My alarm didn't even have the decency to go off.
When I opened my eyes, sunlight was already slanting through the blinds bright, accusing, and way too late. My phone screen glared 8:27 a.m. back at me.
First period started at eight.
I shot up, hit my shin on the desk, and almost tripped over my backpack. Perfect. The universe clearly wanted to see me suffer.
By the time I'd thrown on my hoodie and shoved my hair into something that could legally be called "presentable," I was sure i had taken ten minutes to do that . I stuffed my homework into my bag, and sprinted out the door.
The bus had, of course, left. So I walked. Fast. Half a mile later, I reached the school parking lot, panting, sweat sticking to the back of my neck. The hallway clock said 8:57.
"Bad timing, Hayes," muttered the security guard as I flashed him my late slip.
"Morning cardio," I wheezed, and headed for class.
Everyone was already settled when I slipped into my seat in English. The teacher gave me that flat, disappointed look educators save for kids who have potential but choose chaos anyway. I mumbled an apology and opened my notebook, pretending not to hear the whispers from the back.
Because, of course, everyone was still talking about yesterday.
Every glance, every whisper, every half-suppressed laugh it all circled back to one thing: Mira and Shareen are dating after a breakup.
My stomach twisted. I'd agreed to help her, not become the day's entertainment. I should have known this earlier on.
When the bell finally rang, I shoved my things into my bag and tried to escape before anyone cornered me. But as soon as I stepped into the hall, someone called my name.
"Shareen!"
I turned. Mira was walking toward me like she owned the hallway. Head high, eyes sharp, perfect ponytail swinging like she was some goddess from the sea. Students parted for her without realizing it.
I suddenly felt like the awkward background character no one remembers.
"You're late," she said when she reached me.
"Yeah, I noticed."
Her lips twitched. "Rough morning?"
"Something like that."
She tilted her head, studying me for a second like she was checking if I'd cracked under the weight of yesterday's stunt. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a folded bill.
"Here."
I frowned. "What's that?"
"Payment." She pushed it toward me. "For your performance yesterday."
I blinked. "You're… paying me now? Like an hourly rate?"
She shrugged. "You said you weren't doing it for money, but I don't like owing anyone favors."
I looked down. A crisp hundred-dollar bill. My chest tightened. I could almost see my mom's tired smile, the overdue utility bill sitting on the kitchen counter, the empty gas tank.
But something about the way she said it 'payment'made me feel cheap. Like a prop.
I shoved my hands in my pockets. "Keep it."
Her expression didn't change. "You earned it."
"I didn't do much."
"You did what you did not want and moreover you aren't known for that, " she said quietly. "That's something."
I hesitated. Her tone wasn't cold this time. It was soft, almost sincere.
After a moment, I reached out and took the bill. "Fine," I said. "But only because my mom's sick."
Her lips curved. "Good. Consider yourself officially on payroll."
"I didn't sign a contract," I muttered.
"Too late," she said, smirking. "Word's already out."
I groaned. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Maybe a little."
"Damn."
We walked down the hallway together, pretending not to notice the stares. She seemed completely unaffected, meanwhile, my palms were sweating like I'd just run a marathon.
At her locker, she turned to me. "We're sitting together again today."
I blinked. "What, at lunch?"
"No." She grinned. "In history class. Mrs. Calloway said we can choose seats, and I'm choosing you."
"That's… not how this works."
"Sure it is. We're a couple, remember? People are watching."
"Yah but aren't there times to stay away from your fake boyfriend? " I muttered, but she was already walking away.
By the time history class rolled around, my nerves were on fire. I kept telling myself this was just part of the deal. A performance. Nothing real.
Still, when Mira slid into the seat beside me and smiled like she belonged there, my brain forgot how to function.
"Hey," she said, all casual, flipping open her notebook. "You okay?"
"Define 'okay,'" I said.
"You look nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
She leaned closer, voice low. "You're totally nervous."
"I'm not."
"Your leg's bouncing."
I looked down. Damn it. She was right.
She laughed under her breath, a sound softer than her usual confident tone. "Relax, Shareen. You're supposed to look like you like being around me."
"That's the problem," I muttered.
She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"I mean—uh, I just meant people are staring. It's weird."
She turned her head slightly, scanning the room. Half the class was pretending not to watch us. "Good," she said finally. "That's the point."
I sighed. "Remind me why I agreed to this again?"
"Because you're secretly a nice guy."
"That sounds like an insult."
"It's not." She smiled faintly. "Trust me, nice is rare around here."
Her smile did something strange to my chest. I looked away, focusing hard on the teacher's voice as if the teaching of the Great Britain could save me from this awkward warmth creeping up my neck.