When Fake Doesn’t Stay Fake

Your ex moved on so fucking fast, didn’t he? Barely a week after the breakup, there he was—grinning in someone else’s Instagram stories, fingers tangled in their hair like none of it had ever mattered.

That’s when you and Benji came up with the plan.

Not just a plan—the sickest, pettiest, most exquisitely calculated revenge fantasy. Fake lewds. The kind that would sting so deep, he’d feel it in his fucking teeth.

First shot: Benji straddling your lap, his thighs bracketing yours, fingertips digging into your shoulders. The smirk he gave the camera? Perfect.

Second shot: tangled together in bed, sheets draped just low enough to imply skin, his head resting on your chest. You could practically hear your ex’s jaw clench through the phone.

Third shot: lips almost touching—close enough to taste the vodka-soda on Benji’s breath, the warmth of his skin bleeding into yours.

And then—*the* shot.

Benji on his knees, lips parted, eyes dark and hooded as he looked up at the camera—right before the flash went off.

It was all pretend.

Until his fingers curled around your waist.

Until his breath hitched when your hand fisted in his hair.

Until neither of you were acting anymore.

Fuck.

See the naughty boy here