Page 70 of Faking It For Real

"You mentioned wanting to experiment more with different lighting effects," I shrugged, trying to downplay how much I paid attention to her gear wishlists. "Do you really like them?"

"I love them," she said, echoing my words back to me with such sincerity that I couldn't doubt her. "I can't wait to try these out."

Our eyes held for a long moment, something unspoken passing between us. The pretense of our arrangement felt miles away, replaced by something neither of us was ready to name.

The celebration lingered deep into the night, but campus eventually called Mia and me back. Our departure became a loving, drawn-out affair – nearly half an hour tangled in embraces, juggling containers of carefully packed food, and promising every aunt, uncle, and cousin that yes, absolutely, I would be back soon.

"You come back for Candlemas," Elena insisted, pressing another container of food into my already full arms. "You found the baby Jesus, so it's meant to be."

"I'll be here," I promised, and meant it.

By the time we made it to the car, the backseat was filled with containers of food and small gifts. Mia looked equal parts embarrassed and amused.

"Sorry about the care package," she said as we drove away. "My mom thinks all college students are one meal away from starvation."

"Are you kidding? I'm set for a week. Dylan's going to flip when he sees all this."

We drove in comfortable silence for a while, the events of the day settling around us like a warm blanket. The car heater hummed softly, and Mia leaned her head against the window, looking content but tired.

"Your family is amazing," I said finally. "Thank you for sharing them with me."

She turned to look at me, her expression soft in the dashboard's dim light. "They really liked you. Especially my dad, which is rare. He usually gives my boyfriends the third degree."

"We had a good talk," I acknowledged, not elaborating on the surprising conversation about dreams and expectations. "He's a wise man."

"The wisest," she agreed. "Just don't tell him I said that. His head's big enough already."

I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in months—maybe years. There was something about being with Mia and her family that made the constant pressure I lived under recede to the background, like waves pulling back from the shore.

When we reached her apartment building, I insisted on walking her to her door despite her protests that it wasn't necessary.

"It's freezing," she argued. "Just drop me off."

"Not a chance. I promised your dad I'd see you safely inside, and I'm pretty sure he'll somehow know if I don't."

"He would," she conceded with a laugh. "He has spy networks everywhere."

At her door, we lingered, neither quite ready to end the day. Mia fiddled with her keys, looking up at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"Thank you for coming," she said finally. "It meant a lot to me. My family can be overwhelming, but they're everything to me, and seeing you fit in so well was... nice."

"Thank you for inviting me," I replied. "It was one of the best days I've had in a long time."

She smiled, and for a moment, I thought about kissing her—not for show, not as part of our arrangement, but simply because I wanted to. The thought both terrified and exhilarated me.

Before I could act on the impulse, Mia stood on her tiptoes and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my cheek.

"Goodnight, Ethan," she whispered. "Drive safe."

I watched her disappear into her apartment, touching the spot where her lips had been. The warmth of her family's celebration, the insight of Gabriel's words, the sweetness of Mia's kiss—it all swirled together in my mind.

Chapter 17: Mia

"If you don't stop fidgeting, I'm going to tape you to the seat," Olivia threatened, lowering her book to glare at me over the top of her reading glasses. "What's got you so wound up anyway?"

I forced my bouncing knee to still. We were only an hour into the three-hour drive to the mountain resort for the team's annual ski weekend – three vans packed tight with hockey players and their plus-ones – and I'd apparently been vibrating with nervous energy the entire time. "Nothing. Just excited about the ski weekend."

Olivia's eyebrow shot up in disbelief. "You hate skiing. Last year you said, and I quote, 'Strapping sticks to my feet and hurtling down a frozen mountain is a form of voluntary torture that should be studied by psychologists.'"

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