My Roommate Asked How Her New Dress Looked… I Stared Too Long. She Smirked, “Want a Better Look?”

“Smile, Laurel. If you make a scene, I’ll show the board the invoices with your signature.” That was how my ex-boyfriend greeted me at the most important hotel gala of my career, while my roommate held my hand and pretended to be my boyfriend. Six hours earlier, I had only asked him whether my new navy dress looked good. By midnight, a missing security badge, a forged $46,800 invoice, and surveillance footage would destroy the man who had spent a year treating me like an embarrassment. But Spencer had made one enormous mistake. He thought I was still the woman who would apologize just to keep him happy.

PART 1 — My New Dress Turned My Roommate Into My Fake Boyfriend

“Are you seriously going to stand there staring at my chest, or are you going to tell me if this dress looks okay?”

My roommate nearly choked on his Chinese takeout.

A noodle landed on our kitchen floor.

And that was the moment I realized I might have underestimated Benjamin Kellan.

“Sorry,” he coughed. “I was trying to remember how English works.”

I folded my arms.

“Benji. It’s a dress. Not a hostage situation.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

My name is Laurel Finch. I’m twenty-six, and until that Friday afternoon, my biggest concern was surviving the annual charity gala at the Bellweather Hotel in Grand Rapids, Michigan.

Okay. That and whether my roommate had secretly fallen in love with me.

I’d been wondering about that for approximately six months.

Benji and I had shared a two-bedroom apartment for nine months. He was twenty-seven, a freelance web designer, and the only man I knew who could fix a broken garbage disposal while arguing with a podcast about baseball statistics.

He also made terrible coffee.

I drank it anyway.

Our apartment wasn’t impressive. The dishwasher sounded like a shopping cart falling down stairs. Our balcony overlooked a parking lot. Somebody in the building kept leaving wet laundry in the communal dryer.

But it was affordable.

More importantly, it was peaceful.

I’d needed peaceful after Spencer Vale.

Spencer was thirty-two, handsome in that expensive, carefully manufactured way, and regional director of Northstar Productions, an event management company that worked with luxury hotels.

When we started dating, he sent flowers to my office.

When we broke up, he told me I’d be lucky to find another man willing to tolerate my personality.

A real charmer.

He used to criticize everything.

My clothes were too cheap.

My jokes were embarrassing.

My ambition was apparently adorable.

Once, at Thanksgiving dinner with his parents, he told everyone I was “basically a glorified party decorator.”

I had coordinated a corporate conference for six hundred people that week.

His mother laughed.

I smiled because, back then, I hadn’t learned how expensive silence could become.

But Spencer was supposed to be history.

Until two weeks earlier, when I discovered a suspicious invoice connected to the gala.

Northstar Productions had submitted an additional $46,800 equipment charge.

The invoice carried what appeared to be my approval.

Except I had never approved it.

I’d quietly forwarded the discrepancy to hotel accounting and requested the original authorization documents.

Then I’d saved copies of everything.

Spencer didn’t know that.

At least, I hoped he didn’t.

“Earth to Laurel.”

Benji waved his plastic fork.

I blinked.

“Sorry. What?”

“The dress,” he said. “It’s beautiful.”

Something in his voice made me stop fidgeting.

“Really?”

“Really.”

He set down his food.

“And before you ask, yes, you look beautiful too.”

Well.

That was inconvenient.

I turned toward the hallway mirror before he could see my face turning pink.

The dress was navy blue, with delicate straps and a narrow slit along one leg. I’d bought it on clearance at a department store because my hotel salary didn’t exactly support designer fashion.

It was the nicest thing I owned.

And tonight mattered.

The gala’s success could determine whether I finally received the senior events coordinator promotion I’d been chasing for two years.

My boss, Marissa Grant, had practically lived on espresso and antacids for a month.

If tonight went badly, we’d all hear about it Monday.

My phone buzzed.

Marissa.

I opened her message.

Just confirming your boyfriend is joining us tonight. I put him on the guest list. Diane Ellery wants to meet him. Please don’t arrive late.

I stared.

Then read it again.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.”

Benji looked up.

“Bad news?”

“Potentially career-ending stupidity.”

“Yours or somebody else’s?”

“Undetermined.”

Three days earlier, Marissa had seen Benji delivering my forgotten lunch to the hotel.

She’d called him my boyfriend.

I’d been carrying six centerpiece samples and hadn’t bothered correcting her.

Apparently, that had been a mistake.

Now Diane Ellery, chairwoman of the hotel group’s board, expected to meet him.

“Benji?”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Why do you sound like you’re about to borrow my car?”

“Because I need a favor.”

“Last time you said that, I spent Sunday assembling a bookshelf.”

“This is less physically demanding.”

“Suspicious.”

I held up my phone.

“My boss thinks I have a boyfriend.”

“Congratulations to your imaginary boyfriend.”

“And she’s expecting him tonight.”

Benji slowly put down his fork.

Then he looked at my dress.

Then back at me.

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

For several seconds, the refrigerator hummed between us.

Finally, he asked, “What would this imaginary boyfriend have to do?”

“Smile. Shake hands. Be charming.”

“That’s a lot of pressure.”

“Possibly hold my hand.”

His expression changed.

Just slightly.

“And would he have to pretend he likes you?”

I tried to laugh.

It came out embarrassingly small.

“Preferably.”

Benji stood and walked toward me.

He stopped close enough that I could smell his laundry detergent.

“Laurel,” he said quietly, “that part wouldn’t be pretending.”

My stomach did something ridiculous.

A car alarm started screaming in the parking lot.

Neither of us moved.

Then his eyes dropped to my shoulder.

“Your zipper’s stuck.”

Of course it was.

I’d been wrestling with it for ten minutes.

“Can you fix it?”

“Turn around.”

His fingers brushed the back of my neck as he freed the caught fabric.

A simple touch.

Nothing dramatic.

Except I’d spent a year with a boyfriend who treated affection like a reward I needed to earn.

And here was Benji, being careful with me when nobody was watching.

“There,” he murmured.

I turned.

He was still close.

“Thank you.”

“For the zipper?”

“For coming tonight.”

He smiled.

“You haven’t officially asked.”

“Benjamin Kellan, will you be my fake boyfriend for approximately four hours?”

“Do I get dinner?”

“Very expensive dinner.”

“Dessert?”

“Probably.”

“Do I have to talk about cryptocurrency?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then I’m in.”

Forty minutes later, he appeared in the living room wearing a charcoal suit.

I actually forgot where I’d put my purse.

“Oh, come on,” I said.

He frowned.

“What?”

“You can’t look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like somebody who has his life together.”

He glanced at my heels.

“That’s rich coming from a woman who searched for her phone while holding it.”

“Don’t ruin this.”

He laughed.

Then his expression softened.

“You’re nervous.”

“A little.”

“About the gala?”

I hesitated.

“About being laughed at again.”

His smile disappeared.

He knew about Spencer.

Not every detail.

But enough.

Benji reached for my hand.

“You’re not walking into that room alone.”

I looked at our joined fingers.

“Remember. We’re pretending.”

He held my gaze.

“Right.”

Neither of us sounded convinced.

Outside, October wind scattered wet leaves across the driveway.

The ride downtown took fifteen minutes.

Our rideshare driver complained about road construction. Benji kept my hand tucked in his, his thumb occasionally brushing my knuckles.

At the hotel entrance, photographers were taking pictures beneath enormous arrangements of white roses.

Men in tuxedos stepped out of luxury cars.

Women wearing jewelry worth more than my annual salary laughed beneath the entrance canopy.

My stomach tightened.

Benji leaned close.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“If anybody asks, we met through a mutual friend.”

“We live together.”

“Exactly. Very mutual.”

I laughed.

For the first time all day, breathing felt easy.

Then we entered the ballroom.

And I saw Spencer Vale standing beside the champagne tower.

He wore a tailored black suit and the satisfied smile of a man who believed every room belonged to him.

His eyes moved from my face to Benji’s hand.

Then to my dress.

“Well,” Spencer said, stepping directly into our path. “Look who finally figured out how to dress like she belongs here.”

Benji’s fingers tightened around mine.

But I didn’t lower my eyes.

Not this time.

Spencer leaned closer.

And whispered something that made the entire evening change.

“Enjoy your little boyfriend while you can, Laurel. The board won’t be nearly as impressed when they find out what you supposedly stole.”

PART 2 — My Ex Tried To Destroy My Career Before Everyone

I looked straight into Spencer’s eyes.

“What exactly are you threatening me with?”

His smile widened.

“Careful, sweetheart. People are watching.”

There it was.

The same disgusting little trick.

Insult me privately. Smile publicly. Make me look unstable if I reacted.

For a year, he’d been excellent at it.

“I asked you a question,” I said.

Spencer glanced at Benji.

“You know she can be dramatic, right? She once cried because I forgot our anniversary.”

I almost laughed.

He hadn’t forgotten our anniversary.

He’d spent it having dinner with a woman named Chelsea.

I’d found the reservation confirmation in his car.

Benji spoke calmly.

“Interesting. You seem to remember plenty when it makes you look good.”

Spencer’s face hardened.

“And you are?”

“Benji Kellan.”

“Never heard of you.”

“That’s okay. I don’t think about you either.”

I nearly smiled.

Spencer didn’t.

He stepped closer to me.

“Northstar has some serious questions about those equipment invoices, Laurel. Your signature’s on them.”

“I know.”

That stopped him.

For half a second.

Then he recovered.

“Then you know how bad this could get.”

“Actually, I know exactly how bad it could get.”

His eyes narrowed.

I leaned closer.

“And I know whose signature isn’t on those documents.”

Before he could answer, Marissa appeared.

“Laurel! There you are.”

She looked between us.

“Everything okay?”

Spencer instantly transformed into the charming executive everyone knew.

“Perfect. Just congratulating Laurel on tonight.”

Marissa smiled politely.

“Wonderful. Diane wants to speak with both of you.”

Both of us.

Wonderful.

Spencer adjusted his cuff links.

“Of course she does.”

As we crossed the ballroom, Benji leaned toward me.

“You okay?”

“No.”

“Want me to say something?”

I squeezed his hand.

“Not yet.”

Because I hadn’t missed what Spencer had done.

He’d threatened me in a room full of donors, then changed his face the moment my boss appeared.

Old habits.

But he didn’t know I’d developed a few new ones.

Diane Ellery stood near the stage, talking to the hotel controller, Joanie Pike.

Diane was in her sixties, wore a plain black dress, and had the kind of presence that made rich men stop interrupting women.

She shook Benji’s hand.

“So you’re Laurel’s mysterious boyfriend.”

He smiled.

“I’m the guy who makes sure she remembers to eat lunch.”

Diane chuckled.

“Then you’re doing better than most executives I know.”

She turned toward me.

“Marissa says you handled the gala preparations almost single-handedly.”

“I had a good team.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I straightened.

“Yes, ma’am. I coordinated the major planning.”

“Good. I like people who know what they’ve accomplished.”

For one brief moment, I felt proud.

Then Spencer cleared his throat.

“Diane, actually, there’s something important about Laurel’s involvement that we should discuss.”

Marissa’s expression shifted.

“Spencer, this isn’t the time.”

“I disagree.”

He pulled a folded document from his inside pocket.

My stomach tightened.

It was the invoice.

The $46,800 invoice.

With my forged approval.

He raised his voice enough for several nearby guests to turn.

“I think the board deserves to know there’s a serious financial irregularity connected to tonight’s event.”

The conversations around us slowed.

Spencer looked at me.

Then he delivered the blow he’d obviously been practicing.

“Laurel approved an unauthorized charge, and there’s reason to believe she expected a personal benefit from it.”

Someone gasped.

Marissa went completely still.

Benji took one step forward.

I caught his wrist.

“No,” I whispered.

Then I faced Diane.

“May I see the document?”

Spencer laughed.

“Still trying to talk your way out of things?”

I ignored him.

Diane took the paper and handed it to me.

There it was.

My name.

My signature.

A date when I’d supposedly authorized thousands of dollars in additional staging equipment.

I examined the bottom of the page.

And found what I’d been looking for.

“Interesting,” I said.

Spencer’s smile twitched.

“What?”

I pointed to the signature.

“This was copied from an old sponsorship agreement. The ink pattern even includes the same tiny scanning mark.”

Diane leaned closer.

Marissa whispered, “Laurel?”

I reached into my clutch.

Pulled out my phone.

And opened a folder I’d created eleven days earlier.

“Actually,” I said, “I’ve been waiting to show someone the original.”

PART 3 — Security Footage Exposed The Forgery He Thought Nobody Would Find

Spencer laughed when I handed Diane my phone.

A sharp, ugly laugh.

“Oh, please. You’re going to prove your innocence with screenshots?”

“No,” I said.

“With the original documents, timestamps, and hotel security records.”

His laugh stopped.

Diane studied the screen.

Then she looked at Joanie.

“Is this the discrepancy Laurel reported?”

Joanie nodded.

“Yes. Accounting placed the additional payment on hold pending verification.”

Spencer’s face changed.

“Payment on hold?”

That was the first genuinely honest thing he’d said all night.

He sounded terrified.

I explained.

Eleven days earlier, I’d compared Northstar’s final production invoice with the original approved estimate.

The approved equipment package was $8,400.

The new paperwork included another $46,800 for supposed staging upgrades.

Upgrades nobody on my team had ordered.

When I questioned the charge, Spencer told me accounting had already approved everything.

Then he’d sent a text.

Don’t embarrass yourself by questioning professionals, Laurel.

I still had it.

Along with the follow-up.

If you want to keep your job, stop digging.

Diane read both messages.

Her expression hardened.

“Spencer, did you send these?”

He shrugged.

“Out of context.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Because there’s more.”

I showed them an earlier contract bearing my legitimate signature.

The forged approval matched it exactly.

Same slight downward slant.

Same tiny ink spot beside the F.

Even the same crease from the scanned original.

Joanie frowned.

“That’s not possible with two independently signed documents.”

“Exactly,” I said.

Spencer rubbed his jaw.

“This is ridiculous.”

Diane turned toward Marissa.

“Get security. Quietly.”

We moved into a private conference room off the ballroom.

The music continued outside.

Somebody was singing an old Frank Sinatra song.

Inside, Joanie connected her laptop to the wall monitor.

I’d already given accounting the dates when the suspicious documents appeared.

Now security could check them against building access records.

And there was one date that mattered.

Friday, September eighteenth.

10:42 p.m.

The supposed approval time.

I remembered that night because Benji had sliced his thumb while fixing our kitchen cabinet.

I’d driven him to urgent care.

I still had the check-in receipt.

And he’d posted a ridiculous photograph of his bandaged hand with the caption:

Survived battle with IKEA. Barely.

At 10:42, I was sitting beside him beneath a television playing a college football recap.

Not approving hotel invoices.

Joanie pulled up the security footage.

A grainy view of the employee hallway appeared.

Empty.

Then someone entered.

A man wearing a dark jacket.

Spencer.

He used an access badge to enter the back office.

My missing badge.

The one I’d searched for three days after our breakup.

He’d told me I’d probably lost it because I was careless.

On the footage, Spencer disappeared into the office.

Seven minutes later, he emerged carrying a document folder.

The room went silent.

Diane looked directly at him.

“Why were you in that office after hours?”

Spencer swallowed.

“I was retrieving production paperwork.”

“With an employee’s missing badge?”

“I don’t remember whose badge it was.”

I let that answer sit for a moment.

Then I said, “Funny. You remembered my signature.”

Joanie pulled up the document history.

The disputed PDF had been generated after the date printed on its approval page.

Its scanned signature had been inserted from a separate image file.

The building footage didn’t establish every step of the forgery by itself.

But together with the file records, it made Spencer’s explanation look terrible.

And we still weren’t finished.

Joanie opened the payment instructions.

“The destination banking details on the additional charge also differ from Northstar’s original vendor agreement,” she said.

Diane frowned.

“Who authorized the change?”

Joanie turned the screen.

“The paperwork references a consulting account associated with SV Advisory.”

Spencer’s initials.

His private consulting company.

I’d seen the name once on paperwork he’d left in his car.

At the time, I’d thought nothing of it.

Now I watched him stare at the monitor.

His neck was turning red.

“That account is perfectly legitimate,” he snapped.

“Then you won’t mind our attorneys reviewing it,” Diane replied.

Spencer stood abruptly.

“This is a witch hunt.”

Diane didn’t raise her voice.

“Sit down.”

He hesitated.

For the first time since I’d known him, Spencer Vale actually obeyed a woman without arguing.

Then Marissa’s phone buzzed.

She checked the message.

Looked at me.

And said something that made Spencer go completely pale.

“Spencer, one of your own production employees is downstairs. She says she has evidence you instructed her to alter Laurel’s paperwork.”

PART 4 — His Perfect Reputation Collapsed While My Fake Relationship Became Real

Her name was Sadie Bowers.

She was twenty-nine and had worked for Northstar Productions for almost four years.

I’d met her during several hotel events.

Quiet woman. Always early. Always carrying three clipboards and looking like she hadn’t slept since Tuesday.

When security escorted her into the conference room, she looked terrified.

Spencer stood.

“Sadie, don’t say anything without an attorney.”

She stopped beside the door.

And looked at him.

“You told me this was just a contract correction.”

Spencer’s jaw tightened.

“Careful.”

Sadie turned toward Diane.

“He had me copy Laurel’s signature from an old sponsorship agreement. He said the extra charge had already been approved verbally.”

I felt Benji’s hand find mine beneath the table.

Sadie continued.

“When accounting started asking questions, Spencer told me to delete the working files.”

“Did you?” Diane asked.

“No.”

She placed a flash drive on the table.

“I kept copies because the whole thing scared me.”

Spencer stared at it.

He looked like somebody had just pulled the floor out from under his expensive Italian shoes.

“You disloyal little—”

“Enough,” Diane snapped.

The room went silent.

She turned to Marissa.

“Remove Northstar from any further payment authorization. Contact our legal department immediately. I want every contract reviewed.”

Then she faced Spencer.

“You will leave this property tonight. Our attorneys will contact your company.”

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

For once, he had no clever insult ready.

But I wasn’t finished.

“Spencer.”

He looked at me.

I took out my phone.

“Do you remember sending me this?”

I opened a message from three nights earlier.

You’d still have everything if you’d stayed with me. I made your career, Laurel. I can end it.

Diane read it.

So did Marissa.

Spencer tried to laugh.

“That’s a personal disagreement.”

“No,” I said. “That’s why I documented every conversation after our breakup.”

His eyes narrowed.

I stepped closer.

“You thought I’d panic tonight. You thought I’d beg you to make the allegations disappear.”

He said nothing.

“You thought I was still embarrassed to stand up for myself.”

His face tightened.

“And you brought that guy here to humiliate me?”

I almost smiled.

There it was.

The real problem.

Not the invoices.

Not the fraud investigation.

Benji.

The simple fact that I’d arrived happy without Spencer’s permission.

“No,” I replied. “I brought Benji because I wanted him here. You’re the one who turned this into a public spectacle.”

Security approached.

Spencer straightened his jacket.

“This isn’t over.”

Diane gave him a cold look.

“No. It isn’t. But your evening here is.”

They escorted him through a service entrance.

No dramatic shouting.

No flying champagne glasses.

Just a furious man disappearing down the same hallway he had used to steal my badge.

And somehow, that was better.

Twenty minutes later, I stood alone on the hotel’s balcony.

The October air was cold.

Traffic moved below us along the Grand River.

My feet hurt.

My stomach was empty.

And the adrenaline was finally wearing off.

The balcony door opened.

Benji stepped outside carrying two plates.

“Emergency dessert delivery.”

I looked down.

Chocolate cake.

Two forks.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Professionally.”

He handed me a plate.

For a while, we ate without talking.

Then he said, “You were incredible in there.”

I shook my head.

“I was terrified.”

“I know.”

“You could tell?”

“Laurel, you nearly bent my fingers backward.”

I laughed.

He smiled.

Then his expression softened.

“I wanted to protect you.”

“You did.”

“I barely said anything.”

“Exactly.”

He studied me.

I set my plate down.

“Spencer always spoke for me. Even when he was wrong. Especially when he was wrong.”

Benji nodded.

“You didn’t need another man doing that.”

I looked at him.

“No.”

The music drifted through the glass doors.

Some slow, old-fashioned love song.

Benji stepped closer.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Depends. Is it about my dress?”

“Sort of.”

My heart started behaving like an idiot again.

“I didn’t agree to be your fake boyfriend because of the gala,” he said.

“Then why?”

“Because I’ve been trying not to fall in love with you for nine months.”

I stared.

He looked genuinely nervous now.

More nervous than he’d been facing Spencer.

“I know we live together,” he continued. “I know this could get complicated. But I’m tired of pretending I only care because you remember to buy my favorite cereal.”

I laughed softly.

“You eat an entire box in two days.”

“Not the point.”

I stepped toward him.

“Benji?”

“Yeah?”

“I bought this dress because I wanted you to look at me.”

He stopped breathing for approximately three seconds.

Then he smiled.

“Mission accomplished.”

I touched his cheek.

And kissed him.

Not because Spencer was watching.

Not because my boss expected a boyfriend.

Because I’d wanted to do it for months.

When we finally pulled apart, Benji rested his forehead against mine.

“So,” he whispered, “are we still pretending?”

I smiled.

“Not anymore.”

PART 5 — He Lost Everything He Controlled, And I Found Home

Three months later, Spencer Vale was no longer regional director of Northstar Productions.

The company terminated his employment after its internal investigation.

The Bellweather Hotel canceled Northstar’s remaining contracts and demanded repayment for unrelated overcharges discovered during the audit.

Spencer’s forged approval became part of a police investigation into attempted fraud and falsified business records.

His attorney eventually stopped sending threatening letters.

Probably because our attorney had the original invoices, security footage, witness statements, and every charming text Spencer had sent me.

The local business community heard what happened.

A few people defended him.

Most quietly stopped returning his calls.

I learned all of this from Marissa.

I didn’t follow his social media accounts.

Didn’t drive past his house.

Didn’t call his mother to explain.

I had spent enough of my life listening to Spencer.

I wasn’t giving him another minute for free.

Sadie kept her job after cooperating with investigators. Northstar’s new management acknowledged the pressure she’d been under and reviewed its approval procedures.

And as for me?

Marissa called me into her office on a freezing Tuesday morning.

Snow was piling against the windows.

I’d just spilled coffee on my sleeve.

Naturally.

“Laurel,” she said, “close the door.”

I immediately assumed somebody had complained about the centerpieces.

Instead, she handed me a letter.

Senior Events Coordinator.

A real promotion.

A raise.

My own office.

And responsibility for the hotel’s largest annual events.

I stared at the paper.

“Are you serious?”

Marissa smiled.

“Diane insisted we recognize the person who protected the hotel while organizing one of our most successful galas.”

I sat down.

Then stood up.

Then sat down again.

Marissa laughed.

“Are you going to accept?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Because I already ordered your new office nameplate.”

That evening, I drove home through slushy streets with takeout from our favorite Chinese restaurant.

The apartment smelled like garlic.

Benji was kneeling beside the kitchen cabinet, tightening the same hinge that had sent him to urgent care months earlier.

I stood in the doorway.

“Please tell me you have health insurance.”

He looked up.

“Please tell me you’re carrying egg rolls.”

I held up the bag.

He smiled.

Then noticed the envelope in my hand.

“What happened?”

I handed it to him.

He read the first line.

His eyes widened.

“Laurel.”

I nodded.

“Laurel!”

“That’s my name.”

He stood so fast he nearly hit his head on the counter.

Then he lifted me off the floor.

I laughed into his shoulder.

“You’re going to drop me.”

“Never.”

“That’s a statistically dangerous promise.”

“I’m making it anyway.”

We celebrated with cheap takeout, a grocery-store cheesecake, and the good bottle of sparkling cider we’d forgotten in the refrigerator after New Year’s.

No luxury ballroom.

No photographers.

No expensive suits.

Just us.

And honestly, I preferred it.

We’d been officially dating since the gala.

Real dates.

Real conversations.

Real disagreements about whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher.

We learned that Benji needed quiet when he was stressed.

He learned that when I said “I’m fine” while aggressively wiping the kitchen counter, I was probably not fine.

We still had separate bedrooms for a while.

Not because we were unsure about each other.

Because neither of us wanted our relationship to feel like something we’d fallen into just because we shared a lease.

We wanted to choose it.

And we did.

Again and again.

One evening in April, six months after the gala, Benji came home with a small envelope.

I was sitting at the kitchen island, reviewing seating charts.

He placed it beside my laptop.

I opened it.

Inside were printed photographs of a little rental house.

White siding.

Blue front door.

A small backyard.

And a covered porch just big enough for two chairs.

I looked up.

“What’s this?”

“Found it yesterday. It’s fifteen minutes from the hotel.”

“Benji.”

“Before you panic, I haven’t signed anything.”

I kept looking at the pictures.

There was a kitchen window over the sink.

A driveway with room for two cars.

And a ridiculous little flower bed beside the front steps.

“It’s cute,” I whispered.

“There’s also a dishwasher that doesn’t sound like a dying tractor.”

I laughed.

He sat beside me.

“I love living with you, Laurel. I just thought maybe we could find somewhere that feels like ours from the beginning.”

I looked at the blue front door again.

Then at him.

“You want to move?”

“I want to come home to you. The address isn’t the important part.”

That was unfairly sweet.

I kissed him.

Two weeks later, we signed the lease.

On moving day, Benji carried the last box through the front door while I stood on the porch holding our keys.

He looked back at me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re making the face.”

“What face?”

“The face you make when you’re about to say something emotional and ruin my reputation.”

I smiled.

“Remember the navy dress?”

He grinned.

“Unfortunately, it’s permanently burned into my memory.”

“Remember when I asked if you wanted a better look?”

“I remember almost dying in the kitchen.”

I laughed.

Then reached for his hand.

“Best thing I ever asked you.”

He stepped closer.

“Nope.”

“No?”

He shook his head.

“Best thing you ever asked me was to be your fake boyfriend.”

I wrapped my arms around his waist.

“And the best thing you ever did?”

“What?”

“Stopped pretending.”

He kissed my forehead.

Behind us, a moving truck rumbled away.

Somewhere down the street, a dog barked.

The house smelled like fresh paint and cardboard.

And for the first time in years, I wasn’t wondering whether someone would make me feel small tomorrow.

I was wondering where Benji had packed the coffee mugs.

“Kitchen box number four,” he said, reading my mind.

I stared at him.

“How do you do that?”

“Boyfriend privilege.”

I smiled.

“Good answer.”

He kissed me once more before carrying the box inside.

And hanging in our new bedroom closet, still wrapped carefully in its garment bag, was the navy dress that had started everything.

I planned to wear it again for our anniversary.

But this time, I wouldn’t need to ask whether he liked it.

I’d already seen the answer.

It was written all over his face every time I walked into a room.

THE END