Marrying Him Was Easy, Loving Him Was Hell

Lake

I'd survived shooting in the Amazon rainforest, sleeping in a car in New Mexico, and dodging feral goats on a documentary set in Morocco.

But nothing-nothing-had prepared me for the sheer chaos of one damn mosquito in a tiny, overly romantic, couples-retreat cabin.

It was around 2:37 a.m. I knew that because the clock on the nightstand kept blinking like it knew I wasn't going to sleep anyway. The red numbers pulsed softly in the dark, taunting me. The kind of glow that said, You're awake. You'll stay awake. Let's talk about your bad decisions.

The bed creaked as I shifted, already warm from Ivy's body being three feet away-and yet somehow radiating across the mattress like the sun itself had chosen her side as home base.

She slept on her back tonight, one arm flung over her head, the other resting loosely on her stomach. Glasses abandoned on the nightstand. Hair escaping its bun in slow rebellion. The soft rise and fall of her breathing made something in my chest tighten in a way I didn't appreciate.

This was supposed to be simple.

Fake marriage. Temporary proximity. A means to an end.

Instead, I was lying awake cataloging the shape of her collarbone and wondering when exactly my life veered into romantic-comedy hell.

And then I heard it.

The sound.

That high-pitched, whiny buzz of doom.

Bzzzz.

Close to my ear.

Too close.

Then-sharp, sudden pain on my neck.

"Shit," I hissed, slapping at the air.

The buzzing veered off. Somewhere in the dark, wings flapped like a horror movie villain preparing a sequel.

A rustle came from Ivy's side of the bed.

"Did you just curse?" she asked, voice thick with sleep.

"No," I muttered, rubbing my neck. "I just... passionately objected to being bitten in my sleep."

She sat up slowly, squinting. Her hair was a wild mess of bun remnants and frizz, strands sticking out like she'd been electrocuted by bad dreams.

"Mosquitoes?" she asked.

"Unless you've got vampire fantasies, yeah."

She groaned and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Hold on."

She disappeared into the small hallway connecting the bedroom to the kitchenette. I heard drawers opening. Something clattered. A muttered curse that made me smile.

A second later, she reappeared.

Holding a plastic swatter.

Pink.

Heart-shaped.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

"...Where did you even find that?" I asked.

"In the camp's supply room," she said flatly. "Under the label 'Love Bug Swatters.'"

I snorted. "They think they're clever."

"They think they're hilarious."

She climbed onto the bed, knees first, raising the swatter like she was about to charge into medieval battle.

"Don't move," she whispered.

I froze instantly.

Not because I feared the mosquito.

But because Ivy-barefoot, in a thin tank top and soft sleep shorts-had just straddled me.

Her knees sank into the mattress on either side of my hips. One thigh brushed my side. Then lingered. Her weight shifted as she balanced.

My breath stalled.

Every nerve in my body lit up like I'd been struck by lightning.

"I see it," she said, squinting into the darkness. "It landed right... there."

She leaned closer.

Her knee pressed into my hip. Her hand brushed my chest as she steadied herself.

I stared at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed me.

"You're the boss," I said, my voice lower than intended.

"I am," she replied absently.

"Always," I murmured.

She didn't respond. Focused. Determined.

She swung.

Missed.

"Damn it," she whispered.

She adjusted her position.

Which somehow brought her closer.

Too close.

And then-

She stumbled.

Her balance went sideways, and before I could think, my hands were on her waist. Reflex. Muscle memory. Protection instinct.

Her full weight shifted onto me.

We froze.

Her palms landed flat against my chest. Her knees sank deeper into the mattress. Her hair slipped free from the bun, one curl sliding down to brush my cheek.

The swatter fell from her fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Neither of us moved.

Her breathing hitched.

Mine followed.

The world narrowed to the inches between our faces.

"Ivy," I whispered. "You okay?"

"I..." Her voice faltered. "Uh..."

She didn't finish.

Her gaze dropped.

To my mouth.

My fingers tightened at her waist without permission from my brain.

She was warm. Soft. Tense. And terrifyingly real.

Every instinct screamed and kissed her.

"You're... very close," she said weakly.

"Is that a problem?" I asked.

"No," she said too fast. "I mean-yes. I mean-shut up."

A laugh slipped out of me, low and quiet. "Gladly. If you let me shut up with my mouth on yours."

Her breath stuttered.

For one suspended second, I thought she was going to lean down.

I could already feel it-the press of her lips, the way she'd probably hesitate just a fraction before giving in.

Then-

She bolted.

Full launch mode.

Scrambling backward off the bed like she'd just sat on a live wire.

Her face was flushed. Pink bloomed across her cheeks and down her neck.

"I was just-trying to kill a mosquito," she blurted.

"Sure," I said calmly, pulling the blanket over my lap to deal with the very obvious situation I was now in. "Just that."

"Nothing happened," she added quickly, staring at the wall.

"Definitely nothing," I agreed. "Just you straddling me at two in the morning with a heart-shaped weapon. Totally casual."

She made a frustrated noise and grabbed the swatter from the floor. "You're insufferable."

"And you're a surprisingly sexy exterminator."

Her glare could've ended civilizations.

"If you tell anyone about this-"

"Ivy," I said gently. "Who would I tell? The mosquito?"

She huffed, spun on her heel, and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door.

The light snapped on.

I lay back, exhaling slowly, staring at the ceiling again.

Heart pounding.

Body buzzing.

Mind spinning.

We were in trouble.

Real trouble.

Because that didn't feel fake.

Not even close.

That felt like the start of something we couldn't unsay, undo, or unscrew.

And the worst part?

I didn't want to stop it.

I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours-or maybe minutes. My brain refused to cooperate, bouncing from memory to memory: her hair falling over my face, the press of her thighs against mine, the sound of her breath, the way her fingers lingered for just a moment. Every detail etched itself into my mind like a tattoo I didn't ask for.

I thought about how wrong this was. How dangerous. How-insane-it was for a pretend husband and wife to feel like this.

And yet, every time I thought about stopping, about stepping back, I realized something: it wasn't stopping itself. It wasn't accidental. It wasn't just the mosquito.

It was Ivy.

And the truth was, I wasn't sure I wanted it to stop.

The night stretched on. I listened for the mosquito, half-expecting it to return. But silence fell, heavy and almost intimate. I could hear Ivy moving in the bathroom-running water, a low murmur of irritation-and I imagined her face in the mirror, hair wild, eyes sharp, lips curved in that way that made me stupid.

By the time she returned, the first light of dawn had begun to creep through the curtains. I pretended to be asleep, but my heart was still racing, adrenaline keeping me wide awake.

Ivy climbed back into bed, her side facing me. She gave me a small, almost imperceptible nudge with her elbow as if to say, don't make this weird.

I didn't respond. Couldn't. Not without betraying the mess of feelings I was already drowning in.

And in that quiet, shared space, lying three inches apart but feeling a world between us, I realized one terrifying, undeniable truth: we were way past pretending.