Chapter Text
Belly
The invitation is a cream-coloured landmine sitting on the sticky surface of our regular table at The Dutch Goose.
It’s elegant, heavy, and smells faintly of expensive lavender—the kind of stationery that screams "I have my life together," which is the exact opposite of how I feel right now. Gemma and Max. Their names are scripted in a gold foil that catches the dim, amber light of the bar. For most people, an invitation to a wedding in Paris is a dream. For me, it’s a summons to the scene of a crime.
"You’re vibrating," Agnes says, sliding a pint of cider toward me. "If you vibrate any harder, you’re going to shatter the glassware, and I really don't want to explain to the bartender why my roommate has turned into a human tuning fork."
I don't look up. I’m too busy dissecting the RSVP card with the clinical intensity of a sports psychologist-in-training. "He’s going to be there, Agnes. He’s the Best Man. He’s going to be right there. At the front of the church. In a suit. Or a tux.” My mind starts to spiral as I start thinking about how I’ve never seen him in formal-wear, and I just know that it’s going to be devastating.
Agnes gets up and slides into the booth next to me, taking my trembling hand in hers. Her eyes are sharp and observant behind her glasses. Being a pre-med student has given her this way of looking at me like I’m a complex patient she’s determined to stabilise. And I often need stabilising.
"Benito is one guy," she says firmly. "One guy who lived in a city you happened to be in for a year. He is not the King of France."
"He made me feel like the girl who didn't get the memo," I mutter, finally meeting her eyes. My hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail that’s definitely losing the battle against the Stanford humidity, and my chest feels tight. "I was ready to change my entire life plan for him, Aggie. I was looking at apartments in the 11th Arrondissement! And he broke up with me because the 'season was over.' Like I was a summer internship he was finishing up."
I take a long sip of the cider, the cold liquid doing nothing to soothe the heat of the embarrassment that still flares up when I think about that flight home. For six months, I’ve built a fortress here. I’ve buried myself in textbooks about performance anxiety and cognitive behavioural therapy for athletes, trying to apply those same principles to my own shattered confidence. I’ve been doing fine.
Until this piece of cardstock showed up in my campus mailbox.
I love Gemma and Max, I really do. When I first arrived in Paris, I was a deer in headlights, lost in the 3rd Arrondissement with a map I couldn't read and a vocabulary that ended at merci. They were the ones who pulled me into their circle, who taught me which boulangerie had the best pain au chocolat and stayed up with me until 3:00 AM when I was homesick. They helped me find my footing when I felt invisible.
But seeing their names in gold foil feels like a betrayal of the safety I've built here. How am I supposed to celebrate their "forever" in the same city where Benito decided my "forever" wasn't worth the effort? Every time I think about the wedding, I see the Eiffel Tower—not as a monument, but as the backdrop to the moment he told me he didn't want me to stay. My love for them is a heavy weight, pulling me toward a place I’m not sure I’m strong enough to revisit.
"You're going," Agnes says, her voice cutting through my internal spiral like a scalpel. It’s not a suggestion; it’s a prescription.
"I can't, Aggie. If I do, I’ll be going alone. He’ll see me standing there, looking exactly like the girl he left behind, while he’s probably dating some effortless Parisian model who smokes cigarettes for breakfast and doesn’t even know the meaning of ‘insecure’."
Agnes taps her chin, her eyes narrowing as she calculates the physics of my social life. "So, don't go alone. Bring a date."
"A date?" I scoff, gesturing vaguely at my oversized Stanford sweatshirt. "Sure, let me just open up my little black book of guys who are waiting in line to throw themselves at my feet. Because as you know, I’ve been such a prolific dater since I got back."
"Okay, so not a real date," Agnes says, leaning in like she’s sharing a state secret. "A Wedding Date."
I blink at her, the condensation from my cider glass making a ring on the table. "I’m sorry, is there a difference? Is that a technical term they teach you in Organic Chemistry?"
"God, I thought you were a connoisseur of old movies—haven't you seen that one? With that dreamy guy from My Best Friend’s Wedding?"
"You mean Dermot Mulroney?" I ask, rolling my eyes. "And yeah, Agnes, I know the one. But are you forgetting that he played a literal escort in that movie and it is currently 2026? People don't just hire handsome strangers to fly to Europe and pretend to be in love with them anymore. That's how you end up on a true crime podcast."
"Okay, so not an escort in the literal sense," Agnes concedes with a shrug. "But I'm sure we can find someone who'd be game enough to play the part. Someone who makes Benito look like a starter-kit boyfriend."
Just then, the heavy wooden door of the bar swings open, letting in a gust of damp night air. I follow Agnes’s gaze and feel a weird, familiar jolt in my chest.
Conrad Fisher is shaking a few raindrops off a navy blue windbreaker, looking around the room with that characteristic, quiet intensity. Even in a crowded college bar, he has this gravitational pull—the kind of guy who looks like he’s perpetually thinking about something three times more important than whatever is actually happening in the room.
He’s Agnes’ lab partner, and over the last six months, we’ve crossed paths just enough for me to know he’s brilliant, he’s serious, and he has a stare that feels like it could deconstruct my entire personality in under ten seconds. I’ve always thought he was attractive—in a "brooding-hero-from-a-classic-novel" sort of way—but I’ve been too busy stitching my ego back together to really look at him.
"No," I say, my voice dropping an octave as I sense the gears turning in Agnes’ head. "Absolutely not. Do not even think about it."
"He’s perfect," Agnes whispers, a devious glint appearing behind her glasses. "He’s easy on the eyes, and he hates small talk. He’d be the perfect shield. I bet he even speaks a little French."
"He doesn't even like me, Aggie! Every time we talk, I feel like I'm interrupting a complex calculation. I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm a human hurricane."
"He doesn't hate you," Agnes counters, her hand already up to wave him over, sliding out from her place next to me and slipping back into the bench across me. "He’s just... Conrad. Trust me. You need a Wedding Date, and he needs to get out of the lab before he turns into a literal test tube."
My heart does a nervous stutter-step as Conrad spots us. His expression shifts—just a fraction—and he starts walking toward our booth. I suddenly feel very aware of my messy ponytail and the fact that I’m currently clutching a gold-foiled wedding invite like it’s a weapon of war.
Agnes drapes her backpack innocently across her seat, her eyes deviously darting to the now-empty bench by my side.
Fucking Agnes.
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Conrad
The cool, damp air of the Palo Alto evening clings to my jacket as I push open the heavy doors of The Dutch Goose. It’s the usual midweek crowd—low light, the smell of malt and burgers, and the low hum of stressed-out students trying to forget their midterms.
I do a quick sweep of the room, my eyes moving with practiced indifference. It’s a habit I’ve had since my mom died; keep your head down, stay focused, get the work done. Pre-med doesn't leave much room for anything else. But then my gaze hits the corner booth, and the singular focus I’ve spent years perfecting just... slips.
Belly is there.
She’s sitting across from Agnes, her brown hair pulled back in a way that suggests she’s been running her hands through it in frustration. Even from across the bar, she looks like she’s vibrating at a different frequency than everyone else—warm, bright, and currently, incredibly tense. My heart does that annoying, traitorous flip-flop in my chest. I shake it off, adjusting my windbreaker.
I’ve spent six months trying to figure her out. On paper, we shouldn't make sense. I’m the guy who lives in the lab, and she’s the girl who talks about the psychological "flow state" of athletes with enough passion to light up a stadium. But then I’ll catch her referencing a line from an obscure 1940s noir film, or she’ll drop off a bag of almond croissants for Agnes during one of our 2:00 AM study sessions—always leaving an extra one "just in case you're hungry, Conrad"—and I’m a goner.
She hasn't given me a single sign that she’s interested. Not one. If anything, she treats me like a piece of furniture that occasionally does chemistry. I figure she probably has a line of guys out the door, or some high-achieving athlete boyfriend I haven't met yet. Why wouldn’t she?
By all rights, I should probably just back off and focus on my MCATs, but I can’t seem to stay away. So I hover. I keep my distance, slowly building this careful, fragile friendship with her, just waiting for any flicker of interest—a look held a second too long, a laugh meant only for me—that might fan the flames of hope I’m trying so hard to suppress. Part of me thinks I’m being a little pathetic, clinging to the possibility of a girl who barely seems to see me, but then she’ll smile, and I realise a little bit more that she is more than worth the wait.
As I walk closer, I notice the only available space is the narrow gap of vinyl right next to her. I glance down at the other side of the booth, where Agnes’s massive chemistry backpack is occupying the entire seat next to her.
Agnes looks up, meeting my eyes with a smile that is far too sweet and far too innocent to be trusted. Fucking Agnes.
I slide in tentatively, careful not to crowd Belly, but the booth is small. I feel her tense for a split second—a micro-movement that makes me cringe internally—before she shuffles over to the wall to give me space. I try to ignore the way my skin prickles at the proximity.
"Fisher! You’re late," Agnes calls out, leaning on her elbows. "I was starting to think you’d eloped with your microscope."
"The titration took longer than expected," I say, keeping my voice light despite the fact that I can feel the heat radiating from Belly’s shoulder. "Hey, Belly."
"Hey, Conrad." Her voice is quiet, lacking its usual 100-watt brightness. But when she turns to meet my eyes, her face breaks into this shy, tentative smile.
And fuck, if it isn't the cutest expression I’ve ever seen on a person. It makes me want to ask her whatever she needs to hear just to keep that look on her face.
My eyes flick down to her hand, which is currently clenched around a thick piece of cream-coloured paper. She catches me looking and her eyes widen. Before I can even process the gold foil on the edge of it, she’s stuffed the paper deep into her sweatshirt pocket, burying her hands with it.
It’s definitely personal. If it were a bad grade on a psych midterm, she would’ve been complaining to Agnes about the rubric five minutes ago.
She looks like she’s been caught in a landslide, and I can’t stand the way she’s suddenly avoiding my gaze. I need to get the spotlight off her.
"So, Agnes," I say, shifting my focus to my lab partner. "I’m assuming you haven't told Belly about the disaster in the basement today? I spent twenty minutes convincing Professor Miller that you didn't actually intend to set the fume hood on fire. I think I’m still technically on probation by association."
Agnes rolls her eyes, but she takes the bait, grinning. "It was one beaker, Conrad. And it wasn't a fire, it was a 'thermal event.' Besides, you love playing the hero. It suits your whole brand."
"I'd prefer to play the guy who graduates without a criminal record," I mutter, though I’m glad to see the corner of Belly's mouth twitch.
"Miller was literally holding the fire extinguisher like he was about to perform an exorcism on our lab bench." I add, leaning back slightly.
Belly lets out a soft snort, her shoulders finally dropping an inch. "To be fair, Agnes once tried to make 'experimental' pasta in our dorm kitchen and nearly took out the smoke detector with a pot of boiling water. I think the fire department has her on speed dial."
"It was al dente, Belly!" Agnes protests, but she’s grinning.
I feel myself relax as the tension breaks. The conversation shifts, drifting away from the mysterious paper and into the safety of our daily lives. Belly starts telling us about a consultation she had today with a walk-on kicker who has the 'yips'—a psychological block that’s ruining his field goals.
As she talks, she gets animated, her hands moving to emphasise her points, her eyes lighting up with that sharp, intuitive intelligence I’ve grown to know is so characteristically her. I find myself drifting, barely hearing the actual words, just mesmerised by the way she inhabits the space around her. She’s like a sun that doesn't realize it’s the center of a solar system.
But as she wraps up the story, the warmth in the booth evaporates. Agnes leans in, her expression shifting into something calculated.
"So, Conrad," Agnes says, her voice dropping into a casual tone that I know by now can only be trap. "You’re a fan of travel, right?"
I’m taken aback by the sudden pivot. Next to me, I feel Belly freeze. The animation in her face vanishes, replaced by a rigid stillness that makes my internal alarm bells go off.
"Umm, yeah, I guess?" I say, cautious.
"You ever been to Europe?"
Flashbacks of winter breaks hit me all at once—the smell of pine needles, the bite of cold air in the Alps, and my mom. She used to live for those trips. She loved France with a kind of poetic devotion that she passed down to us.
"Umm, yeah, a few times," I say, my voice softening as I look at Belly. I know she spent her sophomore year there, and I’m hoping that bringing it up will act as a bridge, a way to pull her back into the conversation. "We used to travel to France a lot in the winter. My mom’s family actually had an apartment just outside Paris."
I say it encouragingly, waiting for her to chime in with a favorite café or a comment on the weather. Instead, it’s like I’ve dropped a lead weight on the table. Belly’s breath hitches—a sharp, audible sound—and she looks like she wants to throw herself through the wall.
Agnes, meanwhile, looks like she just hit the jackpot. "Paris? Really? So you’d say you know your way around there? Feel pretty comfortable?"
I am completely puzzled now. I look at Agnes, then at Belly, whose face is rapidly turning a deep, pained shade of crimson. "I guess you could say that? Why?"
"Aggie," Belly interrupts, her voice strained and a little too loud. "Did you want a refill before last call?"
Agnes opens her mouth to keep digging, but Belly fixes her with a look—a silent, desperate plea that’s also a terrifying command. They stare at each other for a long beat, an unspoken argument passing between them that I have no hope of translating. It’s the kind of communication only roommates and best friends have, and right now, I’m the outsider looking in.
Finally, Agnes sighs, putting up her hands in retreat. "Message received. Be right back, kiddos. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
She slides out of the booth, her backpack following her, leaving a vacuum of silence in her wake. The bar feels ten times louder now that we’re the only ones not talking. I turn toward Belly, who is staring at her cider like it holds the secrets to the universe. She’s still bright red, her shoulders hunched up toward her ears.
"Hey," I say softly, shifting my weight so I’m facing her more directly. The citrus scent of her shampoo hits me like a freight train, and I can see the way her pulse is jumping in the side of her neck. "Umm... am I missing something? Are you okay?"
Belly finally looks at me, and for a second, she looks completely cornered. She lets out a shaky breath, her fingers nervously picking at the label of her glass. "I'm fine. Really. Agnes is just... she's just on a mission. She doesn't know when to leave things alone."
"She seemed pretty excited about the Paris thing," I say, trying to gauge her reaction. "Did I say something wrong? I thought you liked it there."
Belly winces, the name of the city clearly hitting a nerve. "I did. I do. It’s just... complicated. There's a reason I came back to California and haven't looked at a pain au chocolat since."
She tries to laugh, but it’s thin and brittle. She looks so small in her oversized hoodie, so different from the confident, animated girl who was just talking about sports psychology a few minutes ago. Every protective instinct I have—the ones I usually reserve for my brother or my patients in the lab—starts screaming at me to do something.
"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," I say, my voice dropping an octave. "I just... I hate seeing you look like you’re about to bolt for the exit."
Belly looks up, her eyes searching mine, and for a heartbeat, the distance between us feels much smaller than an inch of vinyl.
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Belly
I’m staring into his eyes and I’ve never realised how green they are. I mean, I knew they were light, but up close, with the amber bar lights reflecting in them, they’re like the ocean on a stormy day. And they’re fixed entirely on me. This is the most eye contact Conrad Fisher has ever made with me, and I’m currently a heartbeat away from spontaneous combustion.
He’s looking at me with so much genuine concern that I feel like a total lunatic. I have to say something. I can’t just sit here vibrating with anxiety while he looks at me like I’m a patient in triage.
"Look, Paris was—it was a lot," I start, my voice wavering. I trace the rim of my glass to keep my hands from shaking. "Most of it was really great. It was exactly what I needed. But some of it was..."
"Not so great?" he offers softly.
"You could say that. I was dating a guy and things... didn't end well."
I see Conrad stiffen slightly next to me—just a tightening of his jaw—but he keeps looking at me, his expression encouraging me to go on. I want to cry. I sound so juvenile, like a heartbroken teenager, and here he is being so patient and nice. And god, he smells so good up close. Like cool rain and whatever soap he uses in the morning.
"Coming to Stanford has been amazing," I say, trying to find my footing. "Things have been going great, and I’ve really started to move on. I felt like I was finally over it. Until..."
I can't believe I'm doing this. I reach into my sweatshirt pocket and pull out the invitation. I smooth the cream-colored cardstock onto the sticky table in front of him, feeling like I’m laying out a confession.
Conrad goes quiet. He leans in, his shoulder brushing mine as he reads the gold-embossed script. I nervously bite my thumb, watching him, counting the seconds of his silence. The pub noise feels a million miles away. Finally, he meets my gaze again.
"So," he says, his brow furrowing. "He’s getting married?"
I blink, completely puzzled. "Huh?"
"Your ex," Conrad says, pointing to the names. "Max. He’s getting married?"
A sudden, nervous laugh bubbles up in my throat. I can't help it. "Oh, no. Max isn't—she's getting married to Gemma. Gemma and Max are my friends. They’re the ones I met when I first arrived in Paris."
Conrad’s eyes move back to the card, a slow realisation dawning on his face but not quite landing completely. "Okay."
"My ex is Benito," I explain, my voice dropping. "And he’s the Best Man."
Conrad nods, the pieces finally clicking into place. "Ah.”
I pull the crinkled RSVP card out of my pocket too, the one I’ve been mangling for the last hour, and set it next to the invitation. It looks pathetic next to the elegant card. "Yeah. It’s a week-long celebration in the city where he broke my heart. And I’m expected to show up, alone, and watch him give a speech about eternal love while I try not to look like I’ve spent the last six months analysing my own failure."
Conrad doesn't look away. He doesn't laugh. He just looks at the invitation and then back at me, his gaze incredibly steady.
"And Agnes is being weird about all of this because..." Conrad's voice trails off, his eyes searching mine.
I close my eyes and let out a long, low groan of pure embarrassment, burying my face in my hands. The heat in my cheeks is so intense I’m surprised my palms aren't blistering. This is it. The moment of truth.
"Conrad," I mumble into my hands, "have you ever watched that movie, The Wedding Date?"
"The Wedding Date..." he mutters.
I stay behind my hands, silently pleading to every IMDB god in existence that he’s seen it. If he knows the plot, I don't have to say the words out loud. I chance a glance at him through the cracks of my fingers and watch his eyes go slightly distant as he mentally scrolls through his film catalogue.
Then it hits me. Silly Belly. His film tastes are limited to black-and-white classics and gritty noirs—he’s not exactly the target demographic for mid-2000s rom-coms.
I sigh, dropping my hands. "Basically, this woman has to go to a wedding where her ex is the best man, and she... um... she hires an escort to accompany her."
The silence lasts for about a second before Conrad bursts out laughing. It’s not a polite chuckle or a dry smirk; it’s a real, unreserved laugh that reaches his eyes and makes his whole face transform.
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him laugh like that, and the sound is so infectious that I find myself joining in, the sheer absurdity of the situation finally breaking through my panic.
"Belly, look, in all seriousness," he says, catching his breath but still grinning, "you can't hire an escort. I can’t believe Agnes actually suggested that."
My eyes widen. "Oh my god, Conrad, no! She wasn't suggesting I hire an escort. She was suggesting..."
The words die in my throat. I trail off, looking at him—really looking at him—and realise there is no version of reality where I can comfortably say, 'She was suggesting you pretend to be my fake boyfriend so I can trick my ex into thinking I'm dating a brilliant, brooding Stanford doctor.'
"What?" Conrad asks, his smile softening into something more curious, more focused.
"What'd I miss?" Agnes’s voice cuts through the air as she slides back into the booth, drink in hand, sounding way too cheerful for someone who just abandoned her post. She looks between us, her eyebrows practically reaching her hairline when she sees how close we’re sitting.
"Nothing," I say quickly, sliding toward the edge of the bench. My heart is hammering against my ribs, and the smell of his cologne is suddenly making it very hard to think straight. "Umm, look, guys... I think I’m gonna call it a night."
I reach for the edge of the table, but I’m not going anywhere. I’m completely caged in by the wall on my left and Conrad’s tall frame on my right. To get out, he has to move first.
Conrad seems to realise the predicament at the same time I do. He shuffles his weight, preparing to slide out. "Of course," he says, his voice a little gruff. "Umm, actually, I was thinking of heading out too."
He looks apologetically at Agnes, and I scream internally at the sudden turn in events. No, no, no. I am so embarrassed I could actually melt into the floorboards. I look at my roommate, my eyes wide and pleading. "What about you, Agnes? You coming?"
Agnes just leans back against the vinyl, raising her glass with a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. "I think I’ll finish this before heading out. You two go ahead, though."
Please do not offer to walk me home, I think, my heart drumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Conrad stands up, clearing the way, but he doesn't step aside to let me bolt. Instead, he looks down at me kindly. "Umm, I’ll walk you to the dorm."
"No, it’s fine! You don’t have to," I say, way too quickly.
Conrad cuts me off with a small, practical tilt of his head. "We’d literally be walking in the same direction anyway, Belly."
He has me there. He lives in the complex right next to ours. I take a breath, trying to regain some shred of dignity. "Okay. Um, yeah. See you at home, Aggie."
Agnes smiles gleefully, looking like the cat that got the cream. "See ya, B."
Conrad says a quick goodbye to Agnes before turning to follow me. As we weave through the crowded bar toward the exit, I can feel his hand near the small of my back—guiding me through the throng of people. He isn't quite touching me, but he's close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, a static that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
He reaches the heavy wooden door first, pulling it open and holding it as a gust of cool, damp night air hits us. He offers me a tentative smile. "Ready?"
I look at him—the green of his eyes, the way his hair is slightly damp from the rain, the sheer Conrad-ness of him—and a single thought echoes through my brain.
What the fuck just happened?