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Assistant: Title: COLLIDE; ellie williams
        Author: Valeisaslut Valeisaslut 
        Chapter: 3/12 
        Summary: A pop princess on the rise. A rockstar on the edge of collapse. Your world is all polish and perfection, hers is chaos and self-destruction. You and Ellie Williams were never meant to cross paths. But when the industry sees an opportunity, it spins a story neither of you can escape: a headline-making, career-saving fake relationship.You need edge. She needs damage control. It should be simple—play the part, sell the history, survive each other. But Ellie is unpredictable, fame is unforgiving, and somewhere between staged appearances and real fights, the harder it is to tell where the act ends and something real begins.And in a world where everything is manufactured, the most dangerous thing you can do is feel.Follow me on tumblr!!! HEHEHE @valeisaslut
            
            Meet our protagonists: one polished, one reckless—one plays the game, the other sets it on fire.  Thrown into the same level of relentless spotlight and suffocating stardom, they become each other’s contrast and contradiction. But fame doesn’t care about differences. It thrives on a good story.And in this story, oposites don’t just attract— they collide. 𖥔 ݁ ˖
        Contents: Chapter 3: WE LOOK HOTTER ON THE FRONT PAGE
    

    

        
          
          
            One TMZ headline later, and the internet is in a full-blown meltdown. You should’ve known that sneaking out of Ellie Williams’ hotel at sunrise was a disaster waiting to happen. Now the whole world thinks you and Ellie are dating, and there’s only one way out—lean into the chaos. A fake relationship was never part of the plan, but if anyone can pull it of, it’s the two of you… right? 𖥔 ݁ ˖
          
        

      
        
          Rockstar!Ellie Williams x Popstar!Reader 𖥔 ݁ ˖⭒ word count: 6,8k 𖥔 ݁ ˖⭒ content: unserious and chaotic as HELL lmao, fake dating, mostly dialogue, memes and brainrot stuff, LOTS of cursing, pet names, fluff if you squint, use of y/n, modern au, smoking weed, mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, afab!reader, multiple part series, likes are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖
      
  

  
  
    
    
  
    
      TMZ EXCLUSIVE: Y/N’s MYSTERIOUS WALK OF SHAME… STRAIGHT OUT OF ELLIE WILLIAMS’ HOTEL? 👀🔥
    
  

  
    
      Los Angeles, CA
    
     – Buckle up, internet, because today’s tea is so hot it might spontaneously 
    
      combust
    
    . Early this morning, global pop sensation y/n was spotted making a 
    
      very
    
     interesting exit from The Four Seasons—an exit that screamed, 
    
      “I made some choices, and I’ll be dealing with the consequences (happily) later.” 
    
  

  
    Let’s paint the picture: baggy jeans (very much 
    
      not
    
     hers), an oversized tee (
    
      suspiciously
    
     familiar), last-night heels, and, most importantly, the kind of walk that suggests she just lived through an... 
    
      
        experience
      
    
    .🔥
  

  
    
      VIDEO ATTACHED
    
    : y/n stepping out of The Four Seasons with the posture of someone who just discovered new life-altering truths about herself.
  

  
    And now, the cherry on top? The hotel in question just 
    
      happens
    
     to be the same one where rock’s reigning heartbreaker and The Fireflies' frontwoman, 
    
      Ellie Williams
    
    , has been staying during the band's sold-out tour. 
  

  Yeah. Let THAT sink in.

  
    THE NIGHT BEFORE: PURE CHAOS
  

  
    Last night, the musicians were first spotted together at a private club in West Hollywood, and the energy? 
    
      Dangerous
    
    . We’re talking 
    
      intense
    
     eye contact, whispered words, and a proximity that had no business being that close. 👀
  

  
    Sources inside the club (who, let’s be real, were probably staring 
    
      way
    
     too hard) claim the two were 
    
      “all over each other the entire night.”
    
     And then, like clockwork—both gone. 
    
      Together
    
    .😏
  

  
    
      PICTURE ATTACHED
    
    : y/n and Ellie at the bar, drinks in hand, leaning in so close they might as well be 
    
      sharing oxygen.
    
  

  Fast-forward a few hours, and one of them is leaving a luxury hotel in borrowed clothes, while the other is nowhere to be seen. Hm...

  
    THE INTERNET: INSTANTLY UNHINGED
  

  
    It’s not every day that the two of the most famous artists on the planet accidentally break the internet with a single walk of shame.
     It took exactly 0.2 seconds for Twitter—sorry, 
    
      X
    
    —to collectively lose its mind. #YNxEllie shot to the top of the trending list faster than lighting, and the reactions? Pure, unfiltered, internet 
    
      gold
    
    .
  

  
    Some fans are calling it the 
    
      rock-pop crossover event of the decade
    
    . Others are in full denial, muttering “it’s just a one-time thing” like a prayer (lol, sure). And then there’s the fanfic writers, who are already on their 
    
      second
    
     
    
      chapter
    
     about this very moment.
  

  
    Meanwhile, our two leads? 
    
      
        Radio. Silence
      
    
    
      .
    
  

  
    No wry Instagram stories. No cryptic tweets. No emergency PR statements. Just Ellie, cool as ever, casually liking a meme about getting your clothes stolen from 
    
      “the girl you spent all night ruining.” 
    
    😭🙃
  

  
    SO, WHAT HAPPENS NOW?
  

  
    We wait. 
    
      
        Impatiently
      
    
    
      .
    
  

  Is this just an iconic but questionable decision? Will y/n post a cryptic thirst trap in retaliation? Will Ellie respond with an even more cryptic Instagram story? Or are we witnessing the birth of music’s next power couple?

  
    One thing’s for sure—
    
      
        this is a story we’ll be watching very closely.
      
    
  

  
    
      Stay tuned. 😏🔥
    
  

  
    
      What do YOU think? Drop your theories in the comments below! ⬇️🔥
    
  

  ────────────

  ❤️ 10M — 💬 287,54k

  
    
      @: 
    
    this isn’t just a hookup. this is the lesbians Super Bowl. 
  

  
    
      @:
    
     tears in my eyes. full body worship. standing ovulation. whatever it’s called.
  

  
    
      @:
    
     “mysterious walk of shame” NAH SHE CLOCKED IN, DID OVERTIME, AND LEFT WITH A RAISE 💀
  

  
    
      
        @:
      
    
     not her texting the driver like “can’t feel my legs send help” 😭 icon.
  

  
    
      
        @:
      
    
     someone check on the poor girl ellie this wasn’t a leave her paralyzed challenge
  

  
    
      @:
    
     THE SECOND PIC. YALL. THEY LOOK SO G@DD@MN FINE I’M CHEWING DRYWALL AND DRINKING THE DUST 😩
  

  
    
      
        @: 
      
    
    i need them to either hard launch or drop a s@x tape at this point because my soul is restless
  

  
    
      @: 
    
    this is the most lesbian thing I’ve ever seen and I was THERE for korrasami and caitvi.
  

  
    
      @:
    
     i just KNOW Ellie’s strap game goes absolutely feral and that walk was all the proof I needed #cravethat #scientificallyproven
  

  @: pop mother got her back blown OUT 

  @: #elliehititrawandnowshestrending

  
    
      @:
    
     they are either deeply in love or just HORRENDOUS at sneaky links. either way, I win.
  

  
    
      @: 
    
    tmz trynna act like we don’t instantly recognize Ellie’s entire wardrobe on her lmao
  

  
    
      
        @:
      
    
     she defo
     
    picked those on purpose and you can't convince me otherwiseeee
  

  
    
      
        @:
      
    
     the way we all clocked those clothes immediately like homegirl has worn that same fit 67 times this year and counting
  

  
    
      @:
    
     Ellie dresses like a divorced dad at Home Depot but somehow y/n wearing her clothes is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen
  

  
    
      @:
    
     one-night thing my ass. drop the collab album. drop the wedding invites. drop the baby name.
  

  
    
      @: 
    
    I have no idea what's going on but I support them!
  

   

  



  
    The studio is cold. 
    
      Too
    
     cold.
  

  
    You lean against the massive soundboard, eyes heavy with exhaustion as the producer fine-tunes the levels on your latest track. The bass hums through the speakers, deep and rhythmic.
  

  You got home, showered, and walked into the studio like nothing happened. Like you weren’t still replaying everything in your head—the heat of her hands, the weight of her body, the way she— Nope. Not going there.

  
    The only thing keeping you upright is sheer force of will and the coffee clutched in your hands, now lukewarm but still packing enough caffeine to keep your legs from betraying you in front of the expensive equipment.
  

  
    But something feels off. 
  

  
    Nobody is looking at you.
  

  
    Nobody is saying anything.
  

  
    The thing is, your team is 
    
      never
    
     quiet. They talk about everything—schedules, brand deals, what the f@ck you’re eating for lunch—but today? Nothing. Just silence.
  

  
    Not a single offhand comment. No teasing about the all-nighter you clearly pulled. Not even a glance in your direction.
  

  
    Your producer is laser-focused on the track, nodding along like it holds the meaning of life. Your sound editor keeps his eyes glued to the screen, like looking anywhere else might kill him. And your assistant—sweet, 
    
      terrible
    
     liar that she is—won’t stop sneaking glances at her phone,
     then at you, then at her phone again, 
    like she’s watching a train wreck in real time and trying to figure out when to break the news that 
    
      you’re
    
     the train.
  

  
    Slowly, you set your coffee down, reach for your own phone, and unlock it, already feeling the creeping dread claw up your spine. 
  

  
    The second your screen lights up, it’s over. Notifications flood in. X. Instagram. Texts. Group chats blowing up like a d@mn stock market crash. Millions of mentions. Your name trending in bold, blaring letters.
  

  
    And then you see it.
  

  
    
      TMZ EXCLUSIVE: Y/N'S MYSTERIOUS WALK OF SHAME… STRAIGHT OUT OF ELLIE WILLIAMS’ HOTEL? 👀🔥
    
  

  
    You suck in a breath—a sharp, audible gasp that cuts through the eerie silence.
  

  Your assistant makes a tiny, distressed sound. Your producer visibly flinches, finally daring to glance at you. Your sound editor—wise, blessedly silent—just pauses the track.

  
    Your fingers move faster than your brain, scrolling in blind panic. Pictures. 
    
      Too many f@ck@ng pictures.
    
  

  
    The first one is a grainy, low-lit shot of you and Ellie at the bar—bodies too close, drinks in hand, faces inches apart. The kind of tension that crackles even through a sh@tty phone camera. The next? A ruthless side-by-side comparison of Ellie’s Instagram post from last week. Same shirt. Same jeans. The
    
       exact 
    
    ones you walked out wearing.
  

  
    And then—because the universe is a cruel, twisted place—the final nail in the coffin.
  

  
    A 
    
      video.
    
  

  
    Of 
    
      you.
    
  

  
    
      Sneaking out of her hotel.
    
  

  
    You hit play, and instantly regret every life choice that led you there. Because 
    
      why the f@ck were you walking like that?!
    
  

  Not just suspicious. Not just guilty. But the kind of unsteady, post-life-changing-experience walk that has the entire internet foaming at the mouth, legs barely cooperating like you just left the scene of a particularly intense crime.

  
    Your soul exits your body, ascends to the ceiling, and refuses to come back down.
  

  Your phone starts ringing. And you already know who it is. For a brief, fleeting moment, you consider launching the d@mn thing across the room.

  
    Because of 
    
      course
    
     it’s Rachel.
  

  
    Your manager and professional-life mastermind. The woman who negotiates your million-dollar deals before breakfast. And, apparently, the bane of your existence right now.
  

  
    You push through the studio doors without explaining 
    
      a 
    
    d@mn
     
    thing, the cool air outside hitting your face like a slap. Your head is pounding, fingers digging into your temples like you can physically massage the embarrassment out of your skull.
  

  Your phone still vibrates in your hand. You don’t even have time to brace yourself before answering. The second you do, her voice explodes through the speaker.

  
    
      
        “OH. MY. GOD.”
      
    
  

  
    You flinch, yanking the phone away from your ear like it might physically protect you. It doesn’t. She’s still yelling, still fully spiraling, and honestly? She has every right to. Because you’re trending. Hard.
  

  
    And 
    
      not
    
     for your music.
  

  
    
      “Before you say anything—”
    
  

  
    
      “ARE YOU SEEING THIS? My phone has been BLOWING UP since 6 AM. Do you understand what you’ve done?!”
    
  

  
    You sigh, shifting uncomfortably. 
    
      Here we f@ck@ng go
    
    .
  

  
    
      “Rachel, I’m so f@ck@ng sorry, I never meant for that to happen I didn’t know there were paparazzi outside the hotel! I—”
    
  

  
    
      “THIS IS PERFECT.”
    
  

  
    
      “—know I f@ck@d up” 
    
  

  
    You pause mid-spiral. Blink
    
      . “...Wait, what?”
    
  

  
    
      “You heard me! This is GOLD. This is EVERYTHING. Your fans are losing their minds, the internet is eating this up, and you know what that means?”
    
  

  
    
      “…That I need to delete my existence?”
    
  

  
    
      “That this is going to take both of your careers to the next level.”
    
  

  
    Your head is spinning. 
    
      “Whoa—slow down. The f@ck you mean?”
    
  

  
    Rachel lets out an exaggerated sigh, like she’s explaining shapes to a toddler. 
    
      “You need to be interesting. She needs damage control. You both need the press for the upcoming albums. This relationship is everything you need.”
    
  

  
    
      
        “Relationship?”
      
    
     
    You nearly choke.
    
       “Rachel, we just hooked up. It was a one-time thing, nothing else.”
    
  

  
    
      “Oh... just a one-time thing?”
    
  

  
    
      “Yes!”
    
  

  
    
      “Okay.” 
    
  

  
    She says it so casually you instantly know she’s about to ruin your life.
  

  
    
      
        “Then fake it.”
      
    
  

  
    
      
        “WHAT?”
      
    
  

  
    Your soul leaves your body. Again.
  

  
    
      “A fake relationship!” 
    
    She repeats, like it’s the most normal suggestion in the world.
  

  
    
      “Oh my god. No. 
    
    
      
        NO
      
    
    
      . That’s—that’s f@ck@ng stupid!"
    
  

  
    
      “Oh, come on, girl.”
    
     Rachel groans.
    
       “You would be shocked to know how many celebrity couples are fake. Like, 90% of them, 
    
    
      and people still eat that sh@t up like it’s their job.
    
    
       It’s the most effective PR stunt in the history of PR stunts.”
    
  

  
    
      “I don't care! Even if it’s fake, I don’t wanna be in a relationship with her!”
    
  

  
    Rachel, clearly unimpressed 
    
      “Be so f@ck@ng for real right now.”
    
  

  
    
      “Listen”
    
     she continues, slipping into full Hollywood mastermind mode. 
    
      “It’s the perfect rockstar-popstar trope that people are gonna LOVE. Some staged dates, some Instagram stories, show up to a few award shows together, write some songs about her for the album—blah, blah, blah. Then, when you both get what you want, you drop a statement about breaking up on good terms because of ‘busy schedules’ or ‘long distance’ or whatever. Boom. Done. Headlines. History.”
    
  

  
    You exhale sharply, dragging a hand down your face, but you can already feel her words getting to you.
  

  
    
      “Okay…that does sound kinda iconic...”
    
  

  
    You hear her 
    
      scream
    
    .
  

  
    
      “BUT”
    
     
    You snap.
    
       “I seriously doubt she’s gonna be on board.”
    
  

  
    
      “She has to be. That girl needs to clean up her image immediately. If she wants to keep her career afloat, she needs to say yes." 
    
    Rachel doesn’t miss a beat.
     
    "
    
      Honestly, it even benefits her more than it benefits you.”
    
  

  
    You press the phone tighter against your ear, your free hand rubbing over your face over and over again as if that’ll somehow erase this chaos unfolding in real-time.
  

  
    But honestly?
  

  
    
      What could go wrong?
    
  

  
    So you exhale sharply again.
  

  
    
      “Fine, fine. We’ll… 
    
    
      
        debate
      
    
    
       it.”
    
  

  
    
      “PERFECT! Tell me how it goes!”
    
  

  
    There’s a short pause, just long enough for you to think—
    
      maybe
    
    —this conversation is about to take a serious turn.
  

  
    And then—
  

  
    
      “…So, how was she in bed?”
    
  

  
    You nearly drop your phone. “
    
      RACHEL.
    
    ”
  

  “What?! It’s a valid question! I mean, I saw the walk.” A beat. Then, way too smugly “People are even making edits of your limp.”

  
    
      Okay. 
    
  

  
    
      
        This is officially the worst day of your life.
      
    
  

  
    
      “We are NOT doing this.”
    
  

  
    
      “Oh, we are ABSOLUTELY doing this.”
    
  

  
    You groan, squeezing your eyes shut. 
    
      There's no escaping this.
    
  

  
    
      “Was it life-changing or life-threatening? Did she break your back or fix your scoliosis?” 
    
  

  
    You stare up at the sky, silently begging for divine intervention. None comes. So, with the weight of someone who has lost everything, you exhale.
  

  
    
      “…she made me see f@ck@ng Jesus.”
    
  

  
    Silence. A beat. 
  

  
    Rachel 
    
      screams
    
     so loud you nearly throw your phone at the window.
  

  
    
      “I F@CK@NG KNEW IT.”
    
  

  
    
      “HANGING UP NOW.”
    
  

  
    
      “NO WAIT!—DID SHE—”
    
  

  
    
      “BYE.”
    
  

  
    You slam the End Call button so fast it’s a miracle your screen doesn’t crack.
  

  
    Blissful, beautiful silence.
  

  
    For exactly three seconds.
  

  
    
      Buzz.
    
  

  
    
      Rachel:
    
     COME BACK WE ARE NOT DONE.
  

  
    
      Buzz.
    
  

  
    
      Rachel:
    
     do I schedule a chiropractor or a priest? 😭
  

  
    You turn your phone off. 
    
      Permanently.
    
  

   

  



  
    It was late, the kind of night where the city hummed low in the background, neon signs bleeding color into the streets. 
  

  
    And Ellie Williams was trying to have a normal band practice.
  

  
    
      Trying.
    
  

  
    But it was pretty f@ck@ng hard when Jesse and Dina were staring at her like she’d just announced she was quitting music to become a full-time televangelist.
  

  
    She adjusted the strap of her guitar, already irritated. 
    
      “Can you guys, I don’t know, say something instead of f@ck@ng looking at me like that?”
    
  

  
    
      “Oh, we’re just waiting...”
    
     Jesse said as he leaned against the drum set, taking a slow drag of his cigarette and grinning like the absolute menace he was.
  

  
    Dina, perched on an amp, smirked. 
    
      “Yeah. Just giving you a chance to come clean before we bring out the receipts.”
    
  

  
    Ellie scoffed, trying to play it cool. 
    
      “What receipts?”
    
  

  
    Dina wiggled her phone in the air, smirk widening. 
    
      “Seems like you’ve been very busy, rockstar.”
    
  

  
    She barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 
    
      “The f@ck are you both talking about!?”
    
  

  
    Jesse and Dina exchanged 
    
      the look.
    
     The kind that made Ellie’s patience thin by the second.
  

  
    Jesse sighed dramatically, putting out his cigarette on the plato like he was about to drop the biggest bombshell of the century. 
    
      “Alright, since you’re playing dumb—”
    
  

  
    He pulled out his phone with the enthusiasm of a man whose sole purpose in life was witnessing Ellie’s downfall.
    
       
    
  

  
    
      “Lemme just read the best part real quick—”
    
     And clearing his throat like he was about to give a Shakespearean performance:
  

  
    
      “‘Global superstar y/n was spotted leaving Ellie Williams’s hotel early this morning after a rumored all-night rendezvous. Fans immediately noticed the pop star's unusually relaxed wardrobe choice—’”
    
  

  
    Dina whistled. 
    
      “‘—baggy jeans and an oversized tee, both belonging to a certain someone who was seen wearing them just last week—’”
    
  

  
    Jesse shook his head, flipping his phone around. 
    
      “Nah, this is crazy. This is some Oscar-worthy sh@t.”
    
  

  
    Ellie groaned the second she saw the TMZ photo—you stepping out of the hotel in her clothes. And then there was her, leaving an hour later, hoodie up like it could shield her from 
    
      literally everyone,
    
     rubbing the back of her neck like some dumbass who just realized they f@ck@d up in a romcom.
  

  
    She looked 
    
      guilty
    
     
    
      as
    
     
    
      hell.
    
  

  
    He zoomed
     
    in on her face, laughing. 
    
      “Yo, you look like you just realized you caught feelings.”
    
  

  
    Dina snorted, scrolling through her phone.
    
       “Oh, they are EATING this sh@t up. Listen to this” 
    
    
      —
    
    dramatic inhale
    
      —
    
    
       “‘They are either deeply in love or just horrendous at sneaky links. Either way, I win.’”
    
  

  
    Jesse howled
    
      .
    
     “‘
    
      Someone check on the poor girl—Ellie, this wasn’t a ‘leave her paralyzed’ challenge.
    
    ’”
  

  
    Ellie groaned. 
    
      “You guys—”
    
  

  
    
      “OH MY GOD.”
    
     Dina gasped.
    
       “SOMEONE JUST MADE A SIDE-BY-SIDE.”
    
  

  
    Jesse leaned in.
    
       “Caption?”
    
  

  
    
      “‘WHAT IN THE SCISSOR OLYMPICS. GOLD MEDAL PERFORMANCE.”
    
  

  
    He collapsed against the drum set, howling even harder
    
      .
    
     
    
      “Nah, this is crazy. 
    
    
      You really let her walk outta there like that?! You KNEW what you did. You knew EXACTLY what you were doing.
    
    ”
  

  
    Ellie covered her face with her hands. 
    
      “I hate it here.”
    
  

  Jesse was thriving, nearly bouncing on his feet like a kid on Christmas morning. “Dude. You bagged y/n. Like, THE Y/N. Pop princess herself. That fine-ass woman writes songs so good they make people crash their cars.”

  
    Dina nodded solemnly. 
    
      “I crashed twice to ‘Stay.’”
    
  

  
    Ellie shot her a look. 
    
      “First of all, you shouldn’t have a license.” 
    
    Then at Jesse 
    
      “Second, can you f@ck@ng NOT? We just hooked up. That’s it.”
    
  

  
    He just snorted. 
    
      “Yeah? Tell that to the 40 million people who liked the tweets about it.”
    
  

  
    Ellie groaned so loud it could’ve been mistaken for a death rattle.
    
       “This is so f@ck@ng bad.”
    
  

  
    Jesse ignored her, grinning like an absolute menace. 
    
      “Like, do you even understand the cultural impact of what you’ve done? This is like—” 
    
    He gestured wildly.
    
       “—punk rock meets Billboard Hot 100 hookup of the century!”
    
  

  
    Dina smirked. 
    
      “And judging by the way she was walking? You bodied that sh@t.”
    
  

  
    Ellie scowled. 
    
      “She was wearing heels all night!”
    
  

  
    Dina arched a brow. 
    
      “So were you gonna say that, or are you just making that up now?”
    
  

  
    Ellie opened her mouth. Closed it. Dragged a hand down her face.
  

  
    Jesse cackled. 
    
      “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
    
  

  
    She was 
    
      this
    
     close to walking out.
  

  
    Then, like a gift from hell, her phone started buzzing.
  

  Your name flashed across the screen. Gasps.

  
    Ellie panicked, immediately shoving it in her pocket.
  

  
    Dina’s jaw dropped. 
    
      “Did you just—DECLINE Y/N?! Are you f@ck@ng STUPID?!”
    
  

  
    Jesse shook his head, dead serious. 
    
      “No, no. Let her cook. Maybe she’s playing hard to get.”
    
  

  
    Ellie groaned, yanking her jacket off the chair and making her way to the door. 
    
      “Practice over. I hope 
    
    
      both
    
    
       of you trip over a flight of stairs and eat sh@t all the way down.”
    
  

  
    
      “Aw, so sweet of you!”
    
     Dina beamed.
    
       “We’re gonna start picking baby names as soon as you leave.”
    
  

  
    Ellie didn’t even look back—just flipped them off on her way out like a parting gift.
  

  
    The door slammed shut loudly.
  

  
    A beat of silence.
  

  
    Then, muffled through the wall—
  

  
    
      “AND JESSE STOP SAYING LET HER COOK THE MEME DIED MONTHS AGO.”
    
  

  
    
      “SHUT THE F@CK UP NO IT DIDN’T!”
    
  

  



  
    Ellie had barely stepped out of the studio, muttering 
    
      “F@ck@ng kill me”
    
     before calling you back. As soon as you answered, she was quick to be the first one to talk.
  

  
    
      “Before you say anything—this is not my fault.”
    
  

  
    Your voice came through immediately. 
  

  
    
      “Ellie.”
    
  

  Tone flat. Dead serious.

  
    She hesitated. 
    
      “…Yeah?”
    
  

  
    
      “I’m pregnant.”
    
  

  
    Ellie stopped 
    dead
     in her tracks. Like, full-body malfunction.
  

  
    Her entire f@ck@ng 
    
      life
    
     flashed before her eyes. Marriage. A house. A tiny baby wrapped in a flannel onesie. Joel crying at the babyshower. Dina and Jesse as the weirdly invested godparents. 
  

  
    Silence.
  

  
    Then—
  

  
    
      
        “Oh, f@ck off!”
      
    
  

  
    You howled with laughter. 
    
      “Not even a little panic? All I got was a one-second existential crisis?”
    
  

  
    
      “Dude. Biology exists.”
    
  

  
    Though, if she was being honest, you had her for a solid half-second. She could already hear Joel clearing his throat, preparing for his father-of-the-bride speech, could already see Jesse and Dina clicking through a PowerPoint titled 
    
      "Ellie Williams: Accidentally Domesticated
    
    
      —
    
    
      
        A case stud
      
    
    
      y."
    
  

  You scoffed “See, this is why you’re no fun.”

  
    
      “This is why you're deranged.”
    
  

  
    
      “You love it.”
    
  

  
    
      “No. You need therapy.”
    
  

  
    
      “I have therapy. On Thursdays. Shoutout to Linda.”
    
  

  
    Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose. 
    
      “Did you actually need something, or was this just a drive-by psychological attack?”
    
  

  
    
      “Oh, you know. Just the minor issue that the entire f@ck@ng internet thinks we’re dating?”
    
  

  
    Ellie groaned, unlocking her car with a beep.
    
       “Technically, we could just ignore it—”
    
  

  
    
      “Ellie.”
    
  

  
    
      “…Yeah, yeah. What’s the damage?”
    
  

  
    
      “Well”
    
     you started, voice syrupy sweet,
    
       “Not only do I look like I did the world’s sluttiest walk of shame, but people also figured out those were your clothes. And, fun fact! They say you dress like a divorced dad from Home Depot.”
    
  

  
    
      “Yeah, I saw.”
    
  

  
    
      “No, I don’t think you understand the severity of it.”
    
     Your voice got increasingly dramatic. 
    
      “People have shipping spreadsheets. They have theories. Someone made a Google doc analyzing our astrology compatibility. Ellie, we are trending #1 WORLDWIDE.”
    
  

  
    Ellie ran a hand down her face. 
    
      “This is so f@ck@ng stupid.”
    
  

  
    
      “Someone said—direct quote— that this is ‘the lesbian's Super Bowl.' ”
    
  

  
    She paused. 
    
      “That one might be true tho.”
    
  

  
    
      “Oh, cut the b@llsh@t.”
    
  

  
    Ellie grinned, leaning back. 
    
      “Alright, so what’s the move? Damage control?”
    
  

  
    A pause. 
  

  
    
      “Well…”
    
     you said, voice a little too careful, 
    
      “my manager thinks we should… lean into it.”
    
  

  
    Ellie’s eyes narrowed. 
    
      “What does that mean?”
    
  

  
    Another pause.
  

  
    Then, your voice, even softer now. 
    
      “Can we… talk in person?”
    
  

  
    Ellie immediately clocked the hesitation. 
    
      “Why do I feel like I’m 'bout to get scammed?”
    
  

  
    
      “You’re not! I just… I’d rather explain in person.”
    
  

  
    She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. 
    
      “…Fine. Where?”
    
  

  
    
      “My place.”
    
  

  
    Ellie frowned. 
    
      “Why yours?”
    
  

  
    
      “Because there’s paparazzi crammed outside the Four Seasons, dumbass.”
    
  

  
    
      …Fair.
    
  

  
    She exhaled. 
    
      “…Yeah. Alright.”
    
  

  
    
      “Cool. I’ll send you the address.”
    
  

  
    A beat. Then—
  

  
    
      “…Wait”
    
     Ellie muttered. 
    
      “How the f@ck did you get my number?”
    
  

  
    Silence.
  

  
    
      “…Contacts.”
    
  

  
    Ellie’s brows furrowed. 
    
      “What does that mean? Who—”
    
  

  
    
      “Doesn’t matter.” 
    
    you cut in, then cleared your throat. 
    
      “Anyway. Can you, uh… give me my dress back? It was custom.”
    
  

  
    
      “Yeah, about that…”
    
  

  
    
      “…Ellie.”
    
  

  
    
      “It might still be on the floor.”
    
  

  
    A sharp inhale. 
    
      “You little sh@t.”
    
  

  
    Ellie smirked as she pulled out of the parking lot.
  

  
    
      “On my way, pop star.”
    
  

   

  



  
    Ellie had barely knocked twice before the door swung open.
  

  
    And there you were.
  

  
    Standing in the dim light of your penthouse, arms crossed, drowning in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Your hair was slightly messy, like you’d been curled up somewhere before she got here, and your skin glowed just right under the soft, golden hue of your apartment lights.
  

  
    
      “Hey”
    
  

  
    
      “Hey”
    
  

  
    She exhaled, stepping inside as you shut the door behind her. She barely had time to take in the space before she realized—this was 
    
      money
    
    .
  

  
    The penthouse stretched wide, the kind of design meant to make people feel small. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the city skyline, headlights cutting through the night far below. The furniture was sleek, modern—gray couches, glass tables, designer pieces that looked both expensive and comfortable. A grand piano sat near the window, it's lid closed and a guitar leaning against it, used enough to make Ellie smirk.
  

  
    But it was the small things that caught her eye. A candle burning low on the counter. A glass of wine next to a notebook cracked open on the coffee table, filled with lyrics. Scribbled, messy. Some lines scratched out, others rewritten in the margins.
  

  
    
      “Jesus”
    
     she muttered, shoving her hands into her pockets. 
    
      “Could’ve warned me I was walking into a f@ck@ng palace.”
    
  

  
    
      “Says the millionaire.”
    
  

  
    Her eyes flicked to you—leaning against the counter, arms crossed, mouth twitching like you were amused by her reaction.
  

  
    She huffed.
     
  

  
    
      “So.”
    
  

  
    
      “So.”
    
  

  
    The silence stretched, just a little too thick. A weight neither of you wanted to touch.
  

  
    Then, finally, you exhaled.
  

  
    
      “My manager thinks we should fake date.”
    
  

  
    Ellie snorted 
    
      “Yeah, no sh@t.”
    
  

  
    
      “She says it’ll be good for both of us.”
    
  

  
    She hummed, sauntering over to the couch before sinking into it like she owned the place. Her legs spread wide, hands rubbing over her jeans, shoulders sinking into the cushions. She looked up at you, unreadable. 
  

  
    
      “And? You wanna do it?”
    
  

  You hesitated. “I don’t know.”  Your fingers tapped against the counter, your teeth dragged over your bottom lip. You looked… conflicted. “It’s just—ugh. The thought of staging something like this is so gross.”

  You exhaled, tilting your head back. “Pretending to be into you in public? It just feels—”

  
    A beat.
  

  
    Ellie raised an eyebrow.
  

  
    You hesitated.
  

  
    And there it was. The shift. 
  

  
    
      “Pretending?”
    
     she repeated slowly.
  

  
    You scowled. 
    
      “You know what I mean.”
    
  

  
    Ellie tilted her head, gaze flicking downward—brief, barely there—before dragging right back up like she knew exactly what she was doing. 
  

  
    
      “Do I?”
    
  

  Your skin flushed, irritation prickling down your spine. She was too comfortable—slouched on your couch like it was hers, fingers drumming against her knee, wearing that look. That lazy, lopsided smirk that made your stomach clench and your heart do backflips.

  You muttered. "Cut the b@llsh@t."

  
    Ellie watched you, green eyes sharp, the corner of her mouth curling like she already knew what you were thinking—like she could see straight through you. And maybe she could.
  

  
    
      
        That
      
    
    
       was the problem.
    
  

  
    Because this wasn’t just some business deal, some harmless PR stunt. 
  

  
    This was 
    
      Ellie 
    
    
      
        f@ck@ng
      
    
    
       Williams.
    
     
  

  
    A menace. A woman who flirted like it was her second nature. Who carried herself with the kind of reckless confidence that made people love her and hate her in the same breath. She was sharp, fast-mouthed, and annoyingly charming when she wanted to be. She kissed like she had something to prove and f@ck@d like she knew she was amazing at it. 
  

  
    She was the kind that didn’t just leave bruises—that left 
    
      marks
    
    .
  

  
    And now, you are supposed to 
    
      pretend
    
     to be hers. In public. In pictures. In interviews. She’d make it look effortless, like every lingering touch and stolen glance meant everything
    
      . 
    
  

  
    Meanwhile, you’d have to grit your teeth and pretend she wasn’t already under your skin—pretend you don’t know exactly how this will end.
  

  
    Ellie’s voice pulled you back.
  

  
    
      “We can set rules.”
    
  

  
    You blinked, exhaling sharply. 
    
      “Rules?”
    
  

  
    She nodded, resting her elbows on her knees. 
    
      “Yeah. Lines we don’t cross. Sh@t we don’t do. Make it easier.”
    
  

  
    You considered that. It 
    
      did
    
     make sense. Setting boundaries meant this wouldn’t spiral into a complete disaster—just a 
    
      controlled
    
     one.
  

  
    
      “…Fine.”
    
  

  
    Ellie grinned, tilting her head
    
      . “Great. Rule number one—no catching feelings.”
    
  

  
    You scoffed, pushing off the counter and taking a sip of your wine.
    
       “Oh, trust me, Williams, that was never a problem.”
    
  

  
    
      What a g@dd@mn lie.
    
  

  
    Ellie chuckled, dragging a hand over her jaw before settling back into the couch. She watched you a second too long, eyes flicking over you like she was deciding whether to call you on your b@llsh@t. That f@ck@ng grin still lingered—lazy, amused. 
  

  
    
      She was enjoying this.
    
  

  
    You exhaled slowly, setting your wine glass down with a quiet clink.
    
       “I got my own rules.”
    
  

  
    
      “Let’s hear ‘em.”
    
  

  
    You leveled her with a look. 
    
      “No strings attached.”
    
  

  
    Ellie blinked, then snorted.
    
       “Starting off strong.”
    
  

  
    
      “I’m serious,”
    
     you said, arms crossing.
    
       “No getting weird about anything. We do what we have to do in public, but behind closed doors, it’s our business. No jealousy, no possessiveness.”
    
  

  
    Ellie tilted her head, her smirk growing.
    
       “So basically, we can do whatever we want?”
    
  

  
    You hesitated. 
  

  
    A fraction of a second too long.
  

  
    Then nodded.
    
       “Yeah.”
    
  

  
    There was a shift in the air. Subtle, almost imperceptible, but there. Ellie’s eyes dragged over you—slow, measured, her expression unreadable. 
  

  
    
      “…Can we still f@ck, though?”
    
  

  
    Your face didn’t waver, but your stomach clenched, a tiny, unwelcome knot forming deep in your gut. 
  

  
    
      “Yeah. But it doesn’t mean anything.”
    
  

  The words landed firm, like a line drawn in the sand, but even as you said them, they felt a little off. Like something rehearsed, something you were trying a little too hard to believe.

  
    Ellie let out a low chuckle, shaking her head. 
    
      “Jesus, babe. You’re ruthless.”
    
  

  
    
      “You got a problem with that?”
    
  

  
    
      “Not even a little.” 
    
    She stretched out, arms draping over the back of the couch, looking maddeningly at ease. 
    
      “Just didn’t expect you to be the one setting that rule.”
    
  

  
    You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, because deep down, you weren’t sure what would p@ss you off more—her calling you out on your b@llsh@t, or the fact that she might actually be right.
  

  
    Ellie hummed
    
      . “Fine. No strings attached. What else?”
    
  

  
    You rubbed your temple, thinking.
    
       “Public stuff needs to be controlled. If we’re going to be seen together, it needs to be intentional.”
    
  

  
    Ellie nodded. 
    
      “So, no sneaky paparazzi pics of us at, like, McDonald’s?”
    
  

  
    
      “Exactly.”
    
  

  
    
      “There goes my dream of getting papped in the drive-thru with you.”
    
  

  
    You ignored that. 
    
      “Next—if one of us wants out, we end it. No b@llsh@t.”
    
  

  
    Ellie’s smirk softened slightly. 
    
      “Fair enough.”
    
  

  
    The mood had shifted—just a fraction. You weren’t sure if that was a good thing or a warning sign, but at least your shoulders didn’t feel as tight anymore.
  

  
    You reached for your wine again. 
    
      “We also need a reason.”
    
  

  
    Ellie raised an eyebrow.
  

  
    
      “For why we’re suddenly together,”
    
     you clarified.
  

  
    She considered it for a moment, then shrugged.
    
       “Easy. We met through mutual friends, started talking, made it official recently.”
    
  

  
    You nodded. 
    
      “Good. Vague, but believable.”
    
  

  
    Then Ellie grinned. 
    
      “So when’s our anniversary?”
    
  

  
    
      “I’m breaking up with you 
    
    
      already
    
    
      .”
    
  

  
    Ellie threw her head back, laughing. 
    
      “D@mn. Cold as hell.”
    
  

  
    You just smirked, watching the wine swirl in your glass, but the humor faded when Ellie leaned forward slightly, her gaze a little sharper now.
  

  
    
      “So, just to recap,”
    
     she said, voice steady. 
    
      “No feelings. No jealousy. We can f@ck, but it doesn't mean anything. And if one of us wants out, we’re out.”
    
  

  “…Yeah.” You swallowed, the weight of it settling between you both. “...Are you actually okay with this?”

  
    Ellie leaned back into the couch, dragging a hand over her jaw.
  

  
    
      Was she?
    
  

  
    She’d done PR stunts before—appearances, interviews, the occasional fake chemistry for cameras. But a fake relationship? That was a different level of commitment. A different level of risk.
  

  
    At the same time… she wasn’t exactly in a position to say no. She needed something to get the media off her ass. Headlines about bar fights, reckless behavior, and being a bad influence were piling up like a rap sheet. A carefully controlled narrative—a shiny, clean distraction—might be the only thing that kept her from burning out entirely.
  

  
    But then…
  

  
    She looked at you.
  

  
    Drop-dead gorgeous. Smart as hell. 
    Sharp tongue
    . A little mean in a way that made people want to prove themselves.
  

  
    And yeah, sure—this was 
    
      fake
    
    . But Ellie wasn’t f@ck@ng stupid. Fake or not, this was the kind of sh@t that got under her skin, settled in deep and refused to leave.
  

  
    She’d made plenty of bad decisions before, walked into things knowing exactly how they would end, knowing they’d chew her up and spit her out. That was the thing about trouble. It never felt like trouble in the moment. It started as a game, as a deal, as something simple—until one day, it wasn’t. Until it had its teeth in her, until she was in too deep to pretend she didn’t care.
  

  
    And this?
  

  
    This had all the makings of that kind of mistake.
  

  
    But she still exhaled, still ran a hand through her hair, still met your eyes without hesitation.
  

  
    
      “Yeah” 
    
    She sighed
    
       “I’m in.”
    
  

  
    
      “Alright,” 
    
    you murmured, swirling the wine in your glass before taking a slow sip. Then, with a smirk just shy of reckless—
  

  
    
      
        “This is officially the worst decision of our lives.”
      
    
  

  
    Ellie leaned back like she had all the time in the world, legs spreading wider, her grin all sharp edges. 
    
      “What you mean? This is already the most stable relationship I’ve ever had.”
    
  

  
    You scoffed, reaching for your wine again. 
    
      “That’s not exactly comforting.”
    
  

  
    Ellie shrugged. 
    
      “I don’t know what to tell you, babe. The bar is in hell.”
    
  

  
    You closed your eyes for a second, exhaled, then took another long drink. 
    
      “God help me.”
    
  

   

  After a few minutes, Ellie reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out a pre-rolled blunt, twirling it lazily between her fingers. She glanced up at you, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

  
    
      “You smoke?”
    
  

  
    You raised an eyebrow. 
    
      “Seriously?”
    
  

  
    Ellie shrugged, biting the tip of the blunt. 
    
      “What? It’s part of the rockstar lifestyle.”
    
  

  
    You scoffed.
    
       “And I’m the popstar, so technically, I should be saying no.”
    
  

  
    Ellie pulled out a lighter, flicking it open with a metallic click
    
      . “Live a little.”
    
  

  
    You exhaled. 
    
      “Fine. But if TMZ catches me high, I’m blaming you.”
    
  

  
    Ellie grinned, bringing the lighter to the tip of the blunt, the paper curling as it burned. She took a slow, practiced drag, holding it deep in her lungs before exhaling smoothly, the smoke swirling toward the ceiling. Then she passed it to you.
  

  
    You hesitated for a half-second before bringing it to your lips, inhaling. The burn was familiar, settling in your chest before you exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate into the dimly lit room. 
  

  
    Already, the tension from earlier—the ridiculous fake-dating rules, the push and pull of whatever 
    
      
        this
      
    
     
    
      was
    
    —started to fade into something looser, easier.
  

  
    Ellie watched you, her smirk deepening. 
    
      “D@mn. You’re not new to this.”
    
  

  
    You took another hit before passing it back, lips quirking. 
    
      “Told you. I just have a better PR team than you.”
    
  

  
    Ellie chuckled, shaking her head as she took another drag.
  

   

  
    Somehow, the conversation had spiraled.
  

  
    You were both slumped against the couch, trading the last remnants of the blunt back and forth, locked in a heated debate over whether or not you’d survive a zombie apocalypse.
  

  
    Ellie scoffed, waving a lazy hand. 
    
      “C’mon, you wouldn’t last a week.”
    
  

  
    
      “Excuse me?”
    
     You sat up, pointing at her. 
    
      “I would absolutely outlive you.”
    
  

  
    
      “You literally have, like, five personal assistants. You don’t even carry your own bags.”
    
  

  
    
      “So? That doesn’t mean I can’t fight!”
    
  

  
    Ellie raised an eyebrow, amused.
    
       “Alright. How would you kill a zombie?”
    
  

  
    You blinked. 
    
      “...Guns?”
    
  

  
    Ellie groaned, shaking her head like you had just personally offended her. 
  

  
    
      “What?!”
    
  

  
    
      “You’d run out of ammo in, like, a week.”
    
  

  
    You crossed your arms. 
    
      “Okay, smartass. What’s your genius survival plan?”
    
  

  
     
    
      “Baseball bat. Blunt force trauma. Reusable, no reload time.”
    
  

  
    You wrinkled your nose
    
      . “That’s so gross.”
    
  

  
    Ellie shrugged. 
    
      “Yeah? So is dying.”
    
  

  
    You huffed, sinking back into the couch. 
    
      “I’m sure that if I were in a zombie apocalypse, I’d be the immune one.”
    
  

  
    Ellie rolled her eyes, flicking the blunt towards the ashtray. 
    
      “Oh, shut up. I'd be the immune one. And the main character.”
    
  

  
    You huffed, dramatically flopping back against the couch, exhaling a long, exaggerated sigh. Ellie grinned, stretching her arms behind her head.
  

  
    
      “All that contract negotiation made me hungry.”
    
  

  
    You snorted, swirling the last sip of wine in your glass. 
    
      “You literally agreed to everything in under five minutes.”
    
  

  
    
      “Exactly,”
    
     Ellie sighed. 
    
      “Exhausting.”
    
     
  

  
    She pulled out her phone, scrolling.
    
       “What’s the most unserious meal we could possibly order right now?”
    
  

  
    You barely had to think.
    
       “Taco Bell.”
    
  

  
    Ellie’s face lit up. 
    
      “God, I f@ck@ng love you.”
    
  

  
    You shot her a dry look.
  

  
    
      “Platonically. Obviously.”
    
  

  
    You rolled your eyes, watching as she tapped aggressively on the app. 
    
      “What do you want?”
    
  

  
    
      “Crunchwrap Supreme, two Doritos Locos Tacos, and a Baja Blast.”
    
  

  
    Ellie blinked. 
    
      “You didn’t even hesitate.”
    
  

  
    
      “I take my Taco Bell order very seriously.”
    
  

  
    Ellie hummed approvingly. 
    
      “Respect.”
    
     She added your order to the already absurd amount of food in her cart and checked out.
  

   

  
    By the time the Taco Bell arrived, you were both 
    
      fully
    
     slumped into the couch, heavy-limbed and loose from the high. Ellie tossed the bag onto the coffee table with zero grace, nearly knocking over your very expensive candle.
  

  
    
      “Jesus, be careful” 
    
    you muttered, steadying it.
  

  
    Ellie unwrapped her burrito with a crinkle of foil, smirking. 
    
      “What, scared I’ll ruin your rich-person aesthetic?”
    
  

  
    You leaned back, exhaling. 
    
      “Yeah, actually. I have a brand to uphold.”
    
  

  
    Ellie huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she took a bite. The two of you ate in a comfortable lull, the only sounds coming from the low hum of music playing from your speaker and the occasional rustle of food wrappers. 
  

  
    In that moment, you felt something you hadn’t felt with anyone in a long time—at ease. Because being with her was effortless. 
  

  
    No need to pose, fake a smile, or worry if your hair was in place. You could just 
    
      exist
    
    . And there was something dangerously comfortable about that, something weirdly domestic. Like slipping into a rhythm you hadn’t even realized you’d been craving.
  

  Ellie spoke suddenly, pulling you back, like the thought had just slipped out before she could decide if it was worth saying.

  
    
      “So, why’d you start doing music?”
    
  

  
    The question landed between you like a weight, unexpected and heavy.
  

  
    You paused, mid-bite, blinking at her. She wasn’t even looking at you—just lazily pulling apart her quesadilla, like she hadn’t just cracked open something raw and unplanned.
  

  
    You swallowed, shifting slightly. 
    
      “I don’t know.”
    
  

  
     A beat. 
  

  
    
      “It’s the only thing I was ever really good at.”
    
  

  
    That got her attention. Her fingers stilled against the tortilla, her eyes flicking up—steady, unreadable.
  

  
    With a quiet sigh, you set your food down. 
    
      “I mean, growing up, I sucked at everything else. School, sports, whatever—I just never stuck with anything. But music?”
    
     You tilted your head, feeling the thought click into place. 
    
      “That made sense. I liked how it made people feel. You write something, and suddenly, some stranger out there feels understood in a way they didn’t before. Like, for three minutes, they’re not alone.”
    
  

  
    Ellie’s chewing slowed, her gaze lingering. 
    
      “Yeah.”
    
     Her voice had dropped, more thoughtful. 
    
      “That’s kinda the whole point, huh?”
    
  

  
    You hummed, watching her. 
    
      “…What about you?”
    
  

  
    She hesitated, then leaned back into the couch, stretching like she was trying to shake something off. 
    
      “Not that different, honestly.”
    
     One arm draped over the backrest, fingers tapping idly against the cushion. 
    
      “Joel was always into music. Taught me how to play guitar when I was a kid, and it just kinda stuck ever since.”
    
  

  
    Your head tilted slightly. 
    
      “Joel Miller? That’s your dad, right?”
    
  

  
    A nod. 
    
      “Yeah. He’s—” 
    
    She paused, choosing her words carefully. 
    
      “—intense. But in a good way, mostly. He gives a sh@t. Probably more than I deserve.”
    
  

  
    Your brows knitted together. 
    
      “That’s a weird thing to say.”
    
  

  
    Ellie let out a quiet chuckle, but it was dry, almost automatic. 
    
      “Nah. Just being honest.”
    
  

  
    Something about the way she said it made your chest feel tight.
  

  
    You thought about pushing, about pressing your thumb against that tiny crack she’d let slip, but something told you she’d just deflect, maybe make some stupid joke to steer the conversation away.
  

  
    So, instead, you sighed dramatically, letting the moment pass. 
    
      “I think I’m too high for all this deep sh@t.”
    
  

  
    Ellie huffed out a laugh. 
    
      “Same.”
    
  

  
    You grinned, swirling your drink. 
    
      “Okay, new topic—what’s your favorite song?”
    
  

  
    Ellie tilted her head, thinking. 
    
      “Dunno. How’s that one song of yours go? That’s that me espresso?”
    
  

  
    The room went still.
  

  
    You blinked.
  

  
    Once.
  

  
    Twice.
  

  
    A deep, soul-crushing betrayal settled in your chest, a wound so profound it might never heal. Your breath caught, fingers gripping your shirt like she had physically stabbed you.
  

  
    Ellie, still chewing, barely spared you a glance. 
    
      “What?”
    
  

  
    Your hands trembled. 
    
      “That’s Espresso.”
    
  

  
    Your voice dropped an octave. Near-feral.
  

  
    
      
        “BY. SABRINA. CARPENTER.”
      
    
  

  
    Ellie paused mid-bite, brow furrowing. 
    
      “Wait… that’s not your song?”
    
  

  
    Your jaw dropped. “
    
      Are you out of your f@ck@ng mind?!
    
    ”
  

  
    Ellie shrugged, unbothered.
    
       “I mean, y’all sound kinda similar.”
    
  

  
    You shot up so fast from the couch it screeched against the floor. 
    
      “I HOPE YOUR AMP SHORT-CIRCUITS MID-SOLO.”
    
  

  
    Ellie’s laughter rang through the room, loud and unbothered. 
    
      “Jesus. Touch some grass.”
    
  

   

  



  
    The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the weight of an arm draped over your waist.
  

  
    The second was the godawful dryness in your mouth, the kind that only came from bad decisions the night before and even worse hydration choices.
  

  
    Squinting against the morning light, you shifted slightly, trying to piece together where the hell you were. Your head ached, limbs heavy, the air still thick with the scent of weed.
  

  
    And then, as you turned your head—
  

  
    
      Ellie.
    
  

  
    Dead asleep beside you.
  

  
    Face buried in the couch, hair a disaster, breathing slow and steady. One arm thrown over your waist like it belonged there, her entire body half-pressed against yours, radiating warmth. Her tank top had ridden up slightly, exposing just enough of the tattoos trailing down her back to make your already-dysfunctional brain short-circuit.
  

  
    It should be 
    
      illegal
    
     to look that good while sleeping.
  

  
    You swallowed hard, painfully aware of the way her fingers twitched slightly against your stomach. Desperate for a distraction, you forced your gaze to the rest of the room.
  

  
    The coffee table was an absolute crime scene—wrappers, crumpled napkins, open sauce packets, empty Baja Blast cups, and one lonely, half-eaten quesadilla clinging to life.
  

  
    You groaned softly, rubbing your face, before muscle memory had you reaching for your phone.
  

  
    And that’s when the real nightmare started.
  

  
    
      Rachel (25 Missed Calls, 17 Texts).
    
  

  
    Your stomach immediately twisted into knots.
  

  
    Dreading whatever mess you’d apparently caused, you clicked the messages.
  

  Rachel: WAKE UP Rachel: WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP Rachel: CHECK TWITTER RIGHT NOW.

  
    A cold dread crawled up your spine.
  

  
    With the kind of slow, creeping horror usually reserved for slasher films, you opened Twitter.
  

  
    And there it was.
  

  
    
      Trending.
    
  

  
    #y/nandEllie
  

  
    #HARDLAUNCHOFTHECENTURY
  

  
    Your entire body locked up.
  

  
    
      “What the f@ck?”
    
     you croaked, voice barely functioning.
  

  
    Next to you, Ellie shifted, groaning as her arm tightened around your waist, pulling you in just a fraction before she mumbled into the cushion, voice thick with sleep, 
    
      “Why’re you talking?”
    
  

  
    You didn’t even process the fact that she was literally
     
    holding
     
    you because you were too busy trying not to pass out.
  

  
    Instagram. You need to check instagram.
  

  
    And then you saw it.
  

  
    Your most recent story.
  

  
    A photo of Ellie.
  

  
    Sitting on the couch, head tilted down, scrolling on her phone. Messy hair, tattoos on full display, one leg tucked up like she owned the place. In front of her? The entire ungodly Taco Bell order. Wrappers, bags, napkins—absolute devastation
    
      .
    
  

  
    And the caption, in bold, unhinged letters:
  

  
    
      she eats like a mf frat boy but somehow still looks hot. life is unfair.
    
  

  
    One hundred 
    
      million
    
     people have already seen it.
  

  
    
      
        “F@CK!”
      
    
  

  
    Ellie shifted again, her fingers skimming your stomach as she let out a sleepy groan. 
    
      “Dude”
    
     she mumbled
    
      . “What now?”
    
  

  
    You turned to her, shoving the phone directly in her face, voice pure horror
    
      .
    
  

  
    
      “You let me post this?!”
    
  

  
    She blinked at the screen. Then blinked again. And then, as if the universe hadn’t already humiliated you enough, she started grinning.
  

  
    It was slow at first, creeping across her face, her shoulders starting to shake—before she full-on lost it. Ellie f@ck@ng cackled
    
      . 
    
    Like, sleep-rough, chest-shaking, burying-her-face-in-the-couch 
    
      dying.
    
  

  
    You smacked her arm.
    
       “THIS IS F@CK@NG SERIOUS!”
    
  

  
    She barely lifted her head, still grinning like an absolute menace. 
  

  
    
      “We smoked another blunt, got drunk, and thought it would be funny.”
    
     She stretched lazily and patted your thigh, voice rough with amusement. 
    
      “So, I guess we’re official now.”
    
  

  
    You smacked her again.'
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