Chapter 98 The Performance Continues
Elena：POV
Ethan set the glass down with a soft clink. "Alright," he said, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's fix that window frame."
Oh, hell no.
I stepped forward, hand already raised. "You really don't have to—"
"Elena." He cut me off, that easy smile still in place. "It's fine. I want to."
"But I can just call someone—"
"And wait two weeks for them to show up?" He moved toward the window, examining the rotting wood. "This needs fixing now. It's a safety issue."
I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already pulling tools from the small kit Mom kept under the sink.
"Seriously, Ethan." I tried again. "You're a guest. You shouldn't have to—"
"I'm your boyfriend, remember?" He glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. "At least, that's what we're selling. And boyfriends fix broken shit."
The casual way he said it—like this was normal, like we did this all the time—made my chest tight.
"Besides," he continued, testing the door handle, "this thing's about to fall off. Your mom could get hurt."
And that was the sentence that killed my protest.
Because he's right. And I hate that he's right.
From the kitchen, Mom called out, "Everything okay out there?"
"Perfect, Mrs. Vance!" Ethan shouted back, all sunshine and charm. Then, quieter, to me: "Relax. It's just a door handle. Not a marriage proposal."
Not funny.
But the corner of my mouth twitched anyway.
---
"Here." Ethan handed me a screwdriver. "Hold this while I remove the old screws."
I took it, fingers brushing his.
He didn't pull away immediately—just a beat too long.
Accident. Has to be.
I positioned myself next to him, close enough to hand over tools but far enough to maintain some kind of boundary.
"Can you hold the frame steady?" he asked, already prying at the loose wood.
I pressed my palm against it.
His hand covered mine. "Like this," he murmured, adjusting my grip.
Our fingers interlocked for half a second.
Then he pulled away, clearing his throat.
Just helping. That's all.
---
We worked in silence for a few minutes—me handing him tools, him muttering about wood rot and structural integrity like some kind of handyman savant.
"How do you even know how to do this?" I asked, watching him measure angles with practiced ease.
"YouTube." He didn't look up. "And a lot of trial and error in my first apartment."
"You lived in a shithole?"
"The shittiest." He grinned. "Roaches the size of my fist. Landlord who thought 'repairs' meant duct tape and prayers."
I snorted. "Sounds like my dorm."
"Parsons housing?"
"Student loans didn't cover the nice dorms."
Something shifted in his expression—softer, almost sad.
Don't. Don't look at me like that.
I focused on the screwdriver in my hand.
"Can you tilt this toward me?" He gestured at the frame.
I leaned in.
So did he.
Our shoulders touched.
"Sorry," he said immediately, voice low. "Tight space."
But he didn't move away.
Neither did I.
---
"There." Ethan stepped back, admiring his work. "Window frame's stable. Door handle's solid. Your mom's officially safer."
I tested the handle. It didn't wobble.
Damn. He's actually good at this.
From the kitchen doorway, Mom appeared, hands clasped together. "Oh, Ethan! You didn't have to do all this."
"Of course I did." He flashed that smile—the one that probably made undergrads forget their own names. "Can't have my future mother-in-law living in a house that's falling apart."
Future mother-in-law.
The words hit like a slap.
Mom's face lit up—pure joy, unfiltered hope.
And I couldn't.
I couldn't take that away from her.
"Thank you," I said quietly, stepping closer to him. "Really. You didn't have to."
He turned, eyebrow raised. "Sure I did."
I rose on my toes, leaning toward his ear.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He suddenly turned his head.
Too fast.
His cheek brushed mine.
Heat flooded my face.
I jerked backward, heart hammering.
Oh my God.
From the kitchen, Mom was beaming—hands pressed to her chest like she'd just witnessed a goddamn proposal.
"I'm so sorry." Ethan's voice cracked slightly. "I didn't mean—I wasn't trying to—"
"It's fine." I forced a laugh, waving him off. "Totally fine. Just... startled me."
He looks genuinely mortified. Like he really didn't mean for that to happen.
---
I grabbed the toolkit. "I'll help you clean up."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm already holding the screwdriver." I shoved it toward him. "Just take it."
He did.
Our fingers touched again.
God, this is awkward.
"Wrench," he said, pointing.
I handed it over.
He leaned past me to set it in the box.
His arm grazed my waist.
"Sorry," he murmured, and I could hear the genuine apology in his voice.
He really is trying to be careful. It's just... close quarters.
I grabbed the hammer.
He reached for it at the same time.
Our hands collided.
"My bad." He gave me a sheepish look. "This is like some kind of comedy routine."
I couldn't help but smile. "We're not very good at this whole coordination thing."
"Apparently not."
---
By the time we finished, the toolkit was packed, the house was quieter, and Mom had retreated to her room to "rest."
Ethan stood by the door, car keys in hand.
"Well," he said. "That went... well."
"Yeah." I crossed my arms. "She liked you."
"Good." He hesitated. "Listen, if anything happens—if you need help, or if things get... complicated—just call me, okay?"
"Ethan—"
"And my mom." He grimaced. "She's probably going to ambush-call you at some point. Ask invasive questions. Demand to meet you. The usual."
I blinked. "What?"
"I'll text you when she's on the warpath." He grinned. "That way you can prep your fake-girlfriend performance."
"Ethan." I exhaled slowly. "You know you don't have to do all this, right? You're my fake boyfriend. Not my actual... whatever."
His smile faded.
Just slightly.
"I know," he said quietly.
Then, softer: "But honestly? I wish you were my girlfriend. If you'd let me."
The air left my lungs.
What?
He raised a hand before I could speak. "I know. I know you won't. But I had to say it."
My throat tightened.
There it is. The truth underneath all this pretending.
He's not just helping me out. He wants this to be real.
And I can't give him that. I can't be what he needs.
"Ethan—"
"It's fine." He cut me off, voice light again. "Really. Think of it this way—I'm hiring you to play my girlfriend. And part of the deal is... I take care of shit. Fix doors. Meet your mom. Pretend to be a decent human being."
"You are a decent human being."
"Debatable." He tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "But I appreciate the vote of confidence."
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to tell him he deserved better than this—better than me.
But the words stuck in my throat.
Because he does deserve better. He deserves someone who can love him back the way he wants to be loved.
And I'm not that person. I can't be.
So I just nodded.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay." He echoed.
And then he left.
I stood in the doorway, watching his car disappear down the street.
Behind me, Mom's voice drifted from her room: "I like him, sweetheart. He's good for you."
I closed my eyes.
"He's really good, Mom. I have a boyfriend now. You can stop worrying about me."
Even if it's all fake. Even if I'm lying to both of us.