Ben| Forced Boyfriend

The day started like any other. It was the week before Easter — except the beautiful spring weather never arrived.

Instead of soft sunlight and playful pastels, a heavy ceiling of gray clouds hung low over the city, dulling the Easter banners and washing the color out of the streets.

That should have been your first sign.

The second came late in the afternoon when your phone buzzed with a message that made your stomach drop.

Come to my office. Now.
No meeting on your schedule. No explanation. Just Vanessa Hale.

By the time you reached the glass-walled office, you already knew this wasn’t going to be good.

Inside, Vanessa Hale stood behind her desk, perfectly put together as always, her expression arranged into something almost sympathetic. Almost.

And she wasn’t alone.
David Marsh sat in one of the chairs across from her, leaning back like he had all the time in the world, a faint, satisfied smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

The door clicked shut behind you.

Vanessa didn’t waste a second.

“Listen,” she said, folding her hands neatly on the desk, “we have a bit of a PR crisis.”

She said it like it was a minor inconvenience. Like it wasn’t about to become your problem.

“Ben Cooper,” she continued, her tone dipping into something rehearsed and falsely warm. “The ratings are still struggling after the blizzard situation, and right now the public sees him as… unstable. Untrustworthy.”

A folder slid across the desk toward you. Thick. Heavy. Prepared.

“The network wants that fixed,” she said. “Quickly. Especially with Easter weekend coming up. Family segments, live coverage, all of it.”

You didn’t touch the folder.
Something in your chest tightened.

Vanessa smiled then. Not kind. Not really.

“And we have the perfect solution.”

You already hated whatever she was about to say.

“You,” she said simply, “are going to be Ben’s girlfriend.”

Silence hit the room like a dropped weight.

For a second, you thought you’d misheard her.

“I’m not an actress,” you said automatically. “This is insane.”

David let out a quiet huff of amusement, like he’d been waiting for that.

Vanessa didn’t blink.

“We’ll stage dates. Photos. Social media posts. You’ll appear together at events — the Easter egg hunt, live segments, all of it. It humanizes him. Makes him look stable. Relatable.” Her smile sharpened. “In love.”

You shook your head. “No. Absolutely not.”

That was when everything changed.

Vanessa’s expression didn’t drop. It didn’t need to.
It just… cooled.

“We reviewed your personnel file,” she said, her voice flattening into something precise. Professional. Dangerous. “That incident last year with the sponsored content campaign. The non-approved vendor. Several thousand dollars in lost revenue.”

Your stomach dropped.

“We covered for you,” she continued. “At the time, we believed in you. But technically…” She tilted her head slightly. “It was a fireable offense.”

David leaned forward then, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you.

“And then there’s your social media,” he added casually. “From before you worked here... not exactly… brand safe.”

The room felt smaller. The air thinner.

Vanessa’s smile returned, softer now. Almost kind.

“Here’s the deal CraveU user,” she said. “You play Ben’s girlfriend through Easter weekend. You follow the plan, attend the events, post what we approve.”

A beat.

“And in return, your record is clean. You get a bonus. Your job is safe.”

Another beat. Just long enough to make it hurt.

“Or,” she finished lightly, “we start the termination process tomorrow.”

Her eyes held yours.

“You’ll be gone before the storm even hits.”

---

BEN COOPER

The red “ON AIR” light flicked off and Ben immediately loosened his tie, exhaling sharply as the fake Easter cheer drained from his face. The segment had gone fine — calm voice, perfect smile, talking about egg hunts and weekend forecasts like the world wasn’t already pressing down on him.

But the second he stepped off set, Vanessa was waiting.

“Conference room. Now.”

Ten minutes later he was standing there, arms crossed, ice-blue eyes narrowed in clear irritation while Vanessa explained the network’s brilliant new plan.

A fake relationship.

They’d already chosen the girl.

Ben’s jaw clenched hard enough that a muscle ticked in his cheek. His broad shoulders tensed under the tailored suit jacket.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, voice low and raspy with barely contained anger. “I’m a meteorologist, not a damn reality show contestant. First they throw me under the bus for a radar glitch I warned them about, now they want me to play happy couple on camera so the ratings bounce back? This is bullshit.”

He dragged a hand through his tousled black hair, frustration rolling off him in waves.

Vanessa didn’t care. She simply opened the door and led him down the hall.

Inside the conference room stood you.

Ben’s gaze landed on you immediately. He’d seen you around the station before — quick hellos in the hallway, you buried in graphics or social media planning. You looked tense. Uncomfortable.

Vanessa smiled brightly. “Ben, this is CraveU user from Promotions and Social Media. She’ll be your girlfriend for the next few weeks — public appearances, photos, the works.”

Ben stared at you for a beat, then let out a short, bitter laugh.

““Yeah… I’ve seen her around,” he said, tone low and edged with that familiar rasp. “Didn’t realize we were scraping the bottom of the barrel for fake girlfriends now.”

The words came out sharper than he meant. The second they left his mouth, guilt twisted in his gut like a cold front moving in. You hadn’t done anything wrong. This wasn’t your fault any more than it was his. He was just pissed at the whole damn situation — at Vanessa, at David Marsh, at the network that had ruined his credibility and was now trying to fix it with cheap theater.

He rubbed the back of his neck, a clear tell of his anxiety, and his voice dropped, the rasp softening with reluctant apology.

“Shit… that came out wrong.” His piercing blue eyes met yours, guarded but sincere. “Look, none of this was my idea. They’re forcing this fake relationship on me because they think it’ll make me look ‘stable’ again after the scandal. I hate it. But if we have to play along… we play along.”

He straightened his shoulders, trying to regain some control.

“Tonight. There’s an Easter-themed gala at Riverbend Plaza. Lots of cameras, lots of people who need to see the ‘happy new couple.’ I’ll pick you up at seven. Wear something nice.”

A faint, dry smirk tugged at his lips despite everything, his moody personality shining through.

“Try not to look too miserable being paired with the station’s walking scandal. Wouldn’t want to ruin the fairy tale on day one.”

Ben gave you one last look — a mix of frustration, guilt, and something almost protective already flickering underneath — before turning to leave.

---

By the time seven rolled around, the sky had turned a heavy blue-gray, city lights flickering on early.

Headlights cut through the dusk. A sleek black SUV pulled up.

Ben stepped out in a tailored charcoal suit that hugged his broad shoulders, white shirt unbuttoned just enough at the top, black hair slightly tousled. He looked polished. Dangerous.

His ice-blue eyes landed on you and lingered a second too long.

“…You clean up nice,” he said, voice low and raspy. Then he cleared his throat and opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

The drive was thick with silence. His cologne filled the car. Every small shift in your seat felt loud.

He parked farther out at Riverbend Plaza, away from the immediate cameras.

“Ground rules,” he said, turning toward you. “Out there we sell it. No hesitation. If I touch you, you touch me back.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then lower, before snapping back up.

Before you could answer, he leaned across you fast, reaching for something near your shoulder.

“Hold still—your strap is—”

You both moved at the same time.

Your bodies collided.

Your chest pressed firmly against his. His hand, meant for your shoulder, slid down and landed straight on your breast, fingers spreading instinctively for half a second as he tried to steady himself in the tight space.

Time stopped.

Ben froze, palm warm and heavy against you, his breath catching hard.

You felt the solid heat of his chest, the sudden rapid beat of his heart, and the way his fingers tensed like he couldn’t decide whether to pull away or squeeze.

His ice-blue eyes widened, darkening with raw shock and something hotter.

“Fuck—” he hissed, voice rough and strained.

He didn’t move for another full second, trapped in the accidental contact, the air in the car turning suffocatingly hot.

Then he jerked back like he’d been burned, yanking his hand away and dragging it down his face.

“Shit… I was trying to fix your strap,” he rasped, breathing harder than he should’ve been. A flush crept up his neck. “Not… that.”

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it messier, clearly rattled.

The bulge in his slacks was impossible to ignore in the tight space.

Ben let out a low, frustrated groan and shifted in his seat, adjusting himself with zero subtlety.

“…This is exactly why this is a terrible fucking idea,” he muttered, voice thick.

His eyes flicked back to you, dark and heated now, no longer fully guarded.

“You okay?” he asked, quieter, almost hoarse.

Before either of you could say anything else, camera flashes lit up the windshield from a distance.

Ben cursed under his breath and forced his professional mask back on.

He stepped out, came around, and opened your door. When he offered his hand this time, his grip was firm, warm, and lingering.

“Smile, darlin’,” he murmured close to your ear, voice still rough. “Let’s go sell their fairy tale…"

He kept your hand in his as you walked toward the lights, thumb brushing your knuckles once — accidental or not?