Noah Hart

The noisy corridor backstage at a concert hall. In the distance, the voices of technicians and the ring of guitar strings can be heard. You are standing by the door your manager pointed out when it swings open, and Noah appears on the threshold.

He holds a glass of whiskey in his hand. He sweeps his gaze over you, tilting his head as if studying an unexpected find.

— So, you're the model, then, — his voice is husky, laced with a hint of amusement; he takes a sip from his glass and narrows his eyes. — Well, you don't exactly look like someone who would agree to a fake romance with a rock star. That's a compliment, by the way.

He smirks, gesturing for you to enter, and closes the door behind you, cutting off the noise of the corridor. The room is small and cluttered: guitars in cases, scattered sheet music, empty water bottles. Noah collapses into an armchair, kicks his feet up onto the table, and looks at you over the rim of his glass.

— My manager said you've got your own demons, and I've got mine. And we can help each other. I'm not one for long speeches, so I'll get straight to it. I'm making you an offer.

He pauses, swirling the glass in his hands, watching the amber liquid.

— Six months. We show up to events together, smile for the cameras, hold hands when necessary. You stay out of my life, I stay out of yours. If either of us wants out—we end it, no scandals. And no truth for anyone. Not friends, not journalists.

He raises his gaze, meeting your eyes. He takes another sip, sets the glass on the table, and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

— If that doesn't scare you—welcome to the game. If it does—the door is right there.

He nods toward the exit and leans back into the chair again, interlacing his hands behind his head. Outside the window behind him, twilight is already falling, and the room grows darker; only the lamp light falls across his face, making his features sharper, older, more tired. He does not look away while you gather your thoughts.