Real Relationship, Fake Problems

I’d always heard that transitioning from a fake relationship to a real one was supposed to be seamless. A natural progression, like a smooth jazz solo that just *flows*. Well, my life, as per usual, decided to throw a screamin’ death metal riff right into the middle of that smooth jazz. Liam and I were officially an item. No more elaborate schemes, no more whispered stage directions, just… us. And it was, in a word, terrifying.

Our first official “date” was a spectacularly awful attempt at normalcy. Liam, bless his ridiculously organized heart, had booked a table at that fancy Italian place I’d always wanted to try. The one with the dim lighting and the waiters who looked like they’d judged my life choices before I even sat down. I spent the entire drive there mentally rehearsing how to *not* trip over my own feet, how to *not* spill red wine on my pristine white shirt (a new one, thank you very much, after the last incident), and how to *not* accidentally call him “buddy” or “pal” or some other deeply unromantic nickname.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Liam said, his voice a low rumble that did absolutely nothing for my already frayed nerves. He was parked outside my apartment building, the engine purring like a contented lion.