Summer's POV
Chloe didn't bother with subtlety. She barged into Summer's living room with the kind of energy that belonged on a red carpet.
"I have news!" she announced, flinging a glossy folder onto the coffee table. "A lifestyle brand wants you and Ethan for a campaign. Think: cozy mornings, matching mugs, very Instagrammable. It's perfect."
Summer blinked. "You mean—couple ad?"
"Couple ad," Chloe confirmed. "Paid, global, and they want authenticity. They want chemistry. They want people to feel your story."
Summer glanced at Ethan, who'd been lounging on the sofa pretending to read but was clearly listening. His expression was calm — almost dangerously calm. "They want our story." She tasted the words and realized they'd somehow become currency. "Do we have to kiss?"
Chloe laughed. "Of course. There will be a staged 'romantic moment'—a fake kiss for the photo. It's harmless, it's profitable, and it makes people scream into their phones."
Ethan's eyes flicked to Summer. "Staged or not, it'll be short."
Summer folded her arms. "Short is good."
She should have known that in showbiz, "short" often became an open invitation to dramatize. But the contract numbers looked very nice. Chloe's smile lasted long enough to make the decision for her.
---
Ethan's POV
Ad campaigns were a different battlefield—less wild than an island storm, more precise. Every angle, every light, every microexpression was pre-planned. He liked the predictability. It let him armor up in choreography rather than improvisation.
The studio was a sterile, perfect version of a living room: faux sunlight, staged sunlight, props arranged like a museum. The client hovered nearby, eyes bright. "We want something candid. Not too showy. A moment that feels like a secret."
Summer read the brief and then looked at him. He could see the question in her gaze. He could answer it honestly—this time, at least. "We keep it natural," he told her. "No theatrics unless it's ours."
She nodded. "Deal."
They moved through the shots—mugs, breakfast, lazy laughter. The photographer murmured encouragements into a megaphone like a benevolent drill sergeant. Fans peered through the one-way windows, phones poised like binoculars.
Finally, the client smiled and said, "Perfect. Now, for the hero shot—our 'romantic reveal.' Gentle kiss on the cheek, then a forehead touch. Two takes, please."
Summer's stomach did a small, traitorous flip. Ethan stood, stepping close enough that she could feel the heat of him. The world narrowed to the scent of coffee and the thrum of studio lights.
"Ready?" the photographer asked.
Summer forced a smile and nodded. "Ready."
The first take was gentle—cheek kiss, forehead tap, smiles that looked like a postcard. The director clapped. "Great energy! One more, but this time hold it a beat longer at the end. We want that lingering feeling."
Hold it a beat. The words buzzed in Summer's head like a warning and a dare. She looked to Ethan. He looked back with something soft and steady in his eyes that had nothing to do with PR.
She felt herself leaning in, not because the brief said so, but because the world finally made space for a line she wanted to cross. Time slowed. The studio lights dimmed in her periphery. Then Ethan's lips brushed her temple—brief, then a heartbeat longer. The camera clicked like a metronome.
Something in the client's face changed from satisfied to delighted. Someone behind the glass whooped. On the monitor, the photo froze: a perfect still of intimacy.
But the life of a photo often lived beyond the frame. An assistant had already uploaded a behind-the-scenes clip to a private awaiting feed—"for internal review." A private feed that, of course, leaked.
---
Summer's POV
By dinner, the clip had been seeded. Fans found it within twenty minutes. It wasn't the polished ad pic everyone would see in billboards; it was a raw, two-second clip of Ethan's lips at her temple, his breath against her hair. People replayed it. Comment sections ignited.
> "Wait—did he kiss her for real?!"
"That was not in the storyboard."
"That's the moment. You can feel it."
Summer felt dizzy, partly from the adrenaline of being seen, partly from a domestic heat under her ribs. The difference between the staged and the real blurred into a line she didn't know how to name.
Chloe buzzed her phone like a swarm. "It's golden. Viral. It's everything." She sounded like a slot machine: pleased and hungry.
Summer dropped her face into her hands. "Now what?"
Ethan slid onto the couch beside her, close. "Now we choose," he said quietly.
"Choose what?" she asked, voice small.
"Whether we let them keep making our moments, or whether we own them first. We can control the story if we stop reacting." His thumb found her knuckles, rubbing a steady dot. "We can keep doing this together—on our terms."
She lifted her head, searching his face. The studio lights at noon had been artificial—now there was no artifice at all in his gaze. "You're proposing a PR strategy or marriage?"
He smiled, the corners of his mouth lifting into a private dawn. "Both, maybe. One feels like a paper call, the other feels like a risk."
She laughed, breathy and incredulous. "You make risk sound romantic."
"Only with the right partner," he said.
Summer thought of all the almosts that had become this, of their private confessions turned public property. She thought of the island night and the cave and the simple sentence he'd said that had felt like a promise.
"Okay," she said at last. "We do it our way."
He kissed her then—this time on the lips, soft and deliberate. Not staged, not timed. It was a seal on an unspoken pact: they would face the machine together, but they would not be its marionettes.
Phones vibrated with alerts. Cameras waited. The world was hungry.
They smiled into the small chaos, and the first headline that popped up read: "Summer & Ethan Turn Couple Campaign Into Real-Life Moment — Is Love Authentic or PR?"
Ethan shrugged. "Let them ask. We know."
She snorted. "Enough of your confidence. Someone should worry."
"Someone does," he said, tugging her close. "And that someone is me."
She rolled her eyes, but didn't pull away. "Good. Then you better be very committed—this PR game looks exhausting."
He kissed the top of her head. "I'm committed. To you, not just the headlines."
Outside, the internet churned. Inside, on the couch, two people clung to the small, private fact that whatever the world decided, their next move would be together.