blinked and the post went up, settling into the neat grid of his previous life like it had always been there.
They watched in real time as the likes ticked up. Comments appeared.
She forced herself not to read them.
“Put it away,” she said. “We did the thing. Now… no more screen time.”
He obediently locked his phone and set it face‑down on the coffee table.
Silence stretched. She was too aware of the fact that they’d just done something irreversible together.
“We’re really… doing this,” she said softly. “Not just… privately. Publicly. Out loud.”
“Yes,” he said. “We are.”
She exhaled. “I thought I’d feel… more… everything. But mostly I just feel… tired.”
He huffed a laugh. “Same.”
She sipped her tea, letting the heat anchor her.
“You know what my mom said?” she asked after a moment.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said.
“After she threatened to haunt you if you hurt me,” Tessa said, “she said… ‘You don’t get to choose who you love. You only get to choose what you do about it.’”
He nodded slowly. “She’s… wise. Terrifying. But wise.”
“She raised me,” Tessa said. “Obviously she’s amazing.”
“Obviously,” he echoed.
He shifted, turning slightly toward her.
“Hey,” he said. “Can I… ask you something a little… selfish?”
“That’s a new category for you,” she said. “Go for it.”
“Can we…” He hesitated, then forged ahead. “Can we have a night where we don’t… talk about them? Or… the internet. Or… the rules. Just… *us.*”
Her heart squeezed.
“What would that look like?” she asked quietly.
He shrugged one shoulder. “We order food. Argue about movies. You make fun of my terrible taste in music. I… try to learn more about you that isn’t in a crisis context.”
She thought about it. The idea of not having to be constantly on guard—against the world, against her own feelings—was intoxicating.
“Yes,” she said. “I’d… like that.”
He exhaled, relief softening his features. “Good.”
They ordered Thai (no peanuts; he checked twice), argued about which *Star Wars* movie was the least offensive (she said *The Last Jedi*, he said “anything but the prequels”), and ended up watching a terrible 90s rom‑com where the heroine faked an engagement with her boss.
“This is too meta,” she groaned. “Turn it off.”
“Agreed,” he said, reaching for the remote.
They landed on an episode of *The Great British Bake Off.* Tessa let the soothing cadence of British people stressing over cake wash over her.
At some point, her feet ended up in his lap. She didn’t remember how. One minute she’d tucked them under herself, the next they were stretched out, his hands resting lightly on her ankles.
He wasn’t doing anything… inappropriate. Just… there. Warm. Solid.
She watched his profile in the flickering light. The way his mouth quirked when a contestant made a bad pun. The faint furrow between his brows when someone dropped a cake.
“You’re very… observant,” she said suddenly.
He glanced over. “Occupational hazard.”
“No,” she said. “Not just… here. With me. With… people. You notice… things.”
He shrugged. “I have to. For work. For… survival.”
“And yet you didn’t notice you were falling for me until we were on a couch,” she teased.
“I noticed,” he said quietly. “I just… refused to name it.”
She swallowed. “Same.”
He shifted, turning down the volume a notch.
“Tessa,” he said. “Can I ask you something you don’t have to answer?”
“You can always ask,” she said. “I reserve the right to pretend I didn’t hear.”
He smiled, then sobered.
“If…” He stared at some point over her shoulder. “If I… asked you. In three months. Or six. Or a year. For real. No contracts. No… performance. Would you… consider it?”
The world stilled.
Her heart slammed, loud and wild.
“Asked me… what?” she managed, though she knew.
“To… marry me,” he said simply.
She locked her eyes on the TV for a second, because looking at him felt too dangerous.
“We’re not…” Her voice came out thin. “We’re not… there.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I’m not… asking now. I’m not… proposing. I just…” He exhaled. “I need to know if I’m… the only one who… thinks about that… as a… possibility.”
Possibility.
Her throat closed.
“Do you?” she whispered. “Think about that.”
“Yes,” he said. “Not in a… pressured way. Not in a ‘this has to happen by Q4’ way. Just… sometimes. When you’re… with my family. Or… here. On my couch. Eating pad thai and making fun of my playlist. I… picture… more. Of that. With… rings that aren’t for… cover.”
Her eyes burned.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” she cut in. “Don’t… apologize. You’re… being honest.”
They sat in thick silence.
“What’s your honest answer?” he asked softly. “If you… have one. Yet.”
She stared at her feet in his lap. His hands. The ring on her finger catching the TV light.
“I…” She swallowed. “I can’t… promise. That I’ll… be ready. In three months. Or six. Or a year. I don’t… know who I’ll be then. Or… where.”
He nodded, expression carefully neutral.
“But,” she went on, surprising herself, “I know that… before you… the idea of… marriage… made me… itchy. Like… a trap. A… performance. A… thing other people did and I… sold them jewelry for.”
“And now?” he asked.
“And now,” she said softly, “I can… imagine. A version. Where it’s… ours. Not… anyone else’s. Not… the internet’s. Not… a press release. Just… us. And… some paperwork. And maybe… tacos.”
His mouth trembled. “You’d have tacos at your wedding.”
“Obviously,” she said. “What do you take me for.”
He laughed, a little broken. “So… that’s a… maybe.”
“That’s a ‘I’m not… running to say no,’” she said. “It’s a… huge… terrifying… possible… yes. In… some… future. If we… make it there. Without… killing each other. Or… burning out.”
He let out a shuddery breath. “Okay.”
“Is that… enough?” she asked softly.
“It’s… more than I expected,” he said honestly. “I could’ve lived with a ‘shut up, we just went public.’”
She smiled wetly. “Shut up, we just went public.”
He squeezed her ankles gently, smiling back.
The show on TV reached some climactic cake reveal. They both ignored it.
“You know what’s wild?” she said after a moment.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m more scared of… planning a hypothetical wedding… than I was of… lying to your grandmother,” she said. “Which is saying something.”
“Wedding planning *is* scarier than Elise,” he said. “She’s only one person. Weddings are a whole… industry.”
She shuddered. “Don’t say ‘industry.’ It makes it worse.”
He chuckled.
They let the conversation drift to safer topics after that. Childhood Halloween costumes. Worst school lunches. The time he’d tried to impress a girl in sixth grade by doing a backflip off a swing and had sprained his wrist.
“Did it work?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “She laughed. With me. Then asked me to sign her cast when she broke her ankle a month later.”
“You have a type,” she observed. “Women who laugh at your pain.”
“Just you,” he said quietly.
Her stomach flipped.
At the end of the night, he walked her to the elevator, as always. Stopped just shy of the threshold.
“Thank you,” he said. “For… the maybe. And the post. And… everything.”
“Thank you,” she said. “For… not… backing down. Even when it’s… hard.”
They hovered there, as they always did now. The rules—a living, breathing thing between them—rustled.
“No more,” he said.
“No more,” she echoed.
They both stepped back at the same time, as if choreographed.
As the elevator doors closed, she caught his reflection—hands in his pockets, face thoughtful, a little dazed.
She leaned her head against the cool metal and smiled, small and terrified and real.
They’d soft‑launched their truth to the world.
Now they had to see if it could survive the full season.
***