Chapter 4

DATING ARC

It was 5:47 PM, I was sweaty, exhausted, and one wrong angle away from disintegrating under the studio lights.

We just wrapped the last scene of the day and I was mid-rant to Brice over the phone about how someone on set stole my oat milk when it happened.

A black SUV pulled up to the front gates like it owned the place. Windows tinted. Tires sparkling. The driver's door swung open—and out stepped Matt Cohen Reyes, looking like he was auditioning for a billionaire boyfriend role he already booked.

Cue dramatic music in my head.

He was in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, sunglasses on, like he just came back from ruining someone's heart and buying a vineyard.

Every head turned. Every assistant slowed down. Even Kyle, my leading man, almost dropped his water bottle.

"Is that—wait, is that the Matt Cohen Reyes?" someone whispered behind me.

"Oh no," I mumbled under my breath. "He's really going for it."

He walked toward me like he was in a cologne commercial. Brice was still yelling in my ear, but I didn't hear a thing anymore.

"Nate," Matt called smoothly, voice low and casual, like we'd been dating for years and this was just another Tuesday.

"Matt," I replied, trying to sound cool but probably looking like a glitching TikTok filter.

He smirked. "Ready to go, babe?"

BABE??!?!

I choked on my own saliva. "Uh—yep. Totally. Babycakes. Honeybutter. Let's go."

Behind us, someone actually gasped.

Kyle blinked at me, his entire expression screaming, You didn't tell me you were dating a walking Instagram thirst trap.

Matt didn't wait for any more questions. He placed one hand on the small of my back—EXCUSE ME?!?—and started leading me to the car like this was the Oscars and I was his favorite accessory.

"You're enjoying this way too much," I whispered once we were both inside.

Matt only shrugged as he started the engine. "Just playing the part. You wanted this, remember?"

"Yeah, but I didn't think you'd show up like a mafia prince in a perfume ad," I huffed, adjusting my seatbelt and dignity.

"Relax. The cameras were watching. They bought it."

I peeked through the tinted windows to see my co-stars whispering, phones out, already documenting this disaster—I mean, masterpiece.

My phone buzzed: a text from Brice.

Brice: Tell your fake boyfriend to wipe that smirk off his face before I sue him for secondhand flustering.

I sighed and leaned back into the seat.

"So where are we going now, fake boyfriend?"

Matt grinned. "Somewhere romantic."

I nearly screamed. "YOU'RE KIDDING."

"Yup," he said, completely serious. "Dinner. Candlelight. One Instagram story. That's the deal."

I slumped in my seat and groaned. "We better have dessert."

"Oh," Matt glanced at me with a playful smirk. "You'll get dessert."

I wasn't sure if I should be scared, flattered, or start updating my will.

Either way, the fake dating arc had officially begun—and honestly, I was kind of terrified.

But my reputation was on the line... and maybe, just maybe, so was my heart.

_______

When Matt and I stepped out of the SUV at L'Artisan, a bougie candle-lit restaurant that smelled like wealth and truffle oil, the paparazzi were already there.

And by already there, I mean: waiting like hyenas who hadn't eaten in weeks.

Flashes. Screams. Phone cameras. One woman actually dropped her smoothie.

Matt, who clearly had media training or was just born with main-character DNA, placed his hand gently on my waist like this wasn't his first fake romance.

Me? I tripped on the first step. Classic.

He caught me. Again—classic. The photos were going to look like a proposal scene from a drama called My Unhinged PR Boyfriend.

We made it through dinner, posted one Instagram Story (Matt took it; he made sure it was my good side, what the hell?), and by the time he dropped me off, my phone had already turned into a wildfire.

I flopped into bed, opened Twitter, and there it was:

#NattCohLove

Number 2 Trending in the Thailand

Number 6 Worldwide

I stared at my screen, horrified, delighted, nauseous, and slightly aroused by my own PR success.

The photo Matt posted of us walking out of the restaurant, my hand barely on his chest, me giggling like an idiot—it was everywhere.

THE COMMENT SECTION:

🧡 "Did you guys SEE the way he looked at Nate??? This ain't fake. This is Wattpad canon."

🔥 "Matt Cohen Reyes got Nate blushing like a maid in a palace."

👀 "No one:

Matt: I'm a businessman.

Also Matt: soft-launching my chaotic love story with an icon."

📸 "Not them making me believe in love again. I hate them (I love them)."

I kept scrolling until my soul left my body.

FAN EDITS.

FAN. FREAKING. EDITS.

Set to Taylor Swift. Set to Keshi. Someone even did one with James Arthur and now I wanted to cry.

"BRICE!" I yelled, sprinting out of my room in my pajamas with a phone in one hand and a carrot stick in the other (don't judge me, it's called stress-snacking).

He peeked from the kitchen, bowl of cereal in hand. "What, did Matt post a shirtless selfie again?"

"Worse! We're a love team now!" I shoved the phone in his face.

Brice scrolled for three seconds. "You trended. Worldwide. Twice. While wearing your bad-side angle."

"I KNOW! This wasn't supposed to actually work. We were supposed to post, sip soup, and vanish!"

"Oh, sweetheart." He patted my head. "You fake-dated a man who looks like he invented kissing. This was never going to be casual."

I groaned and curled into a fetal position on the floor.

A second later, Zeke poked his head into the hallway with Luther right behind him.

"Did someone die or are we just dramatic again?" Zeke asked with his usual deadpan tone.

"Nate's trending with his fake boyfriend," Brice explained, chewing.

Luther gasped. "Wait. You trended? With Matt? While I'm here looking like an unpaid intern of a circus?"

"I DIDN'T MEAN TO!" I wailed. "It was ONE story post! Just one hand on my lower back and now people are making wedding edits!"

Brice tossed a chip in his mouth. "Buckle up, darling. The fans have claimed you. There's no going back."

I collapsed dramatically onto the carpet, staring at the ceiling like I was starring in my own life's telenovela.

Matt may be fake.

But this mess?

This was very real.

________

Matt's studio smelled like coffee and chaos—which, coincidentally, was also my new perfume. I was perched on the corner of his couch, fiddling with a guitar pick I had no business touching, while Matt clicked through a few edits on his laptop like he wasn't slowly unraveling my sanity one husky "hmm" at a time.

"You're gonna scratch that guitar, Nate," he said without looking at me.

"Maybe I want to. Maybe it'll be worth more one day if it has my fingerprints on it," I retorted, flipping the pick like I was in a music video no one asked for.

He rolled his eyes, a tiny grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "You're insufferable."

"And yet you invite me over like it's a hobby."

He closed his laptop, stretched his arms behind his head—muscles flexing in ways that should be illegal—and turned his full attention to me.

"I have a gig next week ," he said casually, like it wasn't the beginning of a plot twist.

"Oh? Like a concert gig or one of those moody, acoustic, I'm-brooding-and-wear-black kind of sets?" I asked, trying to sound normal and not like I was already mentally picking my outfit.

He shrugged. "Kinda both. It's just a bar set. Some originals, a few covers. Chill crowd."

"That's perfect," I chirped, sitting up straighter. "That could really help our fake dating arc. Like, people seeing me support you, you dedicating a song, maybe holding hands under the fairy lights—very Wattpad-core."

Matt raised a brow, his grin faltering just a little.

"I wasn't inviting you for... the act," he said slowly. "I mean, yeah, they'll probably take photos if you're there, but... I was inviting you because I want you to come. Not as my fake boyfriend. Just... you."

My throat did a weird thing. Like a hiccup, but emotional.

"Oh."

He stood and walked to the fridge, casually pulling out two bottled teas like he hadn't just shifted the entire tone of our scripted soap opera.

"Only if you want to," he added, handing me a bottle.

I took it with both hands like it was fragile.

"No pressure," he said, sitting beside me again. "Just figured... it'd be cool if you heard me sing. For real."

And there it was. Not PR. Not trending hashtags. Not a carefully timed photo op.

Just Matt. Being real.

Which was way more dangerous than any scandal we could fake.

"I'll come," I said, way too fast.

He smiled. "Cool."

Cool? COOL?

I was going to combust.

________

There's something about late nights in the studio that mess with your head. The quiet becomes a mirror, bouncing back everything you're trying to ignore.

And tonight? The silence was screaming.

I sat hunched over my keyboard, fingers hovering above the keys. The draft of a song glared at me from the screen—unfinished, unresolved, a perfect metaphor for how my heart's been functioning since he left.

I'd been stuck on this one bridge for weeks. No matter how many melodies I stitched together or how many lyrics I threw at the wall, nothing fit. Nothing landed.

The track was supposed to be about moving on. About new chances. About—ironically—starting over.

And yet here I was... relapsing.

I slumped back in the chair and stared at the ceiling like it held answers. Spoiler: it didn't. Just a water stain that looked vaguely like a broken heart.

Great.

I ran a hand through my hair, breathing out sharply. "Okay, Reyes. Just a love song. You've written a hundred of these."

I closed my eyes.

And then there he was.

Nathan.

Grinning at me on my birthday with a sparkler shoved in a cupcake.

Nathan, off-key singing in the car on road trips.

Nathan, blurry in phone photos. Wearing my hoodie. Laughing at my dumb jokes like they were worth something.

I swore under my breath and hit the spacebar, stopping the instrumental.

Why now?

Why still?

We said we'd be better apart. He said I needed something I wasn't getting. I said I'd rather lose a limb than him, and then I let go anyway.

And yet...

Here I was, three in the morning, trying to write a song for the guy I wasn't even supposed to love anymore.

I stood up, pacing. My notebook lay open on the table. Lyrics crossed out violently. Scribbles. Half-baked metaphors. Garbage.

I glanced at my phone. The background was still black. No texts. No calls. Nothing.

We're just on a break, he'd said.

A break that felt a lot like goodbye.

I sat back down, defeated. My fingers found the keys again, and I started playing something—anything—to fill the quiet.

And as the chords echoed back, soft and aching, I finally whispered the first honest thing I'd said in hours.

"...I don't know how to write without you."

And that's when it hit me.

Maybe this song wasn't about starting over.

Maybe it was about the pause in-between.

The part where you still look for someone in every lyric you write.

Even when they're not yours anymore.

_________

"Jake, if you unplug one more wire from my mixer without asking, I swear I will rewire your brain," Brice hissed, holding his precious soundboard like it was a newborn baby.

Jake, balancing a clipboard, three mood boards, and his third iced coffee, barely glanced at him. "Relax, Beyoncé. I was adjusting the lighting cue. It's not my fault your tech setup looks like a spaghetti monster on crack."

Brice blinked. "Lighting cue? Jake, you're not God. You don't control the heavens and my audio levels."

"I could if you let me." Jake grinned like he'd just won a petty war. "Also, that echo in the last chorus? Painful. Felt like I was inside a cave of bad decisions."

"I like the cave," Brice snapped. "It's atmospheric."

"It's aggressive."

"It's avant-garde."

"It's annoying."

They glared at each other across the rehearsal space while the pop star they were working with—Zoe Livi, current queen of high-note meltdowns—stared at them from the stage, sipping boba like she was watching an unhinged K-drama.

"Do you two need couples therapy, or a separate rehearsal schedule?" she asked, raising a perfectly arched brow.

"We're not a couple," Jake and Brice said in unison.

Jake added under his breath, "Unfortunately."

Brice choked on air. "Excuse me?!"

Jake shrugged and moved toward the monitors, pretending to check light exposure. "Nothing. Just saying, working with your ex situationship is like living in a sitcom with no laugh track."

Brice rolled his eyes, turned around, and accidentally tripped over a mic stand.

Jake definitely laughed that time.

"Shut up," Brice muttered, cheeks turning red as he adjusted the wires. "I hope your concept gets scrapped for budget reasons."

"And I hope your EQ settings blow out the speakers," Jake shot back, but he was smiling too.

They both paused.

Silence.

Then—

"Can someone please kiss or kill someone already?" Zoe Livi yelled from the stage.

Jake and Brice didn't answer.

But neither of them moved too far away either.

//