Page 9 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

"We’ll make it work," I said, my hands sliding down her back, pulling her impossibly closer. "Because I'm not going anywhere. I'm finally still, Sloane. I'm finally right where I’m supposed to be." I pulled her back up to face me, my eyes tracing the silhouette of the girl who had been my shadow, my anchor, and was now my everything. “I don’t want anyone but you. All of you.”

I reached for the hem of her ribbed top, my gaze asking the question, and when she nodded, her eyes dark with a matching hunger, the last of the world fell away. We undressed each other, following the night through to its natural conclusion. As our skins touched, our breaths mingling, our bodies coming together in a fulfilling climax, I knew she was everything that I wanted.

There were no audiences. No ex-boyfriends. No roles to play. There was only the weight of her body on mine, the heat of our skin meeting, and the silent, beautiful realization that the best thing in my life had been holding my hand all along.

One week later—

The mirror in our bedroom was gathering dust.

For years, that glass had been my commanding officer. I’d spend an hour every morning ensuring every wave of my hair was symmetrical and every swipe of mascara was a defensive shield. But today, I was wearing Sloane’s oversized black hoodie—the one with the frayed cuffs. It was huge on me, swallowing my svelte frame, and I didn't care that I looked "undone."

Sloane thought I was beautiful like this. And for the first time in my life, her opinion was the only one that carried any weight.

"You’re staring at that bridge again," I murmured, sliding onto the bench behind her in our shared studio space.

We had spent the last week in a bubble of blissful, domestic heat—making love, kissing, talking, and eating takeout. I wanted to catch up on all the moments I’d missed, all the kisses I could’ve had in the last few years. Our chemistry was off the charts, and I wanted to spend each minute with my new girlfriend. We were "the couple" on campus now, but the public handholding was nothing compared to the private reality. I liked living with her a lot. I never knew it could be this easy.

I wrapped my arms around Sloane’s waist, pulling my chest flush against her back. Even through her shirt, I could feel the steady, grounding thrum of her heart.

"It’s a complex cantilever, Chlo," Sloane said, though she was already leaning back into my touch, her head resting on my shoulder. She smelled like sandalwood and late-night coffee.

I nuzzled into the crook of her neck, my lips grazing the skin at the base of her neck that I now knew was her weakest point. I felt her shudder, her breath hitching in a way that made a possessive, electric thrill shoot through me. "Forget the bridge," I whispered. "Come back to bed for twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes with you always turns into three hours," she teased, but she was already turning in my arms.

She looked at me with such raw, unadulterated devotion that it made my throat tight. I couldn't believe I had lived twenty-two years without this. I’d spent so much time chasing the loud, fleeting "spark" of popularity, never realizing that I was starving for the deep, soul-level warmth that Sloane provided. We understood each other without words; I knew when she was overthinking a design, and she knew when my social battery was draining before I even felt the flicker. And together, we fit just right.

"I love you," I said, the words feeling new and heavy and right, as my lips grazed her cheek.

Sloane’s eyes softened, her small hand coming up to cup my cheek. "I’ve waited a long time to hear you say that and mean it."

"I mean it more than I’ve ever meant anything," I promised, gazing into her eyes.

“I know.” Sloane whispered. “I love you too.”

Hearing her say the words made my heart so happy. I’d never felt like this when any of my boyfriends had confessed to liking me. But Sloane was Sloane. We’d grown up together. We were part of each other’s lives. And we would be for a long time. I smiled as I pressed my lips to hers, feeling her desire flow into me.

“So, about the senior gala…” she murmured. “We’re still going, right?”

We were supposed to go to the Senior Gala tonight to "finish" the ruse, but as I held her, I realized there was nothing left to fake.

“Yeah. You’re going to be my date.” I kissed her back. “My real date.”

“Can’t wait.”

Two days later—

The afternoon light was bleeding into a bruised purple over the campus quad. I was humming to myself, drifting between the bathroom and the closet, trying to decide which earrings would catch the light best at the Gala. I was still wearing my girlfriend’s hoodie, reluctant to take off the soft armor of her scent until the very last second.

Sloane had headed to the library twenty minutes ago to print out our formal photos for the entrance display. "Don't be long," I’d teased, stealing one last kiss at the door. "I'm going to need help with the zipper on my dress, and you know I have no spatial awareness."

She’d laughed, that rare, genuine sound that felt like music I’d composed just for us. "Stay put. I’ll be back before you can even find your shoes."

I was hum-singing along to a pop song on the radio, finally reaching for my gold slip dress, when a heavy, frantic pounding shook the door.

My heart skipped. Did she forget her key? Or did the printer card?

"Coming, coming!" I called out, pulling on my silk robe and knotting the belt tight.