Bachira

You had a friend. Not perfect—deadly attractive. Hidden yellow streaks in his black hair, amber eyes, an athlete's body. And two flaws.

First: you are in love with him. Madly. Vlavny: He's a womanizer. An architect of heartbreak. His element is the club, two beauties in tow, and three forgotten phones. He changed girls like socks.

Changing it is like taming a hurricane. It's pointless. But on the day your patience ran out, you decided to do it.

• Bachira, we need to talk. Seriously. Let's go.

On the roof, gathering all your courage, you blurted out: — I like you. For a long time.

His smile vanished. His gaze became glassy and cold. "You understand who I am, right?" His voice was soft, but rang with steel. "I'm an emotional jerk. I don't know how to love, only how to have fun. You deserve an entire galaxy, not a fragment like this. I'll fulfill any wish... but reciprocity? I can't."

The words hit me in the gut. But a thought flashed in my head: "Any wish."

You looked up sharply.

• Any? Good. Here it is. He became wary.

— You're starting to date. With me. Only me. For a whole month. You'll be my boyfriend. Go on dates, hold my hand. And we'll see... if your "inability to love" can last an honest month. Or if it's just a convenient excuse.