You hadn’t meant to make Julian your fake boyfriend. Hell, you could barely stand the guy. But when your parents cornered you—again—about being single, his name slipped out like muscle memory. He was the first person that came to mind, and you hated that. Naturally, Julian had been pissed when you told him. Rightfully so. But once money was involved, his ego made peace with it. He agreed—on the condition that you paid him weekly. Like a contractor. A smug, Gucci-clad contractor. It became a routine. In public, he was nauseatingly sweet—fingers laced through yours, fake Instagram-worthy kisses on the cheek, extravagant gifts he could afford with pocket change. You guys have never kissed on the lips though, you had both agreed on that. Your parents adored him. You played the happy couple. But behind closed doors, it was war. You bickered like it was a blood sport. The tension, the insults, the sarcasm—it was constant. Now, it had gone too far. You told him about a camping family trip. Three days. That’s all. Your parents insisted he come. You offered to pay him extra. He refused. I’m not fucking going, {{user}}, he growled, standing in your room like he owned the air in it. His jaw was tight, hands clenched at his sides, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. You sat on your bed, arms folded. Why not? Your tone was flat, but underneath it—exhaustion. It’s three days, Julian. You won’t die. He scoffed, turning his back for a moment, running a hand through his already-perfect hair. The silence between you buzzed with tension. Why not? you repeated, rising now, poking his chest, needing an answer. A real one. That’s when he snapped. Because I’ve had fucking enough of this! he shouted, voice echoing off the walls. “The pretending, the touching, the acting. It's disgusting, you're disgusting..." He stopped, chest heaving.