Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

ellie.exe is live...

The screen is dimly lit in cool purples and flickering LED strips. A soft lo-fi playlist hums beneath the click-clack of keys and the occasional irritated—

Ellie, tucked into a hoodie and headset, squints at her monitor, brows furrowed in the way that makes her fans screenshot the stream and tweet things like “she’s so baby when she’s mad”.

She's midway through a stream of some hyper-buggy online multiplayer game her chat begged her to play. She’s not good at it. She’s not pretending to be good at it.

Which is, naturally, why thousands are watching.

The chat explodes:

Ellie groans, tossing her controller onto her lap and reaching for the watered-down iced coffee she’s been sipping since the stream started. The condensation leaves a faint ring on her desk.

Sip. Grimace. Another sip.

The chat floods with one name: your username, a wave of heart emojis, thirst comments, and “SHIP??” spam.

A few more keystrokes, a few clicks.

The game feed shrinks into the corner. A new window opens on her overlay—your latest video.

GRWM: Night Out Routine (Even If You Cancel Last Minute) 💄🍷

The video fades in. You’re cross-legged on your bed, silky robe slung off one shoulder, hair twisted up with a claw clip, all soft lighting and softer skin. You’re smiling at the camera, walking through a lineup of glassy skincare bottles like it’s second nature.

Ellie leans forward slightly. Just a bit.

Chat starts twitching:

She pauses—lets the silence sit there a second.

The chat absolutely loses it.

Ellie lifts her hands in mock surrender.

She smirks. Just a little. The kind that makes her left cheek dimple slightly, which only makes her chat explode even more.

She minimizes the window. Boots her game back up.

But it’s already too late.

The screen recordings are circulating. TikToks are multiplying like bacteria in petri dishes. The fan edits are being born—dramatic music, soft fades, your skincare and her flustered commentary spliced together.

Meanwhile, on your end.
Your phone buzzes with a flurry of DMs. Some from fans. Some from mutuals. All of them saying the same thing:

You scroll. You find the clip. You raise a brow.

Fuck this girl. Fuck her.

You stare at your screen for a bit before hitting post on the tweet.

Your mentions explode.
The war has begun.

You swipe through your mentions, catching glimpses of your own face edited onto Mortal Kombat fighters, people tagging Ellie and begging her to respond. You tell yourself you’re over it. That you’ve said what you needed to say. That she doesn’t matter.

And then someone DMs you again.

You open Twitter.

You blink.
Read it again.
Your jaw actually drops.

That smug, passive-aggressive, “not-a-reply-but-yes-it-is” tone practically has her signature all over it. She didn’t tag you. She didn’t have to. It’s as good as a shot fired.

Like she didn’t start this by coming for your routine with her crusty gamer hands and talking about you like you were a mall display instead of a person?

Oh, hell no.

You set your phone down. Pick it back up. Type. Delete. Type again. Your jaw clenches as you pace your room, bare feet dragging across a fluffy rug as the late afternoon sun pours across your floor—the same one she saw in your video. The one she smirked at like it offended her personally.

You finally hit post.

You don’t even wait to see the fallout this time. You toss your phone onto your bed like it burned you and go to pour yourself something strong and unnecessary.

By the time you come back, Twitter’s already turned your quote tweet into a meme. Your face on a skincare ad. Ellie’s on a GameStop receipt. Someone edited a fake YouTube thumbnail:

You try to laugh, but it comes out tight.

Your blood is hot. Not quite angry, not quite amused. It’s something in between. Something irritating and unfamiliar. Something that smells like obsession.

You actually exhale a disbelieving, “Oh my God,” into your empty room.

She’s insufferable.
Infuriating.
Smug.
And you hate—hate—the way her face lingered in your head after watching her watch you.

You were supposed to win this.
You were supposed to make her shut up. So You make her... By Clicking the block button.

Chapter Text

You don’t think. You just do it.

One tap and Ellie’s profile disappears from your timeline. The block settles with a quiet sort of finality, like a door sliding shut between you. No drama. No confirmation. Just absence.

You toss your phone onto the bed and sit there in the stillness. At first, it feels like power.

Then it doesn’t.

You glance around your apartment, a space curated down to the tiniest detail—crisp linens, gentle lighting, eucalyptus bundles tied neatly by the window. Your latest PR packages are stacked in the corner, untouched. There’s a diffuser humming on the vanity, its scent barely reaching you through the static in your chest.

Blocking her should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t even about the comments anymore. Not the fans, or the edits, or the way everyone online had started treating this like some scripted romance they’d been waiting years to see unfold.

It was about her.

About that smirk. That offhand tone. The way she looked at your video like it was a puzzle she didn’t care to solve—but watched anyway.

And now? Now she was gone. Cut off. Removed.

And yet somehow still everywhere.

You stand up slowly, the robe slipping a little lower on your shoulder. You cross the room and sit at your vanity, eyes finding themselves in the mirror.

You look fine. Flushed, maybe. Jaw a little tight. But fine.

It hits you, then—this is what you’re good at. Composure. Control. Turning irritation into content. You’ve done it before. You can do it again.

You light a candle. Press record.

The video opens in soft light, your voice even.

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately about boundaries.”

You apply cleanser with delicate fingers, rinsing it off in slow, practiced motions.

“How we give our energy away. Who deserves it. Who doesn’t.”

There’s no name, no direct reference. Just a steady unraveling of grace laced with venom. You move through your skincare routine like a ritual, tone sweet but cold around the edges.

“Sometimes you have to protect your peace—even if it means letting go of things that once seemed... interesting. Or entertaining. Or funny, in a loud, immature kind of way.”

By the time the video ends, you’re smiling softly into the camera.

“Block what doesn’t serve you. Hydrate. Heal.”

You post it without thinking. The response is instant. As expected.

You don’t look at the comments. Not right away. Instead, you lean back, stretch your arms, and try to breathe. The city outside is still. Late afternoon light slips in through the blinds.

Maybe now, things will settle.

Ellie doesn’t realize she’s been blocked until late. She’s curled up in the corner of her couch, legs tucked under her, a half-empty cup of cold coffee balanced precariously on a coaster she hasn't used properly since she bought it. The glow from her second monitor still casts a familiar blue haze across the room, but the game’s long since ended. She’s not really paying attention to the replay of her stream anyway—just letting it run while she scrolls absently, her thumb moving more from muscle memory than intention.

She searches your handle the way she’s done more often than she wants to admit—quietly, without reason, without any real plan. She just wants to see. Maybe out of morbid curiosity. Maybe to get annoyed.

But this time, the page doesn’t load. No posts. No profile picture. Just a vague “user not found,” like you never existed at all.

It takes her a few seconds to register what it means. Then a few more to actually feel anything.

She stares at her phone, brows drawn, as if waiting for the screen to correct itself. It doesn’t. She closes the app. Opens it again. Same result.

Blocked.

A sharp breath leaves her before she can swallow it down. She drops the phone onto the couch beside her and slumps back into the cushions. The corner of her mouth twitches, not quite a smirk. Just a press of disbelief. You actually did it.

Of course you did.

She doesn't even know what she expected. You’re the kind of person who makes a block look like self-care. Who can turn a passive-aggressive skincare tutorial into a personal attack with a drop of serum and perfect lighting. You’re all intention, always polished. You control the narrative even when you pretend not to.

And Ellie—Ellie’s just the idiot who keeps watching.

She tilts her head back against the cushions and closes her eyes. The room is too quiet. She can still see you, even without the screen. The way you look down at the camera when you talk. The way you never seem flustered, not really, not in the same way Ellie always is when she says too much, or not enough, and then has to fill the silence with some half-baked joke.

She tells herself she’s mad because you made it personal. Because you used your platform to make her the villain in some wellness arc. But if she’s honest—really honest, in a way she rarely is when the cameras are off—it’s not just anger.

It’s that she doesn’t like being cut off. Not when she was starting to learn your rhythms. The way you speak when you’re not trying so hard. The way you smile to yourself when you think no one’s watching. (She's seen your fans posts)

She tells herself she’s just annoyed. That it’s principle. That she didn’t want to see your content anyway.

But the truth is quieter than that. More embarrassing.

She liked watching you.

She liked the softness of your voice, even when you were mocking her. She liked that you had your own gravity, your own way of curling the world around you without forcing it. She liked how your fans defended you like you were royalty, and how you leaned into it, smug but untouchable.

And she hates that she misses it now. Even if she’ll never say it.

She opens TikTok on autopilot, only for your face to greet her again—not from your own account, but through the edits. The algorithm hasn’t caught up yet. It’s still feeding her what it thinks she wants.

Split screen edits. Voiceovers. A clip from your latest video synced perfectly to some overly dramatic audio. You’re pressing a warm towel to your cheek while some angsty song plays under a quote you didn’t even say.

Ellie exhales, sharp and tired, and throws her phone onto the coffee table with a little more force than necessary. It clatters but doesn’t break. Shame.

She sits forward, elbows on her knees, rubbing her hands together like she can get the memory of your voice out of them.

She should’ve never clicked on your page. She should’ve kept it surface level. Funny jabs, distant admiration. She should’ve left it at “the GRWM girl” and moved on.

But she didn’t.

And now you’re not just gone... You’re haunting her, algorithmically and otherwise.

Maybe she deserves it.

She doesn’t check her phone again.

Instead, she opens her laptop and pulls up her inbox, needing something—anything—to ground herself. The screen takes a moment to load, casting a soft blue glow across her dim living room. She scrolls through spam, newsletters, junk. Then she sees it:

Subject: CREATOR CIRCUIT 2025: Final Details + Deliverables

She clicks before she can overthink it. Her eyes scan the header—colorful, professional, loud in that tech-meets-wellness aesthetic only brand people seem to understand.

Hi Ellie!

We’re so excited to officially welcome you to the CREATOR CIRCUIT 2025: Reboot + Recharge Weekend—a cross-platform summit bringing together top creators from gaming, beauty, commentary, tech, fashion, and beyond.

🗓 Event Dates:
Friday 2PM to Monday 10AM
📍 Location:
The Pines at Juniper Summit – Big Bear, CA

You’ve been selected as one of 30 featured creators across verticals who’ve redefined engagement in 2024. Over the course of the weekend, you’ll participate in a mix of roundtables, sponsor-led content challenges, wellness integration workshops, and closed-door brand previews.

Your Required Deliverables:

• 1 livestream or VOD (minimum 30 minutes) from on-site

• 1 TikTok or Reels recap of your experience

• 1 panel appearance (topics TBD)

• Behind-the-scenes access to upcoming tech or product drops

• Optional collabs with creators across industries

This is a high-visibility creator weekend, with exclusive brand access and long-term sponsorship scouts in attendance. Your content will be shared across the CREATOR CIRCUIT and [Brand Network] platforms.

Cabin Assignment – Shared Suite
You’ll be staying in one of our Luxe Shared Cabins, curated for cross-content synergy, networking potential, and vibe compatibility.

Cabin C – Shared Queen Suite
Roommates: Ellie W. (@ellie.exe) + [Your Name]

Please confirm attendance + food/allergy preferences by EOD Wednesday.
More logistics to follow. We can’t wait to see what you create.

xo,
The Creator Circuit Team

The email ends with your name sitting there like it belongs next to hers.

She stares at the screen, not moving for a long time.

You blocked her—and now she’s going to be sleeping twelve feet away from you, drinking sponsored green juice and talking about “creator burnout” like you didn’t just soft-launch a digital war in matching silk robes.

She minimizes the tab and sinks deeper into the couch, a quiet laugh slipping out before she can stop it. There’s no way this isn’t going to implode.

And yet… she’s not angry.

Not really.

The situation is a mess, but it's the kind of mess she can already see the clip compilations forming around. She knows the fans are going to eat it up. Knows there’s no backing out now.

So she lets the grin rise, lazy and amused, pressing a knuckle to her lips before muttering into the empty room:

“Son of a bitch.”

Chapter Text

“Son of a bitch!”

You don’t scream often. Not like that. Not the guttural, throw-your-phone-into-the-pillows kind of scream that makes your throat ache and your teeth grit tight around the last syllable. But it comes out of you before you can swallow it down, echoing in your apartment like it belongs to someone else.

You’re still standing in the middle of your bedroom, the email open on your laptop screen, glowing like a threat.

Cabin C – Shared Queen Suite
Roommates: Ellie W. + [Your Name]

You read it again, like maybe it’ll change. Like maybe it’s a formatting error. Like maybe Ellie fucking Williams is not the person you’re about to be stuck sharing a room, a bathroom, and forty-eight consecutive waking hours with.

You dig your phone out from where it fell, still tangled in the throw blanket at the foot of your bed, and hit Dina’s name without hesitation.

She picks up on the second ring. “Hey—”

“They put me in a room with her.”

There’s a pause. “Wait. What? Who?”

“You know who,” you snap. “Her. Ellie.”

Dina inhales sharply. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” You pace the length of your room, nearly tripping over a pair of heels you’d left discarded near your desk. “Creator Circuit just emailed final assignments. I thought I was gonna be roomed with, like, a lifestyle girl or maybe a mutual or literally anyone else. But no. No. I got Twitch’s most annoying lesbian and her stupid ironic beanie.”

Dina snorts. “Do you think she even sleeps in that thing?”

“She probably shower caps the beanie.”

Your heart’s racing too fast. Your mind’s already drafting an escape plan. You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to breathe through the heat.

“This was supposed to be good,” you mumble. “This retreat’s a big deal, Dee. You know how hard I worked for that invite. And now I have to room with someone I literally just blocked for being an emotionally constipated Internet troll.”

“She’s also kind of hot,” Dina adds unhelpfully.

“Not the point.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, her voice leveling out. “So. Fix it. Email the organizers. Tell them it’s a conflict. There’s gotta be a form or something.”

Right. Fix it.

You hang up and immediately dig through the contact list in the email footer. There’s a number—someone named Mallory from Creator Relations. You don’t think. You just call.

She picks up with too much pep in her voice.

“Hi, this is Mallory with Creator Circuit—how can I help?”

“Hi,” you say, trying to sound polite and not like you’re about to start screaming again. “I just received the final room assignments for next weekend’s retreat and—there’s been a mistake.”

“Oh no! What kind of mistake?”

You press your lips together. “You’ve paired me in a shared suite with someone I have a known, uh… professional conflict with.”

There’s a pause. You hear a mouse clicking on her end.

“Can I get the full name of the creator you’re referring to?”

You sigh. “Ellie Williams. Ellie.exe.”

Another pause. “Oh… yeah. Okay, I’m looking at that now.”

You wait.

More clicking. You stare at your ceiling. You picture the room—white sheets, twin beds pushed annoyingly close together, some gift basket from a sponsor sitting between you like a truce neither of you ever signed.

“Okay, so,” Mallory says brightly, “I’m seeing here that those assignments were done last week by one of our interns, and they might not have been super… thorough when it came to researching prior creator history.”

You close your eyes. “You mean they didn’t know we’re mid-feud and that half of TikTok thinks we’re enemies-to-lovers bait?”

There’s a short laugh from the other end, awkward. “Y-Yeah, I don’t think they knew that.”

You inhale. “Is there any way to change it?”

“Unfortunately,” Mallory says, “rooming is locked in. We’ve already coordinated transportation, check-ins, and security clearances. Unless one of you cancels, we can’t reassign without disrupting the whole schedule.”

You thank her. You hang up. You don’t say anything for a full minute after that.

You just stand there, phone in your hand, the silence a little too loud in your ears.

You could back out. Say you’re sick. Pretend your dog needs emergency surgery, even though you don’t have a dog. But this retreat—this specific one—has major eyes on it. Sponsors. Industry leads. A literal panel that could land you in rooms that matter.

You can’t miss it.

You won’t.

But that doesn’t mean you have to be happy about it.

You grab the nearest pillow and scream into it.

The pillow doesn’t help. Neither does pacing, or the half-cup of iced herbal tea you forgot was sitting on your counter. It’s watered down and bitter now, but you drink it anyway. Out of spite.

You check the email again, as if the names will have rearranged themselves.

They haven’t.

Ellie W.
[Your Name]

You slam your laptop shut and stare at the wall. White noise hums from the diffuser. The eucalyptus is still burning on the vanity. It’s all calm, intentional, curated. A whole space built around softness. Stillness. Clarity.

And now you’re going to bring her into it.

Into your world.

Into your room.

You’re still thinking about the way she watched your video—how amused she looked. How she barely blinked, like nothing you said could touch her, like she thought you were cute for trying.

And now, you’re supposed to share a goddamn mini-fridge and politely compare deliverables while pretending there isn't weeks of digital tension sitting between you like a live wire.

You start packing that night.

Not because you want to. Not because you’re excited. But because control is all you have left, and organizing your suitcase is the closest thing to certainty you’re going to get before this mess explodes.

You fold your outfits into pre-planned, photo-ready stacks. You try on every set twice. You line up skincare like a shield. You even print the itinerary and highlight the mandatory content slots.

You ignore the little voice in your head whispering what if she says something? What if she mocks your lighting? What if she doesn't?

What if she’s quiet. What if she looks good. What if you want her to touch you the way she touches her controller—focused, careless, unfair.

You shove that voice down so deep it can’t breathe.

This is just a job. A weekend. A room.

You’ve survived worse.

The car ride is supposed to calm you down.

The view helps, a little. Pines blur past the window in slow, painterly swipes, and the mountain air gets sharper the farther you climb. But the knot in your stomach? Unmoving. And the more your mind circles around what's coming, the worse it gets.

You stare out at the road, your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder. Dina’s voice crackles over speakerphone, half-laughing as you vent.

“I’m serious, Dee. I think I might get violent.”

“She’s not that bad.”

You shoot a look at the phone like it can feel your glare. “She made fun of my skincare routine on a livestream in front of 120,000 people.”

“Okay, yes, but… she is kind of funny.”

“Not helping.”

“And like—kind of hot?”

“Dina.”

“I’m just saying,” she sing-songs, “she’s got that whole moody gamer dyke thing. You know. Messy flannel. Permanent eye bags. Emotional unavailability. That’s, like, textbook your type.”

You groan into your palm. “You’re delusional.”

“Or I just pay attention.”

You let your head fall back against the seat, lips pressed into a flat line.

“I blocked her,” you say. “I blocked her. This was supposed to be over.”

“Well, now you’re going to spend seventy-two hours breathing her air and sleeping six feet away from her. Sounds like closure to me.”

You close your eyes and count to four before breathing out slowly. You can practically hear Dina smiling through the line.

“You’re enjoying this,” you mutter.

“Maybe a little,” she says brightly. “You’re always so composed. It’s fun seeing you unhinged over a girl in a hoodie.”

“She’s not—” you stop. “It’s not about her.”

“No,” Dina says. “It’s about your career. Your platform. Your content. I know. But if you do happen to come out of this with a soulmate or a sex tape, I just want it on record that I called it first.”

You hang up on her.

It’s petty. She’ll laugh about it later. You don’t care.

Your driver pulls up to the check-in lodge right on schedule—fifteen minutes early. You’re proud of that. Professional. Prepared. The kind of arrival you want sponsors and scouts to notice.

But as you step out of the car and sling your weekender bag over your shoulder, the pride evaporates.

She’s already here.

Leaning against the railing of Cabin C like she belongs there, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a travel coffee in one hand and a duffel bag at her feet.

Ellie looks up when the car door slams.

Her smirk is instant. Small. Crooked. Designed to ruin your day.

“Well,” she calls down casually, voice lazy and too loud in the quiet of the trees, “didn’t wanna risk the princess thinking I was late. Or worse—disorganized.”

You stare at her for a second too long before answering.

“I didn’t think you even knew how to be on time.”

She shrugs, sipping from her coffee like she has all the time in the world.

“Had to see it to believe it. This whole wellness-and-serenity vibe you’re always preaching.” She gestures around vaguely. “Guess I wanted to see if you actually glowed in real life, or if that’s just ring lights and bullshit.”

You don’t answer.

You just start walking.

The air smells like pine, and resentment.

She doesn’t move aside when you reach the stairs.

Of course she doesn’t.

Chapter Text

This place smells like privilege, the kind of curated authenticity that gets branded as "healing" but feels more like a weekend-long brand activation. The cabin isn’t terrible. It has clean lines, big windows, vaguely overpriced minimalist decor, but the walls are thin and the silence between you and Ellie is thinner.

By the time you’ve dropped your things in the shared suite and headed down to the mixer, the event’s already at its height. There’s enough faux-spontaneity to make it all feel normal. Handheld cameras, clinking glasses, those low murmurs of people talking about content like it’s weather. You do a lazy lap, nod at people you recognize, and then you see her.

Ellie. Hoodie sleeves shoved up to her elbows, glass in one hand, eyes sharp in the way that means she’s locked into someone else's orbit—some girl, obviously her type, laughing with a hand brushing Ellie’s arm like they’re old friends. She’s relaxed, casual, unreadable. You feel the twist of something stupid in your stomach and look away.

“Hey,” a voice cuts in, it's familiar. Kyla Monroe. Commentary creator. Half your feed lately. She steps into your periphery, drink in hand, smiling like she already knows what you’re thinking. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Yeah, well. My PR team said the word ‘transformational’ and I blacked out.” Granted your PR team is your mom and Dina. 

She laughs. “Same.”

The two of you talk. It’s easy, grounding even. She's sharp and unfiltered, a kind of honesty that cuts through the curated fog around you. You’re halfway through a joke about crystal-infused wellness shots when she glances over your shoulder and hums.

You don’t have to turn. You already know who she’s looking at.

“She’s cute,” Kyla says.

“She’s exhausting.”

Kyla raises a brow. “So are most crushes.”

You shoot her a look, but she’s already moved on, sliding effortlessly into commentary about potential collabs and cross-genre content. You nod, engage, stay present—until another presence joins you.

Abby Anderson. Tall, solid, effortlessly intimidating. She greets Kyla with a half-nod, then turns to you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” she says.

“I get that a lot.” You jokingly replied. 

In your mind, your hand is in a fist while your biting your knuckles while this gorgeous specimen looks down towards you. But In reality, you keep your cool even though she's the only thing in this tree-infested hellscape you wouldn’t mind climbing.

(Scratch that—she’s the only thing you’d want to climb, period.)

Abby chuckles. She’s easier to talk to than people expect. You chat briefly about the schedule, the group sessions, the fact that the smoothies all taste like grass. She leans in slightly to show you something on her phone—a screenshot of a truly cursed group chat—and when you laugh, it’s genuine.

You catch it too late: Ellie watching from across the patio. The smile she’s giving is unreadable, sharp around the edges. Not quite amused. Not quite neutral. Her conversation partner’s still talking, but Ellie’s barely listening now.

You stiffen.

Kyla catches it too. Her eyes flick between you and Ellie, and then she leans in. "So what’s the deal? You and her?”

“There’s no deal.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Your voice is flat. “There’s nothing going on.”

She doesn’t press, just gives you a knowing little shrug and sips her drink.

But hours later, you still feel that stare.

Back in the cabin, Ellie’s headphones are on. She’s hunched over her laptop, editing something or pretending to. You enter quietly, trying not to acknowledge her. It’s not a fight. But it isn’t not one, either.

You wash up in the bathroom, the mirror fogging a little. You take your time. Serums, creams, gentle rolling motions. Not because she’s watching. She isn’t. Obviously. But still.

You crawl into bed facing the wall.

Ellie doesn’t say goodnight.

Neither do you.

In the morning, the organizers hand out your schedule cards with an overly cheerful smile. A weekend of wellness. Team-building. Connection.

“You’ll be paired with different creators for the challenge stations,” someone explains. “But for the main project, we’ve assigned one partner for all three days. Someone you can bond with. Someone we think has synergy.”

You flip the card.

Ellie Williams.

You laugh, sharp and humorless. Of course.

Kyla peeks at your card and chokes on her matcha. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not.”

She leans in. “Wanna swap? I’ll pretend to be you. Just need some under-eye concealer and shrink down 2 inches.”

You snort. “Tempting.”

But no. You know you can’t bail. Not when the brands are watching. Not when the social team’s already flagged your name for one of their spotlight reels. This is visibility. This is reach. This is a nightmare.

You find her later by the lake, prepping for the first content shoot. She's got a camera slung around her neck and sunglasses pushed back into her hair.

She looks up.

“You’re late,” she says.

You squint at her. “I’m literally early.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t want the princess thinking I was slacking.”

You inhale slowly. “Are you going to do this the whole time?”

“Only if you keep glaring at me like I keyed your car.”

You glare harder. “If I had a car, I’d run you over with it.”

Ellie grins. “Cute.”

You walk past her. You do not look back.

Not even when you hear her laugh under her breath. Like this is fun. Like she’s already won.

By the time the first paired challenge begins—something about shared trust and co-creating a “vision board for emotional alignment”—you’re vibrating with tension. Ellie’s lounging on a blanket beside you, scribbling dumb captions onto pictures she’s torn from a magazine.

You keep catching her staring.

She keeps not apologizing.

Somewhere, a camera clicks.

This is going to be hell.

And for the record?

You hate that it isn’t boring.

Ellie saw you the second you walked onto the deck. You looked good. Annoyingly good. Comfortable in your skin, in your clothes, in your charm. She also watched the way people leaned in when you spoke, the way you lit up a conversation without trying.

And then you were talking to Abby.

Fucking Abby Anderson. Tall, sculpted, and apparently friends with everyone. Ellie watched you smile at her and felt something crawl under her skin. She didn’t hear half of what her conversation partner was saying.

Not when your laugh cut through the air like that.

Trust-building. That’s what they called it. Trust-building through arts and crafts, because that’s what makes content authentic now.

Ellie sits on the blanket, legs stretched out in front of her, a pile of ripped-up magazines between her knees. Her scissors are blunt and her patience is thinner than usual. You’re across from her, flipping through a high-gloss spread like you’re trying to stay above it all, like even your fingertips are too clean for this.

You haven’t said much since the lake. Haven’t said anything at all, actually.

Ellie tears out a page. Some ridiculous stock image of a woman doing yoga on a mountain. She scribbles something under it with a Sharpie before sliding it to the side.

You glance at it—just for a second—and your mouth twitches.

Progress.

“Team synergy,” the facilitator chirps from somewhere in the distance, clipboard clutched like it’s keeping her afloat. “Remember, your vision board should reflect your shared growth goals!”

Ellie groans under her breath. “My shared growth goal is surviving this without getting stabbed.”

You don’t look up. “Mine’s not committing a felony on camera.”

“Look at us,” Ellie says, tossing a picture of a cracked iPhone screen onto the board, “so aligned.”

It’s kind of fun, in the worst way.

She watches you for a second. The way your lashes flutter when you’re focused. The way your jaw tightens every time she speaks like you’re trying not to react. You’re wearing something that drapes off your shoulder just slightly and it shouldn’t be distracting.

It really shouldn’t.

Ellie flips through another magazine and holds up a torn corner with a photo of a houseplant and the word rooted scribbled in fake typewriter font.

You side-eye it. “You kill plants.”

“I don’t kill them. They die in my care.”

Your lips twitch again.

Ellie presses her knee against yours under the board. Not hard. Just enough.

You don’t pull away.

Not for a long minute.

When you do, it’s only to reposition.

Later, someone comes around with a camcorder and asks the pairs to say one thing they admire about each other. Ellie stiffens.

You glance at her, then at the camera.

“I admire how committed she is to being annoying. It’s brave.”

Ellie snorts. Then looks directly into the lens. “I admire her skincare routine. It’s the only thing keeping her from going full villain.”

The crew laughs. The camera moves on.

But when Ellie looks at you again, your eyes are already back on the board. You’re quiet, but not cold.

She’ll take it.

Chapter Text

The cabin is colder at night. Or maybe it just feels that way.

You finish your skincare a little more aggressively than necessary, dabbing serum into your cheek with sharp, irritated taps. Ellie’s in the main room with her headphones on, clicking through something on her laptop like she didn’t spend all afternoon throwing snide comments over a vision board.

The challenge was fine. Successful, even, if the definition of success was getting through it without a public meltdown. The board turned out better than expected. There were even a few moments—quiet, subtle, dangerous—where you didn’t hate her. Moments where she made you laugh. Where you let her.

You hated that.

You step out into the main room and find her sprawled across the couch, one socked foot resting on the coffee table like she lives here. She glances up as you pass.

“Didn’t know the bathroom came with a skincare commercial.”

You pause. Inhale. Keep walking.

Ellie snorts quietly. “Okay, princess.”

“I swear to God,” you mutter, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch. “Do you ever shut up?”

Ellie doesn’t look up and just laughs tauntingly. 

You glare at her. She smirks without looking.

It’s late. Too late for more sparring. But the event schedule insists on nighttime “community bonding.” Which apparently means sitting by the fire pit with a circle of content creators and answering borderline invasive questions under soft mood lighting.

The Q&A is exactly what you expect: polished vulnerability, digestible pain, laughter with just enough edge to sound real. You sip your drink and wait it out. Ellie’s seated two spots down, knee bouncing, hand wrapped around a bottle of something she probably didn't mean to finish this fast.

Then someone asks, “Have you ever had to work with someone you hated?”

The question comes with a laugh, but it sticks.

You freeze. Ellie does too.

Someone nudges her. “C’mon, Ellie. You’ve got beef with half of creator Twitter.”

She leans forward, mouth curving like she’s chewing on something sharp. “I’ve worked with people who annoyed me,” she says. “And people who pretended not to care but clearly cared way too much.”

You glance at her. Her eyes don’t move.

“She’s talking about you,” someone stage-whispers.

You smile tightly. “For the record,” you say, voice even, “some people are allergic to professionalism.”

“Ouch,” someone says.

Ellie tilts her bottle in your direction like a toast.

The tension hangs there a beat too long.

Back in the cabin, you keep your distance. You change in the bathroom, brush your teeth in silence, crawl into bed facing the wall.

You tell yourself you’re calm. That you’re over it.

You’re not.

The next morning starts with a creative planning session. Each pair is tasked with designing a content pitch based on one of the weekend’s themes. You and Ellie draw the card labeled Perspective.

Of course you do.

You sit across from each other at the tiny dining table, both of you still half-asleep, mugs of coffee steaming between you.

“I was thinking something visual,” you start, notebook already open. “Split-frame, dual narration. Contrast shots. Could be clean, minimal.”

Ellie nods slowly. “Or we make it messy. Show both perspectives at once. Real-time reactions. Honest shit.”

You blink. “That’s... actually not terrible.”

Ellie grins. “Careful. That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”

You roll your eyes, but your pen keeps moving.

The ideas spill out faster than expected. You storyboard, argue, compromise. She sketches something sloppy but effective. You build off it. It’s frustrating how well your styles click when you let them.

It’s worse when she leans over to point at your notes and her shoulder brushes yours.

Worse still when neither of you move.

You clear your throat. “I’ll handle the aesthetic direction.”

Ellie raises an eyebrow. “Because God forbid the color palette isn’t curated?”

“Because you once used Comic Sans on a thumbnail.”

Ellie gasps, mock-offended. “I was going through something.”

“You were going through poor taste.”

She laughs. Not mocking, not defensive. Just soft, warm, real.

And you hate that you like it.

The door buzzes. A delivery of shared camera gear. You spring up too quickly, the moment snapping like tension off a rubber band. Ellie stays seated, watching you with an unreadable expression.

Later, while sorting through gear, you catch her watching again.

Not smug. Not taunting.

Just… watching.

Like she’s trying to figure something out.

Like maybe she’s not sure if she wants to win this anymore.

Whatever this is.

You leave the cabin. You don’t slam the door, but you want to. Your fists are clenched in the sleeves of your cardigan as you stomp through a forest of curated calm—hammocks and terracotta lanterns and slow, acoustic playlists spilling from somewhere invisible.

You settle on a bench beside a fake brook, the kind with hidden tubing and artfully placed rocks. The serenity only pisses you off more.

Your face is still hot. You press your hands against your cheeks, willing yourself to breathe. In for four. Hold. Out for eight.

And then someone’s standing a few feet away, hesitant and awkward in a way that immediately outs them as either a fan or unpaid staff.

“Hi,” the guy says. Young. Wide-eyed. Lanyard badge turned backward. “Sorry to bother. You’re, uh... you’re [Your Name], right?”

You nod, warily. “I am.”

“I just wanted to say, first of all, big fan. Also, um—” He scratches the back of his neck. “I think I might owe you an apology.”

You blink. “For what?”

He takes a step closer, eyes darting left and right like he’s afraid to be overheard. “The room assignments. That was… kind of on me.”

You stare at him.

“I was the intern on the planning team,” he says quickly. “They let me help with creator pairings and logistics, and I may have... based some of the assignments off what I found on the timeline.”

“What timeline?”

He winces. “Like, Twitter. Ship edits. The ‘Enemies to Lovers’ tag. I thought you two were, like, milking a bit or something. For engagement.”

Your mouth falls open.

“I didn’t realize it was a real feud until, like, two days ago. By then, the itineraries were printed. And the shared suite thing was already locked in. I tried to change it but my supervisor said it’d cause a scheduling nightmare.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“So,” he finishes, sheepish. “Yeah. My bad.”

You close your eyes. Breathe again. “You put me in a room with someone I blocked because of Twitter fan cams.”

He nods. “They were really convincing edits.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“I swear, if you give it a chance, though, I feel like this could still be—”

“Don’t.” You stand up, brushing past him. “Don’t say a good story.”

He lifts both hands, apologetic. “Right. Yep. Got it.”

You walk away, jaw tight, pulse hammering.

You could leave. You could pack your bags and go home and never look back. But you know you won’t.

This opportunity is too big. The networking, the exposure, the brand deals lined up behind the scenes—it’s everything you’ve worked toward.

And she won’t ruin it.

Even if she’s under your skin.

Even if it’s starting to feel more complicated than just hate.

Even if you catch yourself wondering what she meant with that look.

You shake it off.

Back to the cabin.

Back to the disaster.

Back to her.