For the Win

A low hum filled the cabin of the SUV as it careened down the winding, tree-lined road. From behind tinted windows, the lush greenery of the countryside blurred into a tapestry of soft browns and vibrant greens—oak, pine, and thick underbrush weaving together in a grand display of nature’s splendor. The world outside was calm, quiet. It was a stark contrast to the frenetic energy of campaign stops, donor galas, and political debates that had dominated the past several months.

Cruz gazed out the passenger-side window, her posture deceptively relaxed. Anyone looking at her profile might have thought she was simply enjoying the scenery. Inside, however, her mind was spinning with to-do lists, future policy speeches, and the instructions Bobby had drilled into her head just that morning. Rest, Cruz. Get some actual rest before your next appearance. The words still rankled, as if she’d somehow lost the ability to manage her own life. But in fairness, the entire campaign team had noticed the signs of burnout. That was how she found herself traveling to this secluded lakeside cabin, miles from the bustle of city life.

“Remind me,” came Aaliyah’s voice from the back seat, “why on earth we’re doing this?” She was perched diagonally, legs crossed, arms folded across her chest with all the rigidity of a guard dog. From her tone, it was clear she believed she had better places to be than wherever this road was leading.

Cruz didn’t immediately turn around. She lifted an eyebrow at her reflection in the window. “Because, my darling wife,”—the way she emphasized the term was half-teasing, half-habit—“the team seems to think I’ll combust if I don’t take a break.”

Aaliyah’s lips parted in a silent scoff. She let out a huff, refusing to let her posture relax. “Let me guess. They insisted on a weekend getaway, and you dragged me along because we’re ‘a happily married couple’ who are always together, right?”

“More or less,” Cruz replied neutrally. She angled her head toward Aaliyah now, catching her scowl. “I didn’t think you’d mind a few days without cameras.”

Aaliyah let silence stretch for a moment. The truth was, she shouldn’t mind. The last month had been an exhausting marathon of photo ops, policy speeches, and superficial smiles for an increasingly watchful public. If she were being honest with herself, a tiny part of her might even be looking forward to shutting off her phone and ignoring the political frenzy. But the bigger, louder part of her hated feeling cornered—like she had no choice but to play along.

She forced a tight smile. “No cameras, but with you around, that’s hardly better.” Her lips twisted in a half-pout, half-smirk. “Given the choice, I’d take the paparazzi.”

The SUV slowed as they reached a narrow turnoff. Within minutes, the vehicle was bumping over uneven gravel, the forest canopy overhead thick enough to dapple the windshield with shifting patterns of sunlight and shade. Eventually, the trees gave way to a clearing, revealing a small, cozy cabin in the distance. Rustic logs formed the walls, and a wraparound porch faced the sparkling waters of a nearby lake.

They pulled up to the cabin, the engine’s rumble diminishing into purring silence. The driver hopped out first, opening the door for Cruz with practiced efficiency. Aaliyah stared out the opposite window, unimpressed by the natural beauty. She would have admitted, if pressed, that the lake was a lovely shade of blue, the air crisp and inviting. But instead, she curled her lip at the view. I don’t do nature. She steeled herself to deliver that exact complaint the moment her feet hit the gravel.

Cruz thanked the driver and stepped out. She flexed her shoulders, turning her head to observe the clearing. A soft breeze ruffled her dark hair, which was pulled back in an Astros hat that still managed to look effortlessly chic. She took a deeper breath—cool, pine-tinged air—and exhaled slowly. Away from the city, the tension in her shoulders eased just a fraction.

Aaliyah emerged next, heels crunching on the gravel. She immediately scrunched her face as a stray insect buzzed near her ear. “Ugh,” she muttered, swatting it away with a flourish. “I really don’t do nature.”

The corners of Cruz’s mouth lifted in a barely-there smile. It was exactly the sort of reaction she’d expected from Aaliyah, who could walk into a five-star hotel and still find something to frown about. She turned to her driver. “You can head back now. Just leave the SUV. I’ll call if we need anything.”

One staffer nodded, his expression impassive. “Yes, ma’am.” Soon enough, the team was in a second vehicle, disappearing back down the gravel road, leaving only a faint cloud of dust in their wake.

Aaliyah crossed her arms tight over her chest and surveyed the lonely cabin. “What, no policy debates in the middle of the woods?” she asked in a slow drawl. “I’m almost disappointed.”

“Not unless the raccoons start lobbying,” Cruz deadpanned, turning on her heel to pull open the back of the SUV. Suitcases, duffels, and various campaign-related boxes were carefully stacked. She hefted one of the bags onto the ground, then another, before shooting Aaliyah a sidelong glance. “Come help me with this.”

Aaliyah, still scowling, nonetheless obliged. She stepped forward, grabbed one of the smaller suitcases, and immediately regretted that it was heavier than she’d expected. “Remind me why you think I should help you?” she muttered under her breath, tugging the bag free.

Cruz’s tone was cool, amused. “Because we’re in this together.”

Aaliyah rolled her eyes. She despised the gentle warmth in Cruz’s voice, the subtle suggestion that they shared a burden. We’re not in anything together; we’re in a political arrangement, she corrected inwardly, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud. Their entire marriage had begun as a strategic farce—something to bolster Cruz’s campaign with a captivating personal storyline. And yet, as time wore on, the boundaries between real and pretend had become… complicated.

“Let’s get these bags inside,” Cruz suggested, her voice gentler now. “I’ll check around to see what supplies we have.”

“Supplies.” Aaliyah puffed out a small, humorless laugh. “You make it sound like we’re forging into the wilderness.”

“Well,” Cruz said, her lips twitching with dry humor, “we kind of are.”

The front porch creaked. The cabin’s exterior was constructed of thick logs; the door itself looked handmade, complete with a carved bear that was either charming or tacky, depending on one’s point of view. Aaliyah paused at the threshold, suspicion creeping through her. The place smelled faintly of cedar. Inside, a wide living room opened up, with high ceilings and a stone fireplace that gave the space a rustic flair. To the right was a kitchenette stocked with basic appliances, and on the far wall, large windows faced out onto the lake, letting in a flood of natural light.

“Wow,” Aaliyah mumbled, blinking at the airy, open layout. She didn’t want to concede that it was actually quite pleasant.

Cruz set her bag down by the couch. “It’s a rental—well, Bobby's friend’s place. He offered it for the weekend.”

Aaliyah’s gaze scanned the interior. Plush, neutral-toned furniture, a simple rug, and a small dining area. It wasn’t a luxury resort, but it wasn’t the ramshackle hut she’d expected, either. “Does he also have personal chefs and housekeeping we can call on?” she joked, raising a brow.

“’Fraid not.” Cruz kicked off her shoes near the door, leaving them lined up neatly. “We’ll have to fend for ourselves.”

Aaliyah grumbled something incomprehensible. Her arms were still crossed, hugging her torso like a shield. She scanned for insects, dust, or any other irritant that could sabotage this so-called relaxing weekend. I don’t do nature, she reminded herself. She wouldn’t let her guard down.

“You know,” Cruz offered, attempting a lighter tone, “if you want to wait in the car until I do a sweep, I can let you know if there are any spiders the size of your hand.”

Aaliyah snapped her gaze to her. “I don’t need coddling. Just because I hate being out in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean I can’t handle it.”

“Noted,” Cruz replied. “Tell the trees to pack up and go home.”

The line earned a sharp exhale from Aaliyah—something between a scoff and a laugh she refused to fully release. “You’re incredibly irritating.”

“I aim to please,” Cruz said, meeting Aaliyah’s eyes with a teasing glint. Their stares held for a moment, an unspoken flicker of awareness passing between them. Then Cruz looked away, clearing her throat. “Let me get the rest of the bags. You can, uh, pick a bedroom if you want.”

Aaliyah shrugged and wandered deeper into the cabin. The living room fed into a short hallway, off of which were two doors. She tested one—inside was a modest bedroom with a queen-sized bed, a patchwork quilt, and a small side table. Large windows overlooked the surrounding pine trees. Cozy, in a rural-chic kind of way. She made a mental note that the décor wasn’t as offensively rustic as she’d feared.

She moved to the second door. It opened into a slightly larger bedroom—probably the primary—where big windows offered a panoramic view of the lake. The bed was a wooden four-poster, the comforter in soothing blues. A second door revealed a small en suite bathroom. At least I can shower without some creature popping out at me. Aaliyah’s shoulders loosened by a fraction.

In the living room, the door swung open once more. Cruz staggered in with an armful of groceries. “Can you—?” she managed, nodding toward the kitchenette.

Aaliyah walked over—still barefoot on the plush rug—and opened the fridge. They began a silent dance of unloading produce, bottled water, a carton of eggs, and various other essentials. Every so often, their fingers brushed when handing items back and forth. Each time, Aaliyah’s eyes flicked up, only to find Cruz looking somewhere else, an oddly intent expression on her face, as if she was willing herself not to notice.

Finally, when the groceries were stashed away, Cruz took a breath and leaned on the kitchen counter. “So… we’re here,” she said, as though that explained everything and nothing at once.

“Delightful,” Aaliyah deadpanned.

“Look, I know you’re not a big fan of the outdoors,” Cruz ventured, choosing her words carefully. “But we’re only here for a couple of days. Then it’s back to the usual madness.”

Aaliyah’s shoulders tensed. She recognized the attempt at reassurance. “Right,” she said softly, forcing herself to look at Cruz. In the gentle daylight that filtered through the windows, Cruz’s features softened—her lashes casting faint shadows on high cheekbones, her posture more relaxed than usual. She wasn’t in her typical power suit, either; her attire was casual, a simple long-sleeved top and jeans, though she wore them with the same poised confidence she displayed on stage.

For a fleeting instant, Aaliyah felt disarmed. Out here, with no press hounding them, no staffers scuttling around, Cruz seemed like an almost… normal person. Almost. She quickly pushed the thought away.

Cruz caught the shift in Aaliyah’s expression and tilted her head. “Do you want first dibs on the shower?” she asked, changing the subject to avoid the awkward lull.

Aaliyah half-shrugged. “Maybe later. I need to figure out the nearest Wi-Fi hotspot. Please tell me this cabin isn’t cut off from civilization entirely.”

“There’s basic Wi-Fi. Might not be fast enough for streaming, but you can check your emails at least,” Cruz replied, rummaging in a paper bag. She pulled out a small slip of paper. “The password’s here if you need it.”

Aaliyah accepted the scrap of paper. “Good. I can still get some work done.”

That earned a small, knowing smile from Cruz. “Work, hmm?”

Aaliyah narrowed her eyes at the tone. “Yes, work. I know you can’t fathom me doing anything that isn’t directly beneficial to your poll numbers, but I happen to have my own life, too.”

Cruz bristled slightly at the barb. “I never said you didn’t,” she replied, voice carefully neutral. “I’m not your enemy, you know.”

Aaliyah glanced away. Sometimes she forgot that Cruz was just as trapped in this charade as she was. On the surface, it was all about forging a power couple image to sway voters—something the campaign believed would humanize Cruz and soften her edges. But the reality of constantly pretending a seamless marriage weighed on both of them in different ways. Aaliyah found herself torn between annoyance and… a reluctant fascination.

Determined not to dwell on that last thought, Aaliyah cleared her throat. “I’ll check out the rest of the house,” she said, pivoting away without waiting for a response.

She paced down the hallway again, taking a closer look at the second bedroom. It was smaller—likely intended as a guest room—but still neat, with warm lighting. She weighed her options, considering whether to stake her claim here, just to avoid any presumption they’d sleep in the same bed. The thought of sharing a bed with Cruz, even just for appearances, made her pulse flutter in a way she didn’t want to recognize.

In the living area, Cruz busied herself unpacking non-perishables. She felt a swirl of conflicting emotions. Part of her was relieved at the quiet. Another part was uneasy about the tensions stirring beneath the surface. Though she tried to maintain a calm, unflappable front, she was acutely aware of Aaliyah’s simmering annoyance. It’s a start, she told herself. A quiet weekend can’t possibly be more stressful than the campaign. But her own thoughts betrayed her. She imagined the next press event, the next wave of donors, the next crisis.

Finally, the clatter of Aaliyah’s suitcase wheels against the wooden floor pulled Cruz from her reverie. She watched as Aaliyah dragged her luggage from the hallway and made a beeline for the front door. “Where are you going?” Cruz asked, voice tinged with mild curiosity.

Aaliyah paused, setting the suitcase upright near the door. “I need fresh air.”

“Fresh air.” Cruz lifted an eyebrow. “So you’re stepping outside the cabin to get fresh air, while complaining you don’t do nature?”

“Don’t push me,” Aaliyah retorted, but it lacked bite. She tugged open the screen door and stepped onto the porch, arms folded defensively. Crisp air greeted her, carrying hints of pine needles, damp earth, and lake water. It was… not terrible. She inhaled, letting the quiet seep in, and found the tension in her shoulders easing by increments.

Cruz hovered in the doorway, leaning against the frame. The old wood creaked under her shift of weight. “You know, it might actually help if you tried to relax.”

Aaliyah eyed the horizon, where sunlight glinted off the lake’s surface in dazzling, shifting sparkles. “I don’t do relaxing,” she said at last, but the line sounded weak, as if she were trying to convince herself more than Cruz.

Behind them, the interior of the cabin was bathed in warm afternoon light. An ancient rocking chair sat at one corner of the porch, its paint peeling in a few spots. Aaliyah eyed it skeptically before deciding it was sturdy enough to support her. She perched on the edge, resting her elbows on her knees.

Cruz stepped outside fully, letting the screen door snap shut behind her. She took a seat on the porch railing, crossing one ankle over the other. The air between them buzzed with an undercurrent of tension, though neither wanted to name it. In the distance, the faint call of a loon echoed across the water, lending the scene an almost serene quality.

Aaliyah locked her gaze on the lake. “What’s the plan? Are we just supposed to… exist here until Monday?”

Cruz shrugged, her posture deceptively casual. “That’s the idea. Maybe go for a walk, read a book. Recharge. It wouldn’t kill you, you know.”

Aaliyah shot her a side glance, mischief sparking briefly. “You say that, but I might spontaneously combust from boredom.”

“If you need excitement, we can always sign you up for a wilderness survival course,” Cruz teased lightly. “You’d get to wrestle bears, forage for berries—”

“Not funny,” Aaliyah cut in, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips before she could help it. She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She’d worn her hair in a neat twist that morning, but the humidity was making stray curls rebel against the style. The frustration of it made her scowl again. This is why I hate the outdoors.

Cruz watched the flicker of annoyance cross Aaliyah’s face. Her own expression gentled. She found a curious admiration for how Aaliyah, even at her crankiest, radiated a certain refined elegance. The breeze toyed with the collar of Aaliyah’s blouse. Cruz had to force herself not to stare.

Clearing her throat, Cruz reached for a topic that felt safe. “I’ll make dinner tonight. We’ve got fresh vegetables, some pasta—simple stuff. The stove’s electric, so no need to gather firewood.”

Aaliyah rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched as though suppressing a grin. “Wow, dinner made by the beloved candidate herself. I’m honored.”

“You should be,” Cruz quipped. “I’m not half bad in the kitchen.”

“I’ll reserve judgment,” Aaliyah said archly.

They lingered in silence for a moment, each lost in her own thoughts. It struck Aaliyah how quiet it was out here. No distant city sirens, no thrumming traffic, no staffers hustling through hallways or murmured phone calls at all hours. She could practically feel her pulse slow. Which is dangerous, she thought, because once the world quieted down, there was too much room left for thinking—thinking about the increasingly complicated interplay of resentment and attraction that had defined her relationship with Cruz ever since this entire marriage fiasco began.

Tucking that unwelcome realization away, Aaliyah stood abruptly. “I might as well see the rest of the property,” she announced, turning toward the wooden steps that led from the porch down onto a path to the lake. “No time like the present, right?”

Cruz slid down from the railing, her sneakers crunching on the porch. “I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t you have a campaign to micromanage from your phone?”

Cruz shrugged, giving Aaliyah a level look. “They can survive without me for a couple of hours. It’s literally the whole point of this trip.” She gestured to the path. “Lead the way.”

With a resigned sigh, Aaliyah started forward. Cruz fell into step beside her, boots quiet on the worn wooden steps, the cabin behind them now overshadowed by towering pine trees that ringed the property. The winding trail was bordered by ferns, forest floor moss, and the occasional patch of wildflowers, their delicate petals nodding in the breeze. It was, admittedly, a lovely scene. Aaliyah wondered if she could let herself enjoy it just a fraction, or if that would be giving in too much.

Every so often, Cruz’s arm would brush against Aaliyah’s. The path wasn’t particularly narrow, but Aaliyah insisted on walking with her arms folded, leaving her little room to maneuver. She huffed, sidestepping a gnarled root that jutted from the earth.

At one point, Cruz caught her elbow gently to steady her when she stumbled. Aaliyah’s first instinct was to jerk away, bristling at the contact. But the motion was so smooth, so unassuming, that she only managed a faint glare in response. “I’m fine,” she said, injecting more annoyance into her voice than she felt.

Cruz lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Just being polite.”

“Don’t,” Aaliyah snapped, though her cheeks felt warm. Her mind reeled, hating how a simple touch from Cruz could spark an inexplicable heat in her gut. She forced herself to quicken her pace, putting some distance between them.

The trail opened up to a small clearing near the lake’s edge. Long grass and cattails fringed the water, while a solitary wooden dock jutted into the lake itself. The water shone under the afternoon sunlight, disturbingly pristine to Aaliyah’s urban sensibilities.

“Well,” Cruz murmured, sweeping her gaze across the scene, “I guess if we have to be stuck somewhere, it’s not the worst place.”

Aaliyah exhaled, half in agreement, half in denial. She stepped closer to the water’s edge. “It’s quiet,” she said at last, voice subdued. A swirl of thoughts tumbled behind her eyes—how she felt caged by the farce of their marriage, yet oddly anchored by Cruz’s presence. Was that possible? She ran a hand over her face.

Cruz, noticing her shift in mood, decided not to press the issue. She simply joined Aaliyah at the water’s edge, hooking her thumbs in her pockets. The hush enveloped them again. A cool breeze stirred, rustling the leaves overhead, and the late afternoon sun shone gold upon the still surface of the lake.

In that fleeting moment, they stood there, two people bound by an arrangement neither fully liked nor fully hated, each battling an undercurrent of emotions they barely understood. The campaign, the politics, the staged smiles—it all felt a million miles away.

Finally, Cruz broke the silence. “I suppose we should head back and get settled in.”

Aaliyah nodded. She could almost feel the tension in her limbs; relaxing wasn’t her forte, but she conceded that continuing to stand here, feeling… whatever this was, wasn’t exactly comfortable either. “Fine,” she said crisply.

They walked back toward the cabin, side by side. Where earlier there had been jabs and spiky banter, now there was a low, companionable quiet—still tinged with wary tension, but calmer, as though each recognized that the next few days would demand a different sort of performance. There would be no audience here, no cameras. Just them, and the pretense they were still bound to maintain for when Monday rolled around and the campaign resumed.

Yet inside Aaliyah’s mind, a thought lingered: It’s only a couple of days, right? How hard can it be to keep acting like I can’t stand her? She felt her stomach twist at the reminder that part of her annoyance might not be entirely real anymore. No, she told herself, stepping onto the porch once more. I’m just tired, that’s all.

Cruz held the cabin door open for her. She made no smarmy remark, offered no sly grin. Aaliyah swept past with her chin raised. But before she could disappear down the hall to confirm which bedroom she’d chosen, she paused at the threshold, feeling the weight of Cruz’s gaze.

“What is it?” she asked, turning slightly.

For an instant, Cruz seemed hesitant. Then she smoothed her expression into something controlled. “Just… thanks for coming, I guess,” she said quietly. “I know you didn’t have much of a choice, but—still.”

Aaliyah shrugged, uncertain how to respond. A dismissive retort almost rolled off her tongue, but it died before it could form. “Yeah,” she managed, her voice gentler than she intended. She cleared her throat. “Well, I’m here.”

The corners of Cruz’s mouth lifted in a small, genuine smile—no teasing, no mask of political charm. It was just a faint curve of her lips, but it momentarily disarmed Aaliyah, who turned away quickly to hide the flicker of warmth in her cheeks. She walked down the hallway, missing the slightly confused, almost fond look that passed over Cruz’s face in the quiet that remained.

In the bedroom, Aaliyah pressed the door shut with a near-silent click. She leaned her back against it, forcing her pulse to settle. Outside, she could hear Cruz’s muted footsteps crossing the living room, the rustle of a grocery bag, perhaps the clink of a glass. The evening was still ahead, and the weekend promised more opportunities for forced proximity. But for now, Aaliyah allowed herself a moment to simply breathe in the hush.

Outside, late-day sunlight skimmed over the lake’s surface, gilding the waves as they softly lapped the shore. Inside, one woman stood by the door, arms folded protectively, heart drumming in her chest, and another woman lingered in the kitchen, mind churning with campaign obligations and unread messages. Neither fully admitted the pull they felt, or the faint sense of relief at not having to face the cameras, or the entire world, for a few days.

It wasn’t peace exactly, and it certainly wasn’t comfort—but it was a pause. A forced retreat. Time to breathe before the whirlwind resumed.

Aaliyah awoke the next morning to the gentle patter of rain against the cabin’s tin roof. Faint light seeped through the drawn curtains, illuminating the bedroom in a watery glow. She blinked, momentarily disoriented by the rustic surroundings—log walls, the faint scent of cedar, the plush, uneven rug beneath her bare feet as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Only then did she recall where she was: a secluded lakeside cabin, voluntarily off the campaign trail, stuck for an entire weekend with the woman she was supposed to be married to but who, in reality, drove her halfway to madness.

She buried her face in her hands and exhaled slowly, as if that single breath might somehow dissipate the tangle of tension in her chest. This was supposed to be simple, she reminded herself. We show up, pretend to be the perfect political spouses, and let the cameras keep spinning. But there were no cameras here—no forced photo ops or scheduled interviews. Just the knowledge that she had to cohabitate with Cruz in close quarters for two more days, away from the watchful eye of the public.

The memory of yesterday’s arrival flickered through her mind: the hush of the forest, the scuff of her shoes on the porch, the half-joking, half-exasperated banter she and Cruz had volleyed back and forth. And behind every word, an undercurrent she couldn’t name. Stop, she told herself. Dwelling on it wouldn’t help.

She stood, grabbed a robe from where she’d slung it over a chair, and padded to the bedroom door. The cabin was still. Possibly Cruz was still asleep—or perhaps already awake, tapping on her phone to manage campaign chaos from afar. The thought of Cruz, anywhere in this cabin, sent an uncomfortable flutter through Aaliyah’s stomach. She drew a steadying breath, then opened the door.

The living area was illuminated by muted morning light filtering through the wide windows. Outside, the rain had tapered to a misty drizzle, and the tall pine trees wavered in a gentle breeze. Aaliyah spotted Cruz in the kitchen, already dressed, rummaging through cabinets in search of coffee filters. She wore a simple dark henley, sleeves pushed back to her elbows, and a pair of worn jeans. Her hair was tied loosely, a few dark strands falling around her face. Even from this distance, Aaliyah noted how comfortable she looked—casual in a way the public rarely got to see. It irritated her more than she wanted to admit.

Aaliyah lingered, half-hidden by the hallway wall, eyes trailing over the broad line of Cruz’s shoulders and the hint of toned forearms where her sleeves were rolled. Unreasonably attractive. That’s how Aaliyah’s mind cataloged Cruz at that moment. She didn’t want to find her appealing—didn’t want to notice the smooth way she moved or the soft shape of her neck. Yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away. A surge of annoyance rose in her chest, directed as much toward herself as it was toward Cruz. This was never part of the deal.

Shaking off the unwelcome warmth spreading through her, Aaliyah cleared her throat and stepped into the kitchen. “Morning,” she said curtly, tying her robe sash a bit tighter.

Cruz’s head snapped up, eyes flicking toward her. In the daylight, Cruz’s gaze was a dark brown, with just a hint of gold near the iris. “Morning,” she answered with the faintest smile, holding up a box of coffee grounds. “I was just about to make a pot. You want some?”

Aaliyah nodded, trying to keep her expression indifferent. “Sure.” Then she made the mistake of letting her gaze stray to Cruz’s arms again, noticing the slight flex of muscle as she opened a jar. Stop staring. Heat flushed her cheeks. Abruptly, Aaliyah turned toward the window, pretending to admire the view.

She told herself it was the crisp mountain air making her face feel warm. Not Cruz. Definitely not the way Cruz’s hair fell across her forehead or how her voice dipped, ever so slightly, when she spoke in those low morning tones. I hate that you look that good in simple clothes, Aaliyah thought, wrestling the words into silence.

“Is the bedroom comfortable enough?” Cruz asked after a moment, awkwardly polite. The drip coffeemaker gurgled in the background, a soothing, mundane noise.

“It’s fine,” Aaliyah replied, crossing her arms in a subconscious defensive posture. “Better than I expected.”

A flicker of amusement touched Cruz’s lips. “Glad to hear it.”

They stood in a fragile silence, the only sound the steady drip of coffee filling the pot. Aaliyah’s eyes drifted back to Cruz—she couldn’t help it. She was close now, leaning against the counter, one hand braced on the granite. The morning light slid across Cruz’s cheekbones, highlighting a subtle tension in her jaw. She might have been lost in thought, or maybe just enjoying the quiet. Either way, she exuded a calm confidence that set Aaliyah’s nerves on edge. Why was she so composed when Aaliyah felt like her insides were coiled?

Finally, the coffeemaker beeped. Cruz poured two mugs, offered one to Aaliyah. Their fingers brushed. That brief contact shot a jolt through Aaliyah’s nerves. She tried to recoil gracefully, but it was too late—she’d lingered half a second too long, letting the warmth of Cruz’s skin register against hers. Why is your hand so warm?

“Thanks,” Aaliyah muttered, gripping the mug in both hands, if only to keep them from trembling.

Cruz gave her a mild, knowing look, but said nothing. She took a cautious sip, eyes never leaving Aaliyah’s. The tension was stifling, thick enough that Aaliyah was sure the simplest comment might fracture the quiet between them. Seeking an escape, she turned and stalked out onto the porch.

After a light breakfast—scrambled eggs and toast, which they ate with minimal conversation—Aaliyah found herself cornered by Cruz’s suggestion of a “walk by the water” to enjoy the clearing skies. Supposedly, the drizzle had passed, and the day would brighten soon. Aaliyah couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to decline, so she eventually changed into a pair of sneakers and ventured out onto the trail behind the cabin.

The forest was damp, the earth smelling of pine needles and fresh rain. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, casting dappled patterns on the ground. Cruz walked in an easy stride just ahead, pointing out the occasional landmark—a moss-covered stump here, a patch of wildflowers there. The quiet hush of the woods felt both peaceful and nerve-wracking. Peaceful, because there was no one around to judge them—nerve-wracking, because it left Aaliyah with too much headspace to dwell on how Cruz’s shoulders tapered to her waist, or how her jeans hugged her hips in a way that made Aaliyah’s pulse stutter.

At one point, Cruz paused to let Aaliyah catch up, handing her a fresh bottle of water. “Here,” she said softly, arm extended.

Aaliyah reached out, intending to snatch the bottle quickly, but somehow her fingers brushed against Cruz’s for a little too long—skin on skin, warm and intimate. She felt an embarrassing rush of heat crawl up her neck. She swallowed, dropping her gaze to the ground as she accepted the water. “Thanks,” she murmured, trying to sound bored instead of flustered.

They continued along the trail, which sloped gently downward toward the lakeshore. The recent rain made some patches slippery with mud. Aaliyah navigated them with careful steps, determined not to stumble or look incompetent in front of Cruz. I can handle a simple forest path. It’s not rocket science. But a stray root snagged her toe, sending her pitching forward with a muffled curse.

Cruz reacted swiftly, an arm darting out to catch Aaliyah around the waist. Her grip was firm, stabilizing them both. For a single electric second, Aaliyah found herself pressed against Cruz’s side, their faces far too close. She smelled hints of laundry detergent and the faint musk of Cruz’s skin. Her heart hammered alarmingly fast.

“I had that handled,” she snapped once she was steady, stepping away with as much dignity as she could muster. But her cheeks still burned.

Cruz offered a small, knowing hum, her voice somehow both gentle and teasing. “Mmm, sure.” She didn’t press it further, but her gaze lingered a moment on Aaliyah’s face—long enough that Aaliyah felt as though her skin were under a spotlight. She turned away, pretending intense interest in a nearby patch of ferns to hide the flush creeping up her neck.

Even after they resumed walking, the ghost of Cruz’s hand on her waist remained vividly imprinted on Aaliyah’s consciousness. She had felt something—an odd, fluttery jolt that went beyond mere physical contact. It simmered, lingering around her ribcage, refusing to be ignored. She resented it, that spark of attraction that threatened to unravel all the walls she’d painstakingly built. I can’t let this happen. Their marriage was an act, a stunt. She repeated the reminder to herself like a mantra: It isn’t real—this isn’t real.

But the convincing was harder than it should have been.

By midday, the clouds cleared out entirely, giving way to sunbeams that danced across the lake’s surface. Cruz, encouraged by the pleasant weather, suggested they take out the canoe that was tethered to the small dock. Aaliyah balked, claiming she had no interest in gliding across a body of water in a flimsy boat, but Cruz, with infuriating calmness, pointed out that they had nothing else to do. “You want to be cooped up in the cabin all day?” she’d asked, arching a brow.

Aaliyah, unwilling to admit she was half-curious to see more of the lake, rolled her eyes and agreed. “Fine,” she said tartly. “But if it tips over, I’m blaming you.”

Cruz smirked. “Deal.”

Aaliyah soon found herself perched in the middle of a sturdy aluminum canoe, the soft sound of water rippling around them as Cruz guided the vessel away from the dock with sure, practiced strokes of the paddle. Gentle waves lapped against the hull, sending a cooling mist over Aaliyah’s arms every so often. She tried to remain aloof, ignoring the mesmerizing shift of Cruz’s shoulder muscles as she paddled, the way her henley sleeves were pushed up, exposing the strong lines of her forearms.

Why does she have to be so good at everything? Aaliyah wondered irritably, pivoting to glance out at the tree line instead. The lake surface gleamed under the midday sun, flecks of light dancing like tiny sparks. Birds skimmed low, calling out in short, chirpy bursts. The world felt peaceful—too peaceful.

They reached a calm stretch near the opposite shore, ringed by tall grasses. Cruz paused in her paddling, letting the canoe drift on the gentle current. “Not bad, right?” she remarked quietly, looking around.

Aaliyah wanted to argue or roll her eyes. Instead, she muttered, “It’s… nice.” Then, because she loathed the honesty in that statement, she added, “Though I could do without the wildlife. If a frog jumps in here, I’m out.”

Cruz chuckled softly, her gaze briefly flicking over Aaliyah’s face. “Noted. No frogs allowed.”

A comfortable lull settled. Though the tension persisted—an undercurrent beneath every exchange—Aaliyah found herself momentarily distracted by the beauty of the place. She could almost forget they were polar opposites turned reluctant partners in a PR scheme. Almost.

But then she shifted her weight to peer at something in the water, and the canoe tilted precariously. With a sharp intake of breath, Aaliyah instinctively leaned toward Cruz to steady herself. Her hand found Cruz’s shoulder, and her torso pressed against Cruz’s arm. As soon as she realized how close they were, her stomach twisted. She should have moved away—she meant to move away. Instead, she lingered, feigning that she needed an extra moment for balance.

Cruz tensed under the contact, eyes fixed forward, lips slightly parted as though searching for words. For a heartbeat, neither moved nor spoke. Aaliyah felt the warmth of Cruz’s body, the rise and fall of her breathing, the subtle shift in her posture. That same electrical current she’d felt earlier crackled between them, sharper now as the canoe drifted lazily.

Aaliyah smirked, letting her hand slide down Cruz’s arm before pulling away. “Whoops,” she said, voice feigning innocence. “I guess I lost my balance.”

Cruz exhaled. “It’s alright,” she answered, but her voice was a fraction lower than usual. Almost husky. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, as though verifying that no one else was around to witness the moment.

Aaliyah arched a brow, refusing to look away. She didn’t have to say anything; the small, suggestive curl of her lips said it all: I’m testing you. They continued floating on the water, and an unspoken challenge pulsed between them. Aaliyah’s heart thumped louder in her ears as if in answer.

Deciding not to escalate it further, Cruz cleared her throat and resumed paddling, guiding them back toward the center of the lake. Aaliyah slowly released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She stared at Cruz’s strong back, the curve of her neck. Why does this feel more dangerous than any campaign rally? she wondered, pressing her hand firmly against her own thigh to keep it from betraying her again.

They paddled for another half hour, mostly in silence, with only the rhythmic dip of the oar and the soft lapping of water against metal to fill the quiet. It was strangely companionable—if not for the swirl of conflicting emotions churning within Aaliyah. When they reached the dock, Cruz hopped out first, steadying the canoe so Aaliyah could follow. She extended a hand, and though Aaliyah hesitated, she eventually let Cruz help her onto the wooden planks.

The second their hands connected, Aaliyah found her gaze pinned to Cruz’s face. She couldn’t seem to look away, and for once, Cruz met her gaze openly, her dark eyes reflecting the sunlight. A swirl of meaning simmered in that look—questions unasked, answers avoided. Aaliyah’s breath caught, just for an instant.

She was the first to break eye contact, snatching her hand away and brushing imaginary dust off her pants. “Thanks,” she said, hastily moving past Cruz to climb onto the dock. She could sense Cruz’s gaze still on her, but she refused to turn around.

This is turning into a problem. The thought crystallized in her mind as they trudged up the path back to the cabin. She felt a faint sheen of sweat on her brow, partly from the midday heat and partly from the tension building inside her. She reminded herself again: It’s just a game, just a façade. If she found Cruz attractive, that was no one’s fault but her own. She needed to keep her composure, or risk unraveling everything.

--

By late afternoon, the sun hung high in the sky, baking away the last traces of the morning’s rain. Although the cabin was air-conditioned, Cruz opted to open the windows, letting in a fresh breeze. This gave the place a light, airy feel that almost made Aaliyah forget her reluctance about being here.

Almost.

They’d decided—somewhat wordlessly—that they’d cook dinner together. Aaliyah rummaged through the fridge, collecting vegetables for a stir-fry. Cruz busied herself slicing chicken and setting up a small pot of rice on the stove.

As they maneuvered around the cramped kitchen, their bodies brushed in passing. Aaliyah made no attempt to minimize contact. If anything, she stepped closer than necessary, wearing a subtle smirk. She could sense Cruz’s attention drifting her way each time she reached for a spoon or slid past to open a cabinet.

“Oh,” Aaliyah said at one point, leaning casually against Cruz’s shoulder when they both reached for the pepper. “Am I in your way?” Her voice was all saccharine innocence, but her eyes danced with mischief.

Cruz stilled, the tension thrumming through her. Slowly, she turned to face Aaliyah, their proximity forcing her to tilt her head downward. “You know you are,” she murmured, voice dropping an octave.

That simple reply made Aaliyah’s heart pound treacherously. She forced herself to maintain her composure, leveling a cool smirk. “Oops,” she said, not moving an inch. She could feel the warmth radiating from Cruz, and the quiet challenge in those dark eyes was almost enough to make her lean in.

Moments later, Aaliyah pivoted away. She felt the shift in Cruz’s breath, almost a sigh of relief or frustration—maybe both. Pretending not to notice, Aaliyah busied herself with rinsing vegetables in the sink. This is a game, she told herself again. If I push, how much will Cruz bend? A playful part of her wanted to find out.

They worked in a strained dance, side by side at the countertop, chopping and seasoning. Every time Aaliyah moved her arm, she let it brush lightly against Cruz’s. Every time Cruz set something down, Aaliyah shifted so their shoulders would nudge. The air between them crackled with a tension neither acknowledged aloud.

Cruz, for her part, tried to remain calm, focusing on the task at hand. She cut the chicken into uniform strips, occasionally dropping them into a skillet. But each time Aaliyah’s elbow grazed her side, or her hip bumped Cruz’s, she felt a stirring in her stomach she couldn’t quite quell. She held her breath, refusing to yield ground. Two can play at that game, she thought. The only difference was that Cruz wasn’t sure what the rules were. This—flirtation?—was new, unexpected, and everything about it set her nerves on edge.

Eventually, Aaliyah set the knife down, brushed her palms together, and turned. Cruz felt the presence behind her before she heard Aaliyah speak. “Hold still,” Aaliyah instructed, unprompted.

Cruz froze. “What—?”

Aaliyah reached up, flicking invisible lint from Cruz’s sleeve. It wasn’t there, not really; Cruz realized that a split second too late. Her eyes narrowed. Aaliyah’s face was inches from hers, every angle sharpened by the overhead light. She wore the faintest smug grin, as though delighting in the effect this was having.

“You done?” Cruz asked, voice taut, refusing to move.

Aaliyah let her hand linger on Cruz’s upper arm, nails just barely grazing the fabric. Her lips curved in a slow, lazy smile. “Not even close,” she said softly, letting the words hang in the air between them.

Their gazes locked. In that charged silence, the sizzling of the pan behind them sounded distant—an inconsequential backdrop to the sudden surge of tension. Aaliyah couldn’t help but notice the rhythmic rise and fall of Cruz’s chest, the shifting muscles in her throat as she swallowed. A prickle of awareness skimmed over Aaliyah’s own skin, sending her heart thrumming faster.

She almost leaned in. Almost.

A sudden hiss broke the moment—the chicken spitting in the hot skillet, threatening to burn if left unattended. Cruz startled, turning her attention back to the stove. She grabbed a wooden spatula, stirring hastily. “We should… We should take this off the heat,” she said, voice cracking slightly as she struggled to regain composure.

Aaliyah stepped back, arms folded, her pulse still pounding. She forced a half-laugh to break the tension. “Don’t want to ruin dinner, now do we?”

Cruz exhaled, her shoulders visibly relaxing as she focused on cooking. “Definitely not,” she murmured. But she risked a quick glance at Aaliyah, who was leaning against the counter with a triumphant glint in her eyes, clearly savoring the small victory.

Dinner came together smoothly enough. Aaliyah set the table, partly to escape the charged atmosphere in the kitchen. Her mind raced with the day’s events—each instance where she’d brushed against Cruz, the subtle tension in Cruz’s voice each time she responded. This is dangerous, a voice inside warned.

Over the years, Aaliyah had prided herself on her self-control. She’d endured countless interviews, political gatherings, and press conferences without ever betraying her true feelings. Now, in a quiet cabin away from prying eyes, she felt that control slipping each time Cruz so much as breathed too close to her. The constant back-and-forth of banter and accidental contact was messing with her head.

She tried to focus on the meal, on the tangy aroma of stir-fried peppers, on the warm glow of the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows. Yet her thoughts kept circling back to the memory of Cruz’s hand catching her waist on the trail, the strong curve of her shoulder as she paddled the canoe, and the firm line of her arm brushing Aaliyah’s in the kitchen. She’s driving me crazy, Aaliyah thought, swallowing hard. And worse, I might actually be letting her.

Glancing at her reflection in the small mirror across the room, Aaliyah saw the slight flush in her cheeks. She recognized that look—she’d seen it once or twice when she was genuinely into someone. But she pushed the realization down, refusing to label it. It’s the newness of it all, she rationalized. We’ve never had to spend time alone together, not like this. She was just reacting to an unfamiliar situation. That was all.

They sat across from each other at the small dining table. The overhead lamp cast a soft glow, creating an unexpectedly intimate ambiance. A long silence settled, punctuated only by the clink of cutlery against plates.

“This is good,” Aaliyah admitted eventually, tasting a bite of the stir-fry. The flavors mingled well—a hint of spice cut by the sweetness of the peppers.

Cruz nodded. “Thanks. Could use a bit more chili sauce, though.” She rose, retrieving the small bottle from the counter. As she returned to the table, she hesitated, then set the bottle down near Aaliyah’s plate. Their eyes locked, and a flicker of tension lit the air again.

Aaliyah busied herself with adjusting her napkin, ignoring the swirl in her stomach. “I’m fine with the heat,” she said. “But maybe you should add more on your plate. You can handle it, right?”

Cruz lifted a brow at the challenge, pouring a generous dollop of chili sauce onto her meal. She took a bite without so much as a flinch. “Yes,” she replied mildly, “I can handle it.

Aaliyah sipped her water, waging an internal war with the excitement thrumming in her chest. She liked this side of Cruz—cool, confident, unfazed by challenges. It was the same trait that once infuriated her during debates, but now, in this personal setting, it was… unsettlingly attractive.

They continued eating in relative silence, but the tension never abated. Each time their gazes met, a silent current rippled, stirring memories of every unintentional touch that day. The canoe ride, the brushing of arms in the kitchen, the pretend lint on Cruz’s sleeve. Aaliyah could feel the air crackle with unacknowledged possibilities.

This can’t go anywhere, she repeated in her mind. She was in too deep already. Letting it progress further would only complicate everything. Yet the moment she tried to douse the flame, the memory of Cruz’s hand on her waist or the flutter in her chest when their eyes locked would flare again, distracting her from all her best intentions.

Finally, Cruz spoke, voice soft. “You okay?” She had the look of someone who was half concerned, half testing the waters.

Aaliyah gave a dismissive shrug. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem… tense.” Cruz set her fork down, leaning back in her chair. The posture looked casual, but there was a keen alertness in her eyes.

“Because I’m in the middle of nowhere,” Aaliyah answered, deflecting with a roll of her eyes, “with you.”

“Ouch,” Cruz said, though her tone wasn’t wounded—it carried a hint of amusement.

Aaliyah stabbed a piece of chicken, not meeting Cruz’s eyes. “You asked. I’m just giving you an honest answer.”

For a moment, it felt like they were back in the city, exchanging barbed remarks at a campaign event. But the undercurrent of attraction spoiled the effect. This wasn’t simply banter about poll numbers or public image. It was something rawer, personal. Aaliyah’s hand trembled ever so slightly as she lifted her fork to her mouth.

Cruz gave a short nod, exhaling. “Right. Well, I guess we’ll just have to survive this weekend anyway.”

Aaliyah risked a glance upward. “It’s not like I have a choice.”

Her words were defiant, but she couldn’t ignore the pang of disappointment that accompanied them. Somewhere deep down, she recognized a traitorous part of her didn’t mind being stuck here with Cruz—found the tension addictive, the back-and-forth charged with a low hum that had her heart pounding. But admitting that was out of the question, so she shoved it aside.

Once the dishes were done—Cruz washed, Aaliyah dried—they retreated to their separate corners of the cabin. Cruz took a seat on the worn couch in the living room, phone in hand. Likely checking campaign updates or responding to messages from her staff. Aaliyah hovered by the kitchen table, flipping aimlessly through the pages of a home décor magazine she found stashed in a drawer. Her eyes didn’t register any of the pictures or text. She was too busy replaying every subtle moment from the day.

The unintentional touches left her mind spinning. She couldn’t decide if she was the cat or the mouse in this dynamic—couldn’t decide if she was taunting Cruz or setting herself up for disaster. Each time she glanced at Cruz, a small jolt of attraction rippled through her, tempered by annoyance. I refuse to fall for her, she thought stubbornly. I won’t. Except she wasn’t entirely sure that was still in her control.

Eventually, she couldn’t bear the suffocating silence any longer. She snapped the magazine shut and walked over to the living room, dropping into a chair across from Cruz. “How’s the campaign crisis management going?” she asked, affecting disinterest. “Is the world ending because you’re not there to supervise every detail?”

Cruz’s eyebrows flicked up. She glanced at her phone, then set it aside. “No urgent disasters yet,” she replied, lips curving in a faint smile. “I think they can handle things without me for a few days.”

Aaliyah stretched her legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “Fascinating.”

They stared at each other for a moment. A soft breeze wafted in through the open windows, carrying the scent of pine and cooling the day’s lingering warmth. The sense of stillness in the cabin was unnerving—no city traffic, no crowds, no staffers. Just them, with nowhere to hide from one another.

Cruz leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You’re awfully quiet tonight,” she remarked, as though testing the temperature of the room.

Aaliyah gave a half-shrug. “Busy day.”

“Mmm.” Cruz’s gaze dropped to Aaliyah’s hands, folded in her lap. “It has been.”

Silence stretched again. Aaliyah resisted the urge to fill it with idle chatter. She caught herself tapping her foot lightly, an anxious habit. When she realized Cruz was noticing, she forced herself to still.

“So,” Cruz said eventually, “I was thinking of going out to the porch for a bit, just to read or… something. If you want to join me.”

Aaliyah’s eyes flicked toward the window. Through the glass, she saw the sun beginning to dip lower, painting the sky with soft oranges and pinks. The idea of sitting outside in that golden twilight, next to Cruz, felt too… cozy. Too intimate. Still, what else was there to do? Hide in her room?

She rose to her feet, ignoring the flutter in her chest. “Sure,” she said coolly. “I’ll grab my phone.”

They ended up on the porch swing—a simple wooden bench suspended by chains from the overhang. Cruz sat at one end, a paperback novel in hand, while Aaliyah claimed the other side, phone resting on her thigh. The swing creaked softly when they moved, the gentle motion lulling them into a shared hush.

Sunset bathed the lake in a serene glow, reflections rippling across the surface. Aaliyah scrolled aimlessly through emails—nothing pressing. She flicked over to news headlines but quickly lost interest. Her thoughts kept wandering to the warmth of Cruz’s body just a few inches away on the swing. If she dared shift her weight, their shoulders might brush. If she let the chain-bound seat sway a bit too wide, her knee might bump Cruz’s.

Stop it. She clenched her jaw, trying to banish the mental image of leaning her head on Cruz’s shoulder. That was not happening. She refused.

Glancing to the side, Aaliyah found Cruz absorbed in her novel—something about leadership philosophies, she guessed, from a quick glimpse of the text. Cruz’s brow was faintly furrowed, lips parted, an expression of quiet focus. In the fading light, she looked unguarded. Human, vulnerable in a way that made Aaliyah’s chest tighten. Why do you have to be like this? Aaliyah thought. Why do you have to be so…

Cruz looked up, catching Aaliyah staring. A smile ghosted across her features. “Something on your mind?”

Aaliyah’s first instinct was to snap back with a stinging retort. Instead, she exhaled and shook her head. “No,” she lied, turning away to watch the sun slip below the horizon. The pink glow drifted across the water, until it dissolved into a band of cool blue.

By the time they retreated inside, the cabin was dim, lit only by a single overhead lamp in the living room. The outside world had grown dark, the lake’s gentle waves barely visible through the black silhouette of towering pines. Cruz clicked on a small table lamp, filling the space with warm, yellow light.

Aaliyah lingered near the couch, uncertain. She felt restless yet unwilling to retire to her room just yet. Something about the day had frayed her nerves, igniting a desire for closeness and distance all at once. She’d spent hours pushing Cruz’s buttons and letting Cruz push hers, that constant friction building an ache beneath her skin she couldn’t quite name.

Cruz stood by the window, peering out at the forest as if searching for something in the darkness. The faint reflection of her form shimmered in the glass—a tall, composed figure that, to Aaliyah’s dismay, she found thoroughly captivating. God, you’re insufferably attractive, she thought, suppressing a groan.

Finally, Cruz turned, noticing Aaliyah’s silence. Her expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between curiosity and restraint. “You look like you have something to say,” Cruz observed quietly.

Aaliyah pursed her lips. “I’m just thinking it might be time to call it a night.”

A beat passed. Then Cruz inclined her head in agreement, though a hint of something—disappointment, maybe?—shadowed her eyes. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s been a long day.”

They stood there, neither moving. The weight of the unsaid, unacknowledged current between them pressed down, making the air feel thick and heavy. Aaliyah, heart pounding, finally tore her gaze away and headed to the hallway.

Back in the bedroom, Aaliyah flicked on the bedside lamp and let out a shaky breath. Her thoughts churned: the canoe ride, the fleeting touches, the brush of Cruz’s arm in the kitchen, that moment on the trail when Cruz’s hand had caught her at the waist. Why can’t I control this reaction? she berated herself, kicking off her shoes and pacing near the foot of the bed.

She thought of her friends back in the city—those who’d gently teased her about “marrying” Cruz for political reasons, never guessing the marriage was actually a sham. If they ever discovered the truth of what was swirling in her head now—the all too real sense of attraction that buzzed whenever Cruz got too close—they’d be shocked. Hell, she was shocked. She’d gone into this arrangement certain she could maintain emotional distance. Just keep up appearances, fulfill the contract, and walk away. But somewhere between the last campaign event and this cabin, her resolve had started to crack.

Flopping onto the bed, she stared at the ceiling. The logs overhead formed a soothing pattern of grains and knots. She took several steadying breaths, willing the tension in her body to dissipate. Her mind, however, refused to settle, replaying each moment with cruel clarity.

She shouldn’t be so nice to look at. The bitter thought came unbidden. It’s not fair. She wished she could chalk it up to mere lust, a passing fancy. But there was something else—something about the ease with which Cruz shifted from politician to caretaker, from poised candidate to half-grinning tease. For all her flaws, Cruz wasn’t heartless. There was a kindness beneath the polished exterior, a sincerity that occasionally slipped through the cracks, especially here where there were no cameras to impress.

Aaliyah hated that she noticed. She hated that she was letting it matter.

Eventually, she rose, changed into pajamas, and slipped under the covers. The sheets felt cool against her skin, but it did nothing to calm the heat inside her. Every time she shut her eyes, she saw Cruz in that dark henley, forearms exposed, the memory of those fleeting touches igniting a traitorous warmth. She shifted restlessly, tangling the sheets around her legs.

Minutes trickled by—then an hour, maybe more. I can’t let this weekend change anything, she told herself. I won’t let it. Yet she couldn’t deny the small, secret thrill deep in her chest that whispered: Maybe it’s already changed.

In her own room down the hall, Cruz sat at the edge of the bed, phone in hand, scanning through unread messages. She was too distracted to absorb most of them. Instead, her mind replayed the day’s events: that millisecond of contact when she’d handed Aaliyah the water bottle, the way Aaliyah had leaned against her in the canoe, the smug little grin that graced Aaliyah’s features whenever she closed the distance between them.

Cruz had known from the start that a fake marriage—no matter how well orchestrated—could breed complications. But she’d never expected this complication. She found herself drawn to Aaliyah in ways she couldn’t easily dismiss. The sarcasm, the wit, even the arrogance—there was a passion behind Aaliyah’s eyes that intrigued her, made her want to test the boundaries.

She let out a soft sigh, raking a hand through her hair. Focus on your job, she scolded herself. Remember the reason you’re here. But logic and politics felt distant in the hush of the cabin. She tossed the phone aside, letting it clatter against the nightstand, and lay back on the bed. The overhead light was off, a faint glow creeping in from beneath the door.

For a moment, she considered the possibility that Aaliyah felt similarly. She thought of the countless accidental touches that had stretched longer than necessary, the way Aaliyah’s eyes gleamed with hidden challenge.

Sleep didn’t come easily to either of them. Outside, the forest had grown quiet—no wind, no rain, just the occasional trill of nocturnal insects. Aaliyah tossed and turned, half wondering if Cruz was still awake, if she was pacing her own room with the same restless energy. At some point, Aaliyah flicked on the bedside lamp, checked the time—2:17 AM—then snapped it off again in frustration.

This is impossible. She’d always prided herself on her ability to control her emotions, to keep herself steady in the face of chaos. But there was something about Cruz—something that made each sarcastic remark or pointed glance feel like a dangerous game of chicken, each fleeting physical contact a spark threatening to become flame.

Still, she told herself it was just attraction, a nuisance that she’d bury once they got back to reality. The campaign trail would be busy. They’d have cameras on them again, staffers swarming, and that would kill any illusions of closeness. She had to believe it.

But in the stillness of the cabin night, doubt gnawed at her. Beneath the annoyance, behind each witty barb, lay an unsettling possibility: Maybe I actually like her. She hated that thought. It opened too many doors she wasn’t ready to walk through.

Eventually, the tension gave way to an uneasy sleep. Aaliyah dozed for a few hours, drifting in and out of muddled dreams featuring half-remembered images of canoes, flickering candlelight, and the press of warm fingertips against her waist. When she next opened her eyes, pale dawn light seeped into the room. She felt groggy, mind thick with remnants of the night’s restless illusions.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Another day. Another day of forced proximity, of fleeting touches that might be accidental or might be on purpose. Another day of banter so charged it made her want to simultaneously scream and lean closer. The idea made her heart flutter—and not entirely in a bad way.

Though she tried, she couldn’t quell the faint anticipation mingling with dread deep in her belly. Just survive until we leave, she told herself. Then everything goes back to normal. She repeated that mantra, ignoring the small voice inside that whispered: But maybe you don’t want it to go back.

With a slow exhale, she pushed off the covers. She would get up, she’d face Cruz, and she’d maintain some shred of emotional distance. If she can do it, so can I. But even as she set her feet on the cabin’s wooden floor, she knew that neither of them was quite as in control as they wanted to believe.

By midday, the cabin’s clearing lay soaked in bright, sunny warmth, the rain from the previous day now little more than a memory. A lazy breeze rustled through the towering pine trees, scattering needles across the ground. The lake shimmered a short distance away, all blues and silvers under the sun. Despite the idyllic surroundings, the air between Aaliyah and Cruz crackled with charged tension. Aaliyah found that every quiet moment only amplified the restless electricity coursing under her skin, particularly after their uncomfortable yet thrilling interactions the day before.

They had finished a light lunch—sandwiches hastily prepared in a silent kitchen—and were meandering outside when Aaliyah spotted a small fire pit near the edge of the property. Its stone ring was neatly arranged, with kindling piled in the center, and a modest stack of logs stacked beneath a weatherproof tarp. The sight gave her an idea—one spurred less by any actual desire to start a fire and more by the opportunity to turn the day’s simmering tension into a challenge.

She stopped, planting her hands on her hips, head tilted as she surveyed the setup. “Guess the owners of this place like their campfires,” she mused.

Cruz, standing behind her, slid her hands into her pockets. “A lot of folks around here do. Good way to spend a chilly evening.”

Aaliyah half-turned, her gaze flicking over Cruz’s relaxed posture. She noted, with a prickle of irritation, how effortlessly at ease Cruz seemed in jeans and a casual T-shirt—her hair pulled back, face glowing in the midday sun. “So,” Aaliyah said, affecting a breezy tone she did not feel, “think you can get it lit?”

Cruz arched a brow. “Probably.”

The flippancy spurred Aaliyah to press further. “Or,” she proposed, “we could make it interesting. A little bet: see who can get a fire going first.”

A slight spark of amusement danced across Cruz’s features. “A bet?”

“Yeah. If I can do it faster, you…” Aaliyah paused, considering possible stakes. A sly smile unfurled on her lips. “You have to cook dinner for the rest of this trip, entirely on your own. No help from me.”

Cruz gave a low chuckle, hooking her thumbs through her belt loops. “And if I win?”

Aaliyah shrugged, eyes raking over Cruz’s stance. “Name your terms.”

A moment of silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant calls of birds across the lake. Cruz’s gaze lingered on Aaliyah—an assessing sort of look. “Fine. If I win, you have to help me with any future campaign speech edits without complaint—at least until the election is over.”

Aaliyah’s smirk faltered; speech edits were among her least favorite tasks, especially ones that required hours of tinkering with language she found repetitive or insincere. Nevertheless, she stuck out her hand. “Deal.”

They shook on it—an oddly formal gesture for two people locked in an unspoken battle of wills and attraction. Aaliyah’s pulse jangled at the contact of Cruz’s palm against hers, but she masked it with a dismissive toss of her hair, turning her attention to the fire pit.

They approached the pit, each claiming a side. Low stone walls enclosed a patch of scorched earth where previous fires had burned. At the center lay a small pile of tinder—dry pine needles, bits of bark, and crumpled paper. On top of it, a few thin sticks jutted at haphazard angles.

Cruz kneeled, removing a small lighter from her pocket. “We can gather our own kindling,” she said. “Make this fair.”

Aaliyah narrowed her eyes. Fair, she repeated silently. Easy for a military-trained survivalist to say. Aloud, she grumbled, “Don’t pretend you’re not at an advantage. You were in the military. This is cheating.”

Cruz shrugged, all too smug. “I don’t make the rules. This was your idea.”

It took every ounce of willpower for Aaliyah not to roll her eyes dramatically. She lowered herself to the ground on the opposite side, rummaging through the kindling pile to find pieces that looked dry enough to burn. “Fine,” she said. “But no special tactics. You start a fire the old-fashioned way. No fancy… flint-and-steel or, I don’t know, military gadgets.”

Cruz snorted, sorting through the tinder with nimble fingers. “Got it. No gadgets.”

And so the contest began. Aaliyah painstakingly arranged her small pyramid of twigs over the tinder. She’d watched enough YouTube videos to recall some semblance of technique—angled sticks, room for air to flow, the smaller bits near the bottom. Yet, in the back of her mind, she remembered that actually getting a lasting flame was trickier than it looked.

Cruz, on the other hand, moved with practiced efficiency—selecting one log, then a few slender pieces of kindling, layering them in a structure that looked suspiciously perfect. She reached for her lighter, but then, eyeing Aaliyah’s struggling form, decided to hold off. “You ready?” she asked, raising one brow as if giving Aaliyah a head start.

Aaliyah swallowed her pride. “Yeah, I’m good,” she said, flicking her own lighter and bringing the tiny flame toward the nest of tinder. For a moment, it caught—bright orange licking at the dried pine needles. A flash of triumph surged in her chest. Ha—maybe I can beat her at her own game.

But the flame sputtered, then died just as quickly, leaving behind a wisp of smoke. Aaliyah glowered, repositioning the sticks and giving it another try. I’ve got this, she insisted to herself, ignoring the bead of sweat forming at her temple.

Across the pit, Cruz’s movements were calm, deliberate. She flicked her lighter once and touched the flame to the base of her carefully arranged tinder. A pale wisp of smoke drifted upward. With the barest hint of a smirk, Cruz gently blew on the embers. A small flame sprang to life, dancing beneath the kindling.

Aaliyah watched as Cruz’s fire began to crackle, heat intensifying. Within seconds, the flame took hold of a twig, then another. No way, Aaliyah thought, panic thrumming in her chest. She tried to coax her own meager spark, but it refused to catch. The tinder hissed, smoking, but refused to sustain a flame.

“Need help?” Cruz asked, voice hovering between genuine concern and quiet amusement.

Aaliyah scowled, refusing to concede. She arched a brow, re-lifted her lighter, and attempted to shield the flickering flame from the mild breeze. “No. I’m fine.”

But her second attempt failed as well, the tinder blackening but never igniting. Meanwhile, Cruz’s side had progressed to a steady burn, tongues of fire dancing around the edges of the first log. She added a bit more kindling, carefully layering it to ensure the oxygen could flow. A few crackles later, and the quiet roar of fire underscored her evident victory.

Aaliyah blew out a frustrated breath, tossing her useless lighter into the grass. “You were in the military,” she repeated through clenched teeth. “This is cheating.”

Cruz sat back on her heels, her grin luminous in the daylight. “I recall you saying that already.” She paused, observing the smolder on Aaliyah’s side. It had all but died out. “But a bet is a bet.”

Crossing her arms, Aaliyah glared at the neat little blaze crackling away, flecks of orange dancing in Cruz’s brown eyes. “Fine,” she mumbled, “you win.”

“I’ll remind you of that the next time we need campaign speech edits.”

Aaliyah inwardly grimaced. So I’ll be stuck double-checking her posture, intonation, and word choices for weeks. She told herself it wasn’t that big of a deal—but frustration still simmered. Part of her recognized it wasn’t the loss itself that annoyed; it was the knowledge that Cruz looked so capable, so confident. And Aaliyah found that maddeningly attractive in a way she felt was incredibly inconvenient.

She rose to her feet, brushing dirt from her knees. “Well,” she announced, injecting false brightness into her tone, “I hope you’re happy.”

Cruz straightened as well, stepping around the fire pit, careful not to get too close to the flames. “I am,” she said, her voice that low, teasing murmur Aaliyah had come to both expect and dread. “But don’t worry—I won’t gloat.”

Aaliyah snorted, crossing her arms. “That’d be a first.”

Cruz’s lips curved in a smile, a silent acknowledgment that both of them understood the deeper tension at play. “We can let it burn a bit,” she suggested, nodding at the fire, “then douse it before heading back in.”

“Sure,” Aaliyah muttered, half wanting to linger, half wanting to flee the smug aura emanating from Cruz’s every pore.

As they stood side by side, flames dancing and popping in front of them, a gentle breeze lifted strands of Cruz’s hair, carrying the subtle scent of smoke. Aaliyah stole a glance, heart pounding at the shape of Cruz’s profile in the sunlight—strong jaw, faint smirk, the slight crinkle at the corner of her eyes. This is ridiculous, she told herself. Focus.

Dousing the fire took only a minute or two. Cruz poured a bucket of water over the flames, steam curling upward as the embers hissed. Aaliyah lingered close, inwardly stewing in her frustration. Something restless pulsed through her, demanding she push back, reassert some measure of control in a day that felt dangerously off-balance.

When they returned to the cabin’s porch, the lingering tension in the air remained. Aaliyah slipped inside to wash her hands, Cruz following behind. The small space of the kitchen and hallway only amplified every subtle brush of their bodies—an accidental bump of hips, a graze of arms when they passed. Each little contact rippled through Aaliyah like an electric current.

Finally, unable to bear the silent crackle, Aaliyah decided to escalate her flirtation-cum-competition. She turned in the narrow hallway, stepping right into Cruz’s path. There was no immediate cause for it—she simply wanted to see if Cruz would react.

Cruz paused, one brow arching. “Everything okay?”

Aaliyah raised her hand, letting her fingers trail lightly down Cruz’s arm. She pretended a casual curiosity, as if wiping away a speck of dust. “Just checking,” she replied with false innocence.

She felt Cruz tense under her touch. Aaliyah’s gaze flicked to Cruz’s face, noting the slight flare of her nostrils, the brief clenching of her jaw. An odd thrill shot through Aaliyah at the proof that Cruz was not immune.

“Something wrong?” she asked softly, continuing the slow, deliberate stroke along Cruz’s forearm.

Cruz’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Not at all.”

The blatant lie hung in the air, unspoken but acknowledged. Aaliyah caught the tightness in Cruz’s tone, the flicker of her gaze that betrayed the swirl of emotions behind that controlled exterior. Good. You don’t get to stand there all calm and composed while I’m losing my mind.

For a heartbeat, it felt like they were on the verge of something. But then Cruz cleared her throat, stepping back to brush past Aaliyah and disappear into the living room. The air rushed out of Aaliyah’s lungs in a shaky exhale. Her heart drummed so loudly she was certain Cruz could hear it. Get it together, she scolded herself, even as a triumphant smirk curled her lips. She’d wanted a reaction, and she got one.

Their tense dance continued throughout the afternoon, manifesting in small challenges and pointed remarks. The cabin’s space felt too small for the storm of energy swirling between them. Sensing a need to blow off steam, Aaliyah eventually marched outside, fully intent on finding some form of distraction.

To her surprise, Cruz followed her down the path that wound past the fire pit and toward the lake. The water glinted in the sunlight, inviting and cool. Aaliyah paused near the bank, shading her eyes with one hand.

“Thinking of going for a swim?” Cruz teased from behind her, arms folded.

Aaliyah shot her an appraising look, equal parts challenge and provocation. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m thinking you can’t keep up with me.”

“Oh?”

She pointed at the small dock. “We can race. First one in gets bragging rights.”

Cruz’s slow grin kindled something fluttery in Aaliyah’s chest. “You sure you want to do that?”

Aaliyah tossed her head, stepping backward along the shore. “Are you scared?”

That was all it took. Cruz launched forward, turning her words into action. Too quick, Aaliyah thought, jolting as Cruz sprinted down the short slope toward the dock. Reacting on instinct, Aaliyah took off in pursuit, her laughter echoing amid the trees.

Her heart pounded with adrenaline, bare feet skidding over the grass. Cruz was fast, but Aaliyah was driven by stubborn pride. She pumped her arms, narrowing the gap between them. They reached the dock nearly simultaneously—Aaliyah’s momentum carrying her to within a foot of Cruz’s back.

Without thinking, she shoved Cruz forward. It wasn’t malicious—more a playful impulse, an attempt to unbalance her enough to win. “Say hi to the fish!” she teased.

But Cruz’s reflexes were too good. She whirled at the last moment, grabbing hold of Aaliyah’s wrist. A startled gasp escaped Aaliyah’s lips as she felt herself yanked off-balance, her momentum colliding with Cruz’s strong grip. An instant later, she was airborne.

They both tumbled off the edge, plunging into the cool lake water with a colossal splash. In the sudden shock of submersion, Aaliyah kicked, arms flailing until she found the surface again. She emerged, sputtering, water cascading down her face in rivulets.

Cruz was only a few feet away, also surfacing, hair slicked back and eyes bright with amusement. “That backfired, huh?” Cruz said, voice vibrating with laughter.

Aaliyah sputtered, pushing wet strands of hair out of her eyes. “You—! You cheated!”

Cruz raised an eyebrow, wiping water from her face. “Hardly. I just refused to let you push me in.”

They glared at each other, the tension from before crackling again. But then, unexpectedly, Aaliyah burst into laughter. It felt both cathartic and ridiculous—standing chest-deep in a chilly lake, her clothes soaked and clinging to her body, the nominal privacy of the forest around them. She lunged toward Cruz in a playful motion, splashing water at her.

Cruz responded in kind, sending a small wave back. The world narrowed to just the two of them, shrieking and laughing as they tried to dunk each other. Aaliyah’s cheeks hurt from smiling, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

When their roughhousing finally slowed, they found themselves too close—again. The water rocked them gently, their breathing shallow. Aaliyah’s hand landed on Cruz’s shoulder, her grip unintentionally sliding across bare skin where Cruz’s T-shirt clung, half-submerged. They locked eyes, chests heaving.

Aaliyah’s mind buzzed, torn between the urge to pull away and the equal, maddening urge to stay in that moment. The air around them felt suddenly thick, heavy with possibility. Her heart thudded so loudly she was sure Cruz could hear it.

But Cruz, seemingly sensing the precariousness, turned her head and cleared her throat. “We should probably get back,” she mumbled, voice carrying an odd edge—like she was reining something in.

Aaliyah exhaled, her lips quivering in a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Yeah,” she agreed. “We’re soaked.”

Awkwardly, they waded to the dock’s ladder. Cruz climbed out first, water dripping from her clothes. Aaliyah followed, acutely aware of how her own attire now clung to every curve. She crossed her arms over her chest, partly out of modesty, partly to quell the tremor running through her.

“Next time,” she said, forcing levity, “I’ll make sure I throw you in properly.”

Cruz’s mouth quirked. “I look forward to it.”

With that, they trudged back toward the cabin, leaving footprints in the wet grass.

The fire crackled in the stone pit outside the cabin, low flames dancing over blackened logs. Evening had finally settled into night, blanketing the lakeside property in a veil of stillness. Stars dotted the sky in scattered clusters, their faint twinkling mirrored by the occasional ripple of water at the shore. Aaliyah sat a few steps away from the fire, wrapped tightly in a knitted blanket, shoulders hunched as if bracing against a cold that might have been more internal than external.

They had been at this cabin for just over a day and a half, but it felt like a lifetime. So much had happened since their arrival: the awkward attempts at relaxation, the forced closeness, the little brushes of skin that had escalated into a series of push-and-pull moments neither of them could ignore. Tension filled the cabin’s silence as surely as the logs now fueled the flames before her. And now, late at night, it was just the two of them and the fire—no pretense of chores, no sudden interruptions, nowhere else to be.

Cruz stood on the opposite side of the pit. In the flickering orange glow, she appeared calm, almost statuesque. Her arms rested at her sides, hands loose, a study in poise. She didn’t bother with a coat or even a sweater, despite the mild chill in the air. Her dark hair, which had been neatly tied back earlier, now fell loosely around her jaw, framing high cheekbones touched by light and shadow.

Aaliyah took note of that detail with a pang of annoyance. Why can’t she ever look disheveled or uncertain? She tightened her grip on the edges of her blanket, resisting the urge to say something cutting. The urge to lash out came from an unsteady swirl of feelings she’d spent the day trying to bury. If she held onto her anger, at least she wouldn’t have to face the terrifying possibility that she was… interested, in a way that had nothing to do with politics or convenience.

For a long moment, neither woman spoke. The wind sighed through the pine trees, sending their silhouettes dancing across the ground. Sparks popped from the fire, little embers spiraling briefly into the air before fading into darkness.

Finally, Aaliyah broke the quiet. Her voice came out low, almost a mutter: “You’re impossible.”

Cruz tilted her head slightly, the corners of her lips curving just enough to suggest a smile. “So I’ve been told,” she said, a soft dryness in her tone.

Aaliyah stared at her, heart kicking uncomfortably in her chest. Part of her wanted to keep flinging half-insults, anything to maintain the ruse that she found Cruz’s presence merely aggravating. Another part of her just wanted the tension to break somehow. She inhaled through her nose, feeling the nip of the cool night air. At least the heat of the fire reached her legs, offering a small measure of comfort.

“You act like you know everything,” Aaliyah said finally, her voice laced with the edge of a challenge. “Like you’ve got everything handled.”

Cruz gave a slight shrug, gaze steady. “Not everything.” The reflection of the flames danced in her dark eyes, giving them an intense gleam. “But enough.”

The simple admission disarmed Aaliyah. Why can’t I ever get a clear read on her? She wondered if Cruz truly felt as self-assured as she appeared or if she was just as conflicted beneath that calm exterior. The thought fueled a simmering frustration at how effortlessly Cruz occupied space, how she always seemed so comfortable in her own skin.

A gust of wind flicked at the fire, blowing a swirl of smoke across the clearing. The smell of burning wood infused the night air. Aaliyah coughed softly, turning her face away. She felt an unsteady warmth twisting inside her, one that had nothing to do with the flickering flames.

They lapsed into another silence—this one stretched taut with the weight of unspoken truths. Aaliyah pulled the blanket closer, her gaze falling to the glow of embers at the base of the fire. I should leave, she thought suddenly. She had come out here for some fresh air, believing Cruz would stay inside. But Cruz had followed, as if magnetically drawn. Now Aaliyah was caught in a moment too fraught to be comfortable and too loaded to be ignored. The night pressed in, amplifying every heartbeat, every ragged breath, every stolen glance.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, about to turn away, when Cruz’s voice broke through the darkness.

“Are you cold?” Cruz asked, quiet concern hovering behind the calmness.

Aaliyah lifted her gaze, her expression wavering between defensiveness and another emotion she refused to name. “I’m fine,” she said curtly, pulling the blanket tighter. “I’m not the one standing there pretending it’s not freezing out.”

Cruz flicked her eyes downward at her own lack of warm clothing. “I run hot,” she said simply, and for some reason, the statement felt like a double-edged truth in the heavy air.

Aaliyah let out a breath. She couldn’t tell if the heat prickling her skin was from the flames or from the tension surging between them. She stared at the dancing embers, the golden tongues of fire arching in erratic patterns. Her mind flitted through every moment of proximity they’d had over the last few days—those accidental brushes of hands, the playful competitiveness, the game of chicken in the hallway, her brazen attempts to provoke a reaction. Each memory sent a pulse through her veins, a heady mixture of embarrassment and something dangerously close to desire.

Without fully thinking, she murmured, “You drive me crazy, you know that?” Her voice was hushed, barely louder than the soft crackle of the fire.

The confession tumbled out before she could reel it back. Aaliyah froze, fingers clenched against the blanket, pulse pounding in her ears. She realized too late that her tone had shifted from sharp to almost vulnerable, carrying more raw honesty than she’d intended.

Across the fire, Cruz’s expression shifted subtly. Surprise flickered across her face, followed by an intensity Aaliyah couldn’t quite decipher. It was as if a barrier had slipped, leaving something unguarded in Cruz’s eyes. For a moment, she said nothing, and in that silence, Aaliyah’s lungs seized up as if she’d taken a blow to the chest. She cursed herself inwardly—Why did I say that out loud?

“Yeah,” Cruz said at last, voice low enough that Aaliyah had to strain to catch the word. “I—”

But she didn’t finish, and the tension snapped. The moment felt too precarious, like the slightest shift might topple them both into depths they weren’t prepared to face. Aaliyah’s heart hammered, and the urge to flee rose in her like a tide.

She stood abruptly. The blanket slipped from her shoulders, half-draped over one arm as she took a shaky step backward. “I’m… I’m going to bed.”

Cruz’s lips curved, just enough to show she was amused—or maybe frustrated. “Running away?” she asked, the question so soft it bordered on gentle mockery.

“Absolutely,” Aaliyah bit out, refusing to meet Cruz’s eyes. She turned on her heel, taking swift strides away from the fire pit. She felt Cruz’s gaze on her back the entire time, trailing like a palpable weight, but she didn’t dare look over her shoulder. The night seemed darker beyond the circle of light, and the crisp air stung her cheeks. She walked until the cabin door loomed, then slipped inside, heart still thudding in her throat.

In the bedroom, Aaliyah flicked on the bedside lamp, its warm glow illuminating the rustic log walls and the simple furniture. She didn’t bother removing the blanket right away. She dropped onto the bed in a graceless sprawl, pulling the edges over her legs as if that might shield her from her own stirring emotions.

Her mind raced, replaying the way Cruz had looked under the firelight—tall, unruffled, and maddeningly attractive. How does she do that? Aaliyah thought, tugging the blanket over her shoulders. How can she stand there and act so calm when I feel like I’m about to burst? She recalled the slip of her tongue—You drive me crazy, you know that?—and cringed. Not exactly the sort of confession she’d wanted to spill.

She stared at the ceiling, breathing shallowly, a swirl of half-formed thoughts chasing through her head. She was used to controlling her environment, her persona, her every move in the public eye. But here, in the quiet of the cabin, she had no city lights to distract her, no staff to keep her busy, no urgent tasks to overshadow these emotions. She was left with only the truth: she didn’t just tolerate Cruz. She liked her. And not in a simple, friendly way. It was an attraction that gnawed at her defenses, making her yearn for something she didn’t dare name.

The realization weighed on her chest like a physical burden. This wasn’t supposed to happen, she thought, frustration blending with a strange pang of sadness. She tried to recall the details of their initial arrangement—a marriage purely for political convenience. They were supposed to maintain a polished façade, charming to voters, beneficial to Cruz’s campaign. That was all. Feelings were never part of the equation. Yet, bit by bit, the lines had blurred, and the act had started to feel real in ways that unsettled her.

She pressed a hand to her forehead, letting out a stifled groan. “I hate her,” she muttered into the stillness. The words sounded hollow even to her own ears. She didn’t hate Cruz; she hated this confusion and the loss of control. She hated the possibility that she might be caught in a web of her own making. She hated that every time she closed her eyes, she could practically see the way Cruz’s mouth curved, that half-smile dancing at the edges, or the flicker of concern hidden behind teasing remarks.

A growl of frustration rumbled at the back of her throat. She threw the blanket aside, suddenly too warm, and scrambled higher on the bed to lean against the wooden headboard. Her eyes locked on the ceiling again, trying to find patterns in the knots and grains of the timber. No solace came.

Minutes blurred into an hour or more, the silence relentless. From somewhere in the woods outside, an owl hooted, a low and haunting sound that made Aaliyah tense. Her phone lay on the small nightstand, but she didn’t bother reaching for it. She couldn’t focus on anything beyond the churn of her own thoughts, the echo of her words by the fire, and the memory of Cruz’s expression in that charged, breathless moment.

Eventually, she forced herself to lie down, head sinking into the pillow. She pulled the covers up, ignoring the dryness in her throat and the clammy cold in her palms. She told herself she needed to sleep, that she’d feel clearer in the morning. But as she closed her eyes, she saw only flashes of the firelight dancing across Cruz’s features, the determined set of her jaw, the curve of her lashes. The memory set her heart pounding all over again.

She rolled onto her side, tucking her hands under her cheek, trying not to let the anxiety take over. You don’t just tolerate Cruz, a small voice in her mind whispered, gnawing at her pride. You like her. And that’s a problem. She tried to deny it, but it was like trying to plug a leaking dam with a single finger. The truth seeped around the edges, unstoppable.

“Stop it,” she mumbled to the empty room, as if her own mind might heed that command. “Just… stop.” But the images and sensations persisted, feeding the twisting knot in her stomach.

At some point, she shoved her face into her pillow, voice muffled as she repeated, “I hate her.” She held still, waiting for the words to ring true. They didn’t. …I do not hate her. The admission made her close her eyes tighter, chest heavy.

So she lay there, half awake in the darkness, heart racing in a disjointed rhythm as she wrestled with the realization that everything had changed. The façade of a political marriage had opened a door she never anticipated—one that showed her a glimpse of something genuine, something that terrified her to the core. She felt as though she were teetering on the edge of a precipice, uncertain whether to step back or allow herself to fall.

The hours dragged on, her thoughts running circles. Outside, the night wore a deeper shade of black, and the forest’s nocturnal chorus rose and fell. Aaliyah’s eyes burned with exhaustion, yet her mind refused to quiet. Each time she drifted toward sleep, she startled awake again, the echo of You drive me crazy, you know that? reverberating through her memory.

Eventually, she managed to doze, though rest was fleeting and broken. Dreams came in jagged fragments—vague impressions of firelight, half-recognized faces, and a warm hand brushing against her own. None of it was restful, and she woke repeatedly, breath catching in her throat. Each time, she told herself to calm down, to remember that she didn’t really want Cruz in any deeper capacity.

But it was a lie, one she found impossible to sustain for long.

When the faintest gray light of dawn finally touched the horizon, Aaliyah was still sprawled on her back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. She felt wrung out, as if she’d spent the entire night running in place. The slow dim glow creeping around the edges of the curtains promised the start of another day—a day she dreaded and longed for in equal measure. At least the return to normal life might bring tasks or distractions to keep her mind off the chaos in her heart.

But as she lay there, she couldn’t shake the lingering truth: She liked Cruz. Not just as a political ally, not just as a well-crafted image for the cameras. She liked the softness that occasionally broke through Cruz’s confident exterior, the little glimpses of sincerity that made her chest flutter. She liked the banter, the way Cruz challenged her, the calm competence that had so often infuriated her. The contradictory swirl of annoyance and attraction felt too big to name, but it was real. Denying it wouldn’t make it go away.

This was never supposed to happen, she reminded herself again, voice hollow in the stillness. We said we’d keep things professional. Keep it an arrangement. She clenched her hands into fists, letting them drop against the mattress in silent frustration. The complications would be massive if she let herself indulge these feelings. Not only would it risk her heart, but there was the matter of public image, the campaign, everything that hinged on the carefully curated story they’d spun. And what if it all blows up in our faces? The idea of heartbreak and scandal loomed dangerously in her mind.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t keep pretending. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, shutting out the daylight peeking in. The memory of Cruz by the fire flickered again—a study in confidence and quiet longing, illuminated by a swirl of flames and shadows. Aaliyah forced herself to breathe through the surge of emotion that threatened to choke her. We’ll figure it out, she promised silently, not entirely sure who she was trying to reassure.

Eventually, she lowered her hands, blinking at the slow dawn. With a heavy sigh, she turned onto her side, trying one last time to chase whatever scraps of sleep she could manage. Her body still trembled from leftover adrenaline, her muscles stiff with tension. She closed her eyes, but the darkness behind her lids glowed with an afterimage of Cruz’s face, that half-smile fading into the night.

Sleep refused to claim her. Daylight arrived, merciless and inevitable. Aaliyah let out a ragged breath, pulling her pillow closer, a swirl of contradictory emotions raging beneath her ribcage. She didn’t hate Cruz; she couldn’t. But she also couldn’t deny that the realization was as terrifying as it was thrilling.

In a final quiet moment before morning truly broke, she whispered, “I hate this,” allowing herself a solitary moment of vulnerability. Because despite the complications, despite the near-certainty of heartbreak or disaster down the line, she couldn’t deny the faint spark of hope that came with acknowledging the truth. She couldn’t deny the fact that part of her wanted to see where this could lead.

But for now, she was trapped in the in-between—a place where she both dreaded and craved Cruz’s presence. A place where she wanted to push Cruz away and pull her closer all at once.