Oops, I Read My Husband's Mind

I stared at my laptop screen for the thousandth time today, the cursor blinking mockingly in my research proposal document. "Effects of Marital Status Transition on Adult Neural Plasticity: A Longitudinal Study."

Great title. Brilliant concept. One tiny problem – who the hell was going to fake marry a broke PhD student for science?

The afternoon lab was quiet except for the hum of equipment and my increasingly frustrated sighs. I pressed my palms against my eyes, feeling the weight of four years of graduate school pressing down on me. This research could be groundbreaking. The neuroplasticity changes during major life transitions were largely unexplored territory, and marriage was one of the most significant psychological shifts adults experienced.

But the IRB committee wanted a research subject. A real one. And every guy I'd approached had basically laughed in my face.

"Elena, IRB committee meets tomorrow morning for final approval." Dr. Martinez appeared beside my workstation, his concerned expression making my stomach drop. "You sure you want to stick with this research direction? We could always pivot to something more... conventional."

I bit the end of my pen, a nervous habit from undergrad. "I'll figure it out, professor. This research matters."

Even if it means asking my Tinder matches to marry me for science.

Dr. Martinez patted my shoulder. "Your dedication is admirable. But science requires feasibility too."

After he left, I slumped in my chair. Maybe I should just study lab rats like everyone else. At least rats didn't ghost you after you mentioned legal documentation.

A knock on the lab door made me look up.

My heart literally stopped.

"Hey, Elena."

Ethan Mitchell.

Four years since graduation, and he still looked like he'd stepped out of some MIT recruitment poster. Same dark brown hair that always looked perfectly messy, same blue-green eyes that used to make half the female student body go weak. The expensive navy suit was new though. Success looked good on him.

"Ethan?" I managed, quickly closing my laptop. Please tell me I don't have pen marks on my face. "What are you doing here?"

He leaned against the doorframe with that easy smile I remembered. The one that used to make me forget whatever I was studying. "Heard through the grapevine that you might need a research partner."

David. His old roommate worked in the psychology department now.

"Research partner?" I tried to sound casual while my brain short-circuited. This was Ethan Mitchell. Campus golden boy. Computer science prodigy. The guy who always had girls literally lining up to talk to him while I hid behind textbooks in organic chemistry.

He walked into the lab, hands in his pockets. "David mentioned you're working on something about marriage and brain changes. Need a test subject?"

This has to be a joke.

"It's not exactly conventional research," I said carefully. "The study requires monitoring neural activity during the transition from single to married status. It would mean... actually getting married."

"I figured." He sat on the edge of my desk, way too close for my already racing heart. "Temporary arrangement, right? For science?"

I stared at him. "You want to fake marry me? For my research?"

"Why not? You need a marriage transition subject, I need to get my parents off my back about settling down." He shrugged like he was suggesting coffee. "Win-win."

This is insane. This is actually insane.

"Why me?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. "You could literally ask anyone."

Something flickered across his expression too fast for me to read. "We both know this would be purely professional. No complications."

Professional? With you? Ha.

But my research... this could actually work. The IRB committee would approve it instantly if I had a willing participant. Someone respectable, educated, perfect for the demographic I wanted to study.

"When would we..." I couldn't believe I was considering this.

"Tomorrow morning? City Hall opens at nine."

I looked at his serious expression, then at my laptop full of months of work that would die without a test subject.

What's the worst that could happen?

"Okay," I heard myself say. "Let's get married."