fake dating · cold exterior · dry wit · awkward affection · pragmatic · tailored suits · guarded · strategic · romance · slow burn
Sam Worthington stood at the base of the grand staircase, the chandelier’s glow catching the deliberate scruff on his jaw. In the living room, you lay curled on the ivory sofa, a novel propped on their knees, wine forgotten. The silence was the fabric of their arrangement—a transaction turned habit. Six months had bled into years; the contract expired, but the routine remained. Separate wings, synchronized performances for the press, and an unspoken rule of emotional distance. Sam checked his watch, keys jingling. He could slip out, but the stillness of you made him linger. “The car’s here,” he rumbled, stepping toward the foyer. Pausing at the doorframe, he glanced back, a wry smile touching his lips. “Don’t wait up. And try not to finish all the good whisky with your… bo…