The pleasant warmth in his chest turned cold, replaced by something sharp and unpleasant. Every muscle in his body tensed, holding back the urge to thrash everything around him.

Where would I find someone else to like, he thought bitterly, when the person I want is sitting right next to me?

This was his own fault. He also knew that. The fake dating had been his idea—a solution that had seemed so clever at the time.

But fake dating was still dating, wasn’t it?

They will still spend time together.

They will still share meals together.

They will still take photos and keep them in similar books together when they go out on dates.

In the end, they will still be together...forever.

Because how was he supposed to separate the fake from the real when the feelings were real in the first place?

"Hmm." The sound that escaped him was low, almost dangerous.

Fake in dating is just a means for the real to happen.

Neville finally looked at him, a frown creasing his brow. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing." The word came out flat.

Neville’s frown deepened when he heard it.

But before he could press further, Grayson continued.

"If we want people to believe we’re really together," he said, looking at Neville, his voice carefully controlled, "we need to stop being so awkward with each other."

Neville’s flush deepened, this time from embarrassment rather than alcohol.

"Awkward?" he asked, "How are we awkward?"

"For example, from the entrance of the shopping center today. We were fine when we were talking, but the moment we stopped..." Grayson flexed his fingers as if ticking off examples in his mind. "In every place we went today... Do you want me to say everything out loud each time it happened and when?"

Neville opened his mouth to protest, then closed it.

He couldn’t exactly argue against it because Grayson was right.

The moment they stopped talking, there was only silence. It continued until it became uncomfortable, and one of them would randomly start talking again to revive the atmosphere.

But what was he supposed to talk about? The weather? Work gossip?

Either way, anything he thought of was not appropriate to talk about. After all, at the end of the day, Grayson was still his boss.

Grayson suddenly moved closer to Neville.

So much closer that Neville found himself being slowly cornered against the armrest.

Grayson’s larger frame was invading his private space.

"What are you doing?" Neville’s voice came out higher than intended.

"Bryan has a loose mouth," Grayson said, as if that would explain everything. "There’s a high chance he’ll tell others about our date today."

"So?" Neville’s eyes began to waver, unable to decide where it should land.

Grayson leaned even closer, preventing Neville’s eyes from landing anywhere other than his.

"So we need to get our act together, everywhere. Even at the office."

Neville’s eyes finally had nowhere to go and finally decided to look at Grayson’s eyes. Keeping his eyes steadily on Grayson’s eyes was harder than he had initially thought.

He hurriedly suggested, "What about doing what Bryan and Iris do? Keep personal and private life separate?"

Grayson stared down at Neville and slightly shook his head. "That works for them. But not for me."

"Why not?"

"Because every eye in the company is on me."

The hint of frustration crept into Grayson’s voice; it sounded so real that Neville began to be concerned.

"They’re all waiting for a chance to snatch my position. Unlike HW Corporation, Maxwell Corporation isn’t completely family-owned. The board, the shareholders, the executives—they’re all watching. If they sense even a bit of weakness in me, they won’t hesitate to pounce at this opportunity."

Neville hadn’t thought about it that way.

The constant scrutiny, the lack of privacy, the need to maintain a perfect image at all times.

It sounded so exhausting.

"What do you want to do, then?" he asked quietly.

A slow smile gradually curled up Grayson’s lips. It was the kind of smile that made Neville’s instincts scream danger.

"Let’s practice."

"Practice?" Neville’s brain short-circuited. What do you mean by practice?

"Practice."

Before Neville could ask what exactly they were supposed to be practicing, Grayson’s hand already crawled and reached out.

[Favorability +1%]

His hand was warm.

That was the first thing that Neville felt: the warmth of Grayson’s palm as it settled over his own.

The touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as it tested Neville’s limits.

Seeing Neville unmoving, Grayson’s fingers traced along the back of Neville’s hand. It was a feather-light touch, as if he were memorizing the shape of Neville’s hand.

The delicate bones beneath the skin, the slight calluses on his fingers.

Grayson’s gaze remained on Neville’s the whole time.

Finally, as if his hand finally found the strength and courage to do what it wanted.

Grayson intertwined their fingers.

Neville forgot how to breathe.

This wasn’t the first time they were holding their hands, but each time felt like the first time.

Their hands fit together perfectly.

Grayson’s larger palm engulfed his, each finger slotting between his own as they belonged there.

The warmth of the contact spread up Neville’s arm and straight to his chest, settling there like a small sun.

[Can I really see this?!] Shelly’s excited squeal pierced through the haze in Neville’s mind.

But Neville could barely hear her.

His eyes stared at Grayson’s eyes. But his focus had been on their hands.

Grayson’s hand was warm, yes, but there was more to it than its temperature. His grip was firm but not crushing, confident but somehow asking permission.

"This is practice?" His voice came out strangled.

"All couples start with holding hands," Grayson explained carefully, his voice was low but persuasive. His thumb brushed across Neville’s knuckles in a slow, deliberate stroke. "If we’re going to be convincing, we need to be at least comfortable enough with this. We should not be startled by each other’s touch."

Comfortable? Neville wanted to laugh.

His heart was hammering so hard it was ringing in his ear. He was sure that Grayson could hear it. At least, Grayson should’ve felt the dampness of his palm as it sweated so hard.

Every nerve in his body was screaming at him to pull away, to put distance between them, to protect himself.

But he didn’t move.

Some treacherous part of him didn’t want to.