Part Twelve - Part Two

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I'm halfway through my second cup of coffee when Vinnie storms into the living room, radiating chaos and enough confidence to power a small nation.

His damp hair curls at the edges like he's just escaped a shampoo ad, and he's wearing sweatpants, a hoodie that's seen better days, and a grin that screams trouble.

"Noah!" He claps his hands together like he's about to lead a pep rally. "Put down the coffee. We're going on a fake boyfriend mission."

I lower my mug, narrowing my eyes. "Define 'mission.' Because if it's like last time, when I had to hold your hand in the quad for twenty minutes while you monologued about astrology, I'm busy."

"Excuse you, that was educational," he says, pointing a finger at me. "But this is next level. We're taking Instagram couple pics."

I blink. "Do I look like someone who takes Instagram couple pics?"

"No. That's why I'm here. You're my canvas, Picasso." He flops onto the couch next to me, nearly knocking my mug out of my hand. "And lucky for you, I'm an artist. A master of illusions."

"You mean delusions," I deadpan. "And since when are you an Instagram expert? You only figured out filters last week after posting six versions of the same sunset."

He waves this off like it's ancient history. "The sunset was iconic, and I learned from my mistakes. Anyway, we're burning daylight. Wear this."

A shirt smacks me in the face before I can respond. It smells like his detergent—citrusy and a little too comforting. I pull it off my head and hold it up.

"Why does it say 'Property of Vinnie Hacker'? Are you branding me now?"

He grins, all teeth and mischief. "Of course. It's called commitment to the bit. You're my fake boyfriend. Own it."

I groan, tossing the shirt back at him. "You're unbearable."

"And you love it," he says, standing and stretching like he's warming up for a marathon. His hoodie lifts just enough to reveal a sliver of toned abs, and I instantly regret noticing.

He tosses his car keys into the air and catches them with a smirk. "Come on, golden hour won't wait, and I need at least three shots of you staring into my eyes like I'm the only person who's ever mattered."

"Who says I'm the one staring longingly?" I counter, crossing my arms.

"Oh, please. You were practically swooning the first time I took my shirt off."

"I was not swooning," I shoot back, standing up. "I was... evaluating."

"Evaluating my abs," he quips, his grin widening.

"Evaluating your ego."

"Same thing," he says, sauntering toward the door.

Fast-forward fifteen minutes, and I'm at the park nearby our apartment, wondering how I let myself get talked into this. Vinnie, however, is in his element, wielding his phone like a director on a Hollywood set.

"Stand by the fountain," he commands, waving me over. "And look like you're about to confess your undying love for me."

I squint at him. "Why am I always the one confessing? Maybe you should look smitten for once."

"You're better at looking tragically in love," he says, completely straight-faced.

"I do not look tragically in love!"

"Right, sure. Now pout a little. Think about losing your favorite hoodie or something."

"Vinnie," I say, exasperated, "this is fake dating, not the audition for a sad indie film."

"It's fake dating with pizzazz," he says, throwing his arm out dramatically. "Now get over here and act like you're obsessed with me."

I sigh but walk over anyway, because apparently, I have no self-preservation skills.

"If you post anything remotely embarrassing, I'm suing you for defamation," I warn as he wraps an arm around my shoulders.

"Noted," he says, flashing a grin so bright it's probably illegal. "Now smile. You're fake dating the best thing that's ever happened to you."

And against all logic, I do.

We arrive back at the apartment when Vinnie says, "watch this." His voice suddenly light with excitement. I glance up from my phone, unsure of what to expect.

He stands up from the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, like he's about to pull off some ridiculous stunt.

Without missing a beat, he grabs a bottle of oil from the desk, filling his mouth with it as if it's the most casual thing in the world. My eyebrows furrow. "What the hell are you—?"

Vinnie doesn't answer me, but instead heads toward the middle of the room with a mischievous grin playing at the edges of his lips. He pulls out a small lighter from his pocket, flicking it open in one smooth motion.

The sound of the spark makes my pulse spike. I watch as he tilts his head back slightly, then, without hesitation, spits the oil out toward the flame.

The world seems to pause for a heartbeat.

The flame catches the oil, bursting outward in a sudden flash of fire that lights up the dark room like an explosion.

For a split second, Vinnie's face is framed by the orange glow, and I can feel the heat against my skin, even from across the room. My eyes go wide.

"How the hell did you do that?" I breathe, my voice barely a whisper as I take a half-step back, still processing what I just saw.

Vinnie grins, the firelight dancing in his eyes, making him look almost dangerous. "When I was younger, I was obsessed with fire," he says casually, like this is the most normal thing in the world. "Taught myself how to do it. Almost burned my house down, though, trying to get it right."

I laugh, a mixture of disbelief and awe spilling out of me. "Jesus, you're insane. You could've seriously—"

Vinnie shrugs, clearly unfazed. "It's all about control. But yeah, I was an idiot back then." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still smirking at my dumbfounded expression.

I stare at him, still trying to wrap my head around what I just saw. "I can't believe you just—"

He cuts me off, his voice light. "I wouldn't recommend trying it at home. It's a lot harder than it looks."

"Right," I reply, still laughing, though my pulse hasn't quite settled. "Not something I'm gonna try anytime soon."

Vinnie steps back, clearly pleased with himself. He takes a moment to adjust his hoodie, and then plops back down on the bed beside me. There's a quiet in the room now, the kind that settles over you when something just... happens.

My stomach flips, and I can't explain it, but I suddenly feel like the air is thicker between us. Like it's different.

Vinnie doesn't say anything for a long moment. His eyes flicker toward the ceiling, and I can see the wheels turning in his head.

I want to say something, to make him laugh, to keep the mood light, but the silence stretches on, uncomfortable in its honesty.

Finally, he speaks, but it's softer now. "I think you're more complicated than you let on, man." His words hit me harder than I expect.

I laugh, though it comes out a little bitter. "Yeah, I'm a real enigma."

Vinnie smirks at my sarcasm, but there's something in the way he looks at me that makes me feel like he's seeing through the act.

It's not the same as when people usually try to get under my skin. With Vinnie, it's different. He's not trying to tear me down; he's... just looking. And I don't know what to do with that.

"Hey," I say, breaking the tension, "you wanna go make pancakes or something?" The idea comes out of nowhere, but it's enough to shift the mood.

Vinnie raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a grin. "Pancakes? At two in the morning?"

I shrug, standing up from the bed, stretching. "Why not? We can get some ingredients and make them. If you're up for it, of course."

He smirks, standing up to join me. "Hell yeah. Pancakes it is."

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