Dani studied her lunchtime companions and wondered which of the two she should murder first.

Perhaps they both sensed the silent threat, because Zaf slipped easily into fake boyfriend mode—which involved lots of secret smiles and very little emotional torment—while Sorcha zipped her lips and put her phone away. This newfound peace lasted for thirty blessed minutes. But the moment Zaf kissed Dani’s cheek and headed back to Echo, Sorcha’s bullshit began.

“Hmm,” she said.

Dani pointedly ignored her. “Do you think Zaf knows he left his muffin? Maybe I should go after him.”

“Hmmmmm,” Sorcha repeated.

Dani picked off one of the muffin’s chocolate chips and popped it in her mouth. “Or not.”

“Hmmmmmmmm.”

“Sorcha, darling, do you have something in your throat?”

“Who, me?” Sorcha batted her lashes. “Not at all. I’m simply overwhelmed by Dr. Rugbae’s cuteness. All those meaningful looks, and the tender way he wiped milkshake off your nose . . . Adorable.”

“Good,” Dani said, keeping her voice low. “It’s supposed to be.”

“And why’s that?”

Dani shot her a look. “You know why.”

Sorcha snorted. “I know something.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Sorcha smiled and shrugged one narrow, black-clad shoulder.

“You’re very irritating when you’re being enigmatic, did you know that? And”—Dani squinted—“are you wearing my Benetton jumper?”

Sorcha waved a hand as if she could brush the question away. “You might as well eat that muffin. He left it for you.”

Dani looked down at the little cake. “What? No, he didn’t. I told him I didn’t have time for dessert.”

“Because you’re very strict about your schedule when you’re stressed. But you’re also easily tempted out of said strictness when faced with the temptation of sweets, which Zaf clearly knows.” Sorcha leaned forward, an odd, almost excitable expression on her face. “So he bought it. And left it. For you. How does that make you feel, Danika?”

Dani doused the flicker of warmth in her chest, pinching her own thigh beneath the table to ward off nonsensical emotions. “How does that make me feel? Is this some sort of therapy role-play?”

“Are you pleased?” Sorcha prodded. “Are you happy that he bought you a muffin?”

“I don’t think he did buy me a muffin,” Dani insisted, because if she allowed herself to think that he had—well. She didn’t know what would happen, but the giddiness blossoming in her stomach and the completely unauthorized smile tugging at her lips suggested it would be bad. Terrible. Mortifying.

Foolish. If she let herself follow Sorcha’s thread, she would make a fool of herself.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dani said firmly, and took a bite of the dessert because finders were keepers anyway. Through a mouthful of fluffy chocolate goodness, she mumbled, “For Christ’s sake, it’s only a muffin.”

Sorcha huffed out a sigh and leaned back in her chair. “Oh sweet Lord, you have got to be kidding me.”

“What is going on with you today?” Dani demanded.

Sorcha rolled her eyes. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

For some reason, the muffin? was still on Dani’s mind later that night.

It was ridiculous, of course. Zaf had serious dadlike tendencies; she’d always known that. His habit of feeding her didn’t mean anything, and anyway, she didn’t want it to mean anything. He was her universe-mandated fuck buddy, and fuck buddies didn’t run around making gentle romantic gestures. Fuck buddies didn’t know or care that explicit expressions of affection gave Dani hives; nor did they find subtler, easier, low-pressure ways to make her feel special. Fuck buddies just . . . fucked.

Zaf might be a hopeless romantic, but he wasn’t romantic about her. She was hardly his ideal. She was hardly his forever.

Still, Sorcha’s waggling eyebrows nagged at Dani for hours.

Perhaps she felt guilty for stealing the muffin, or maybe she couldn’t forget its particular yumminess. Whatever the reason, when she and Zaf lay panting in bed that evening, some sort of dessert demon took over Dani’s body. She turned to him and murmured, “I think I ate your muffin today.”

He laughed, still slightly breathless. Then he nudged her in the ribs, a familiar tease that soothed the awkward tension in her belly. “Good. That was for you, you dork.”

Shit. “Why?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why did I get you a muffin?”

She nodded tightly.

“Because I knew you wanted one.” When Dani remained silent, her feelings an uncertain tangle, he cupped her face. His thumb brushed her lower lip, and her cheeks warmed, even though he’d touched far more intimate places minutes ago. “Do I need a reason to make my friend smile?”

Well, when he put it like that. “I suppose not,” she said on an exhale. Friends. That’s the way things were between them, and there was no danger in friendship, no pressure, no expectation. She’d been silly to worry.

Because she had been worried. Most definitely. This hollow hunger in the pit of her stomach was . . . erm . . . relief.

“Good.” Zaf ran his hand down her throat, over her collarbone. Cupped her breast, bent his head, kissed her there. “You’re so reasonable when we’re naked.”

She smacked his shoulder. “Don’t get cocky.”

“If I made a pun right now, would you throw me out of bed?”

“Best not to find out,” she said dryly, and pushed his head back to her breast.

Their phone call that night was slow and easy, almost as if Zaf had called just to talk instead of to prove he’d gotten home safe. Dani tried to mind, and failed. The pillow he’d lain on smelled just like him, and if she fell asleep with her arms wrapped tight around it . . .

At least there was no one there to see.

Hi Zaf,

I’m happy to inform you that our head teacher was as impressed by your work as I am. We’d love to have you teach a workshop to one Year Nine class and one Year Eleven class over the summer term. Please find a proposed schedule attached.

Kind regards,

Emma Cheung

By the third week of their arrangement, and the second week of their, er, sexual arrangement, the scarlet flower of affection in Zaf’s chest—the one that was supposed to die—had multiplied. He was housing a brightly colored meadow, beautiful and dangerous.

Every morning, he woke up and told himself, This is minor. This will pass. At least you’re not in love with her. And every night, he ran his hands over Danika’s skin, kissed the moans from her mouth, lost himself inside her, and pretended the squeeze of his heart was some kind of deadly arrhythmia, or a hallucination, or something he’d eaten. Anything but that reckless thing he was absolutely not allowed to feel. Anything but that.

Weekends were the best and the worst. Best, because he couldn’t see Dani at work, didn’t have to spend his lunch worrying about how many of his reactions to her were just for show and how many were an overflow of affection. Worst, because trying not to pine over Dani might be uncomfortable, but waiting all day to see her was starting to feel like torture.

Which couldn’t be a good sign.

It was Saturday morning, a week before Dani’s symposium—and ten days until their fake relationship and their fuck-buddy status were both due to end. Just ten more days, he told himself, and you can start getting back to normal. Then he pulled out his phone and texted her, not because he needed to, but because his day would be a thousand times better once she replied.

ZAF: Hey. Are you free tonight?

She was always free, but he always asked. He kept it simple, though, kept it light. Wouldn’t want to come on too strong, or she might notice that he, you know, adored her beyond reason.

Then again, he was starting to think Danika wouldn’t notice adoration if it smacked her in the face with a feather pillow, so he was probably safe. Kindness from someone other than her sisters or Sorcha left her baffled. Every time he asked how her day had gone, or fed her snacks while she prepared for her symposium instead of telling her to stop, she looked at him like he might be some lizard overlord wearing human skin. Then she shrugged and went on with her day, because, presumably, Dani didn’t have a problem with lizard overlords as long as they left her books alone.

She must be buried in those very books right now, because the text he hoped for never came. In the end, Zaf spent his Saturday the way he usually did: taking the kids to a local league game with Jamal in the morning, bringing his mother vegetable pakoras at the shop, and listening to Fatima talk about a show called Fleabag for way too long. Then he went home, clicked through some promising emails, and thought about the one from Mac Stevens that he still hadn’t answered.