Work Text:
“—and that was Rebel Heart by Neon Darling,” Jude said smoothly into the mic, her voice honeyed with just the right edge of cynicism. “A request from Sarah in Melbourne, who says she’s finally dumping her situationship. Go, Sarah.”
Cardan leaned back in his chair across from her, voice like velvet dipped in mischief. “You sure it wasn’t a coded message from you, Duarte?”
She didn’t look at him. “I don’t date musicians.”
“Ouch.” He clutched his chest in mock agony, his rings catching the light from the booth’s neon sign. “Remind me what your last ex did again? Wasn’t he in a ska band?”
“Marketing,” Jude said flatly, flipping a page on her notes. “But go off.”
The ON AIR light glowed red above them as the song faded into the background. Listeners couldn’t see the way Cardan watched her, chin resting on his hand, elbow propped on the table like he had nowhere else in the world to be. But they could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again.
“Speaking of heartbreak and hideous taste in men—”
“I know you’re not talking about yourself.”
“—we’ve got a caller on line two,” he said with a grin. “Let’s see if they’re more charming than Duarte.”
She reached for the button with a sigh. “Good luck.”
A crackle, then a voice filled the studio. “Hi! Long-time listener, first-time caller. I just wanted to ask... is it true? Are Jude and Cardan dating?”
Jude blinked. “Sorry—what?”
The caller laughed nervously. “There’s, like, a whole thread on Twitter. People think you’re secretly dating and just keeping it low-key.”
Cardan gave a low, delighted laugh.
Jude leaned forward, raising a brow toward the mic. “That’s a hard no. We’re co-hosts, not co-anythings else.”
The caller sounded sceptical. “But your banter is sooo flirty. Like, I thought it was obvious.”
“It’s called charisma,” Jude deadpanned. “We’re professionals.”
Cardan hummed. “Professionals who occasionally enjoy long walks on the beach and staring into each other’s eyes during ad breaks.”
Jude gave him a sharp look. “Cardan.”
“Yes, love?”
She spluttered, reaching to switch to the next track, but the caller was already laughing. “Okay, I’m not convinced, but I’ll take it. Love you guys!”
The line clicked off.
Jude let the music swell up into the room before she turned her mic off and swivelled toward Cardan. “What the hell was that?”
His expression was all faux innocence. “What, the 'love' thing? I thought we were leaning into it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Try leaning any harder and you’ll fall off your chair.”
He gave her a lazy smile. “I think the fans would catch me.”
~~
The ON AIR sign had long since blinked off, and the hum of the city outside seeped into the quiet studio. Jude sat at her desk, headphones off, scrolling through her phone with a furrowed brow. Cardan was packing up, but his grin lingered—like he knew something she didn’t.
“You really had to call me ‘love’ on air?” Jude asked, not looking up.
Cardan shrugged, dragging his chair closer to hers. “It got a reaction. Ratings might spike.”
She snorted. “You’re impossible.”
He smirked. “That’s why you keep me around.”
Jude finally met his gaze. “Why’d you even suggest we fake-date? Is this some elaborate prank?”
Cardan’s smile softened, just a touch. “I’m serious. Think about it. We’ve got fans who want it, the media’s sniffing around, and honestly—our chemistry’s undeniable. Pretending to date would boost the show and keep those pesky rumors in check.”
She crossed her arms, skeptical. “Sounds like you’re just using me.”
“Not using,” he said, voice low. “Partnering.”
Jude stared at him a beat, then sighed. “Fine. But if we do this, no messing around, that could wreck the show.”
Cardan’s grin returned, wider this time. “Deal. Now that’s a plan I can get behind.”
Jude scoffed, picking up her phone and charging out of the studio, thoughts swirling. Cardan’s words about pretending to date for the sake of the show lingered in her mind longer than she expected. She wasn’t sure if she could really pull off the act, but part of her was curious—and maybe even a little tempted.
~~
On Wednesday morning, the familiar buzz of the 97.8 FM Elfhame studio greeted them both like an old friend. The soundproofed room glowed softly with neon panels, and the scent of stale coffee mingled with the faint hum of the equipment. Cardan leaned back in his chair, lazily twirling a pen between his fingers, his easy confidence filling the space. Jude, always the picture of professionalism, adjusted her microphone and flipped through her neatly stacked notes, though her sharp eyes betrayed a hint of amusement.
“If you’ve just tuned in,” Jude began with her usual dry wit, “welcome to Wicked Mornings with Jude and Cardan — your go-to for great music, terrible advice, and my co-host’s ongoing identity crisis.”
Cardan grinned, shooting her a playful look. “That’s rich coming from the woman who declared war on oat milk last week.”
Jude didn’t even look up. “That’s not a crisis. That’s a public service.”
“You heard it here first, folks,” Cardan teased. “She’s on a one-woman mission to destroy the coffee industry, one smug barista at a time.”
Their laughter bounced between them effortlessly, the kind of easy back-and-forth only years of working together could create. Jude smirked as she readied herself for the next segment.
“We’re opening the lines soon,” she said. “So if you’ve got a hot take, a song request, or a burning question for Lord of the Flirts here, now’s your chance.”
Cardan’s expression pinched in mock-hurt. “Lord of the Flirts? That’s downright libellous.”
“Sue me,” Jude shot back, raising an eyebrow.
Leaning closer to the mic, Cardan lowered his voice to something conspiratorial. “Don’t worry, she’s only like this when she likes someone.”
Jude rolled her eyes. “That’s never been true.”
“Tell that to the Twitter thread Vivi sent me this morning,” Cardan said with a sly grin. “#JudanIsReal has over twelve thousand likes.”
Jude groaned, pressing her forehead against the microphone with a muffled thunk. “I’m going to strangle her with her own charger cord.”
Cardan laughed. “Just don’t delete the tweets. I look great in the fan art.”
Later that evening, Jude’s phone buzzed with a direct message from her sister, Vivi. The screen lit up with a fanart of Cardan with his mic: “The way Cardan’s voice softens when talking to Jude… just kiss already pls #judanisreal.” Jude’s fingers flew across the keyboard.
Jude: I’m filing for emotional damages.
A reply popped up instantly.
Vivi: Lmao you LIKE him
Jude: He’s insufferable
Jude shot back, rolling her eyes.
Vivi: And hot.
Jude: Blocked.
~~
Almost a week later, Jude had completely forgotten about Cardan’s suggestion to fake date, until he randomly brought it up one afternoon. They had just finished wrapping up the show, and while Jude was packing away her notes, Cardan lingered by the soundboard, looking unusually hesitant.
“So,” he began, twirling a pen between his fingers, “about that whole pretending-to-date thing…”
Jude raised an eyebrow, already skeptical. “You mean the brilliant idea you threw out that I was supposed to take seriously?”
Cardan smirked, but there was a nervous edge to his grin. “I’m serious. I think it might actually help us — ratings, publicity, the whole package.”
Jude crossed her arms, watching him closely. “And what’s in it for you?”
He shrugged casually, but the glance he gave her said otherwise. “Maybe I want the fans to believe there’s something real between us.”
Jude’s heart skipped a beat, but she quickly masked it with a scoff. “They already believe it.”
“Exactly,” Cardan said, stepping closer. “So let’s just give them some… proof.” He added the words with exaggerated air quotes.
Jude rolled her eyes and started to walk off, but before she could get far, she called over her shoulder, “Coffee?”
Cardan’s smile immediately widened. “I’ll text you.”
~~
The café Cardan picked was tucked between a florist and a bookstore, all mismatched chairs and golden lighting that made everything feel vaguely romantic — which Jude immediately resented. She stood outside for a full thirty seconds, contemplating turning around. Instead, she squared her shoulders and pushed the door open.
He was already there, of course, sprawled across a corner booth like he owned the place. He’d ordered two drinks — hers was waiting, black with one sugar, just how she liked it. Of course he remembered.
Jude slid into the seat across from him. “This better not be your idea of soft launching.”
Cardan looked positively pleased with himself. “Not at all. This is strictly business. A very professional fake date, for optics.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Only because you’re here,” he said smoothly, and when her eyes widened, he added, “For the publicity, obviously.”
Jude tried not to laugh, biting the inside of her cheek. “Obviously.”
They sipped their drinks in relative silence for a beat, until Cardan leaned back, his gaze flicking to the window where the rainy sky threatened drizzle.
“You know,” he said casually, “if someone took a photo of us right now, it’d look pretty convincing.”
Jude made a show of looking around. “Right. Nothing screams romance like two exhausted radio hosts avoiding eye contact.”
Cardan chuckled. “Speak for yourself. I’m giving you my best smoulder.”
She finally laughed — an actual laugh, not the eye-rolling kind she usually gave him during their banter on air. It felt dangerous.
“Be careful,” she warned, swirling her coffee. “You might convince even me.”
There was a beat. Cardan’s smile faded slightly, softening into something quieter.
“I wouldn’t mind that,” he said.
Jude froze.
He didn’t push it. Just sipped his coffee, glancing out the window again as though he hadn’t just knocked the air from her lungs.
After a long moment, Jude stood abruptly. “Alright. Photo op complete. We should go.”
Cardan blinked, then followed her out without protest. They stepped into the street just as the sky cracked open with rain — light at first, then sudden and chaotic.
Cardan held his blazer over his head like a makeshift shield. Jude, predictably, had no umbrella.
“Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand and dragging her under the awning of a nearby awning. She let him, even though her heart was thudding in her chest like it was trying to break out.
They stood there, breathless, watching the rain soak the pavement in front of them. His fingers were still wrapped around hers.
When she didn’t pull away, Cardan looked over, his voice quieter this time. “You okay?”
Jude glanced down at their hands. Then up at his face. Something in his eyes—careful, vulnerable—made her stomach twist.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m fine.”
She didn’t move away. Neither did he.
~~
The studio was already buzzing when Jude walked in — not with sound, but with something more insidious: Cardan’s smug energy.
He was already at the desk, half a croissant in one hand and his phone in the other, scrolling through something with the kind of pleased expression that made her suspicious on instinct.
She narrowed her eyes. “What did you do?”
Cardan looked up, grinning like the cat who got the cream. “Morning to you, too.”
Jude dropped into her chair, shrugging off her coat. “You only look that happy when someone else is suffering. Is it me this time?”
“Not suffering,” he said. “Just… mildly famous.”
He turned his phone around.
There, on the screen, a screenshot from Twitter.
📸 Anonymous fan pic, slightly blurry but unmistakably them — Jude and Cardan huddled under an awning in the rain, his hand gripping hers, both of them grinning like idiots.
@faerie_fmfan: “Café date in the rain? The chemistry is off the charts. Tell me again they’re not dating. I dare you. #JudanisReal #RainKissIncoming #WickedMornings”
It had over twenty thousand likes.
Jude groaned, dragging both hands down her face. “I knew that rain was cursed.”
Cardan looked far too pleased with himself. “Can’t blame them. It’s very cinematic. I’ve already been tagged in at least three fan edits. One of them used ‘Enchanted’ by Taylor Swift.”
“I’m going to scream,” Jude muttered, snatching his phone to scroll. “They’re analysing my eyebrows. Why are they analysing my eyebrows?”
“Apparently your ‘soft gaze’ means you’re in love with me,” Cardan said, deadpan.
Jude flung the phone back onto the desk. “I hate everyone.”
“Our public demands drama.”
“Their thirst for chaos is unmatched.”
“And we’re simply doing our civic duty.” He grinned. “Wouldn’t want to let them down.”
She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”
He shrugged. “Unbelievably popular, apparently.”
Jude rolled her eyes in return.
Cardan chuckled and slid on his headphones as the “On Air” light flicked red. Their theme jingle played. Jude straightened her mic. The show had begun.
“Good morning, Elfhame,” Jude said, her voice all smooth professionalism. “You’re listening to Wicked Mornings with Jude and Cardan, coming to you live from your favourite questionable life choices.”
“Speaking of,” Cardan said lazily, “should we address the rainstorm in the room?”
Jude gave him a warning look, but he forged ahead with a smirk.
“Word on the street is your beloved hosts were spotted in the wild — allegedly on a coffee date, allegedly holding hands, and allegedly too hot for daytime radio.”
Jude leaned in, deadpan. “We are not dating.”
Cardan shrugged, voice syrupy smooth. “That’s what someone who’s dating their co-host would say.”
Jude arched a brow at him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Who, me?” Cardan turned to the mic, voice dripping with faux humility. “Dear listeners, I assure you, I was simply protecting my co-host from the weather. And if that made it look like I was also gazing lovingly into her eyes—”
“I was checking for signs of concussion,” Jude interrupted. “You hit your head running out of the shop.”
A pause.
“You’re not denying the handholding,” Cardan said, triumphant.
Jude sighed. “It was raining. You grabbed my hand. I didn’t sue.”
Cardan gasped. “She let me touch her! Someone call HR.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he said, “you keep showing up.”
Listeners flooded the text line. Heart emojis. Rain emoji chains. A poll asking, “Did it finally happen?”. Outside the studio, the #JudanIsReal tag was already trending again. Jude ignored it all and moved the show forward with practiced ease.
But her heart still beat a little too fast. Because later, when the mics were off, she’d have to ask him what exactly they were doing. And whether he was still pretending it was all fake.
But for now, she leaned back in her chair, let him tease, let the moment hang. Because pretending was starting to feel awfully real.
~~
Jude didn’t want to admit it, but the numbers didn’t lie.
Their show had always done well—banter, charisma, a little recklessness went a long way with early-morning commuters—but ever since the internet decided she and Cardan were secretly (or not-so-secretly) in love, their metrics had exploded.
More listeners. More calls. More ad offers. Even Vivi had grudgingly admitted their show was “actually funny now” — a massive compliment, considering Vivi’s typical media consumption was true crime podcasts and angry feminist literature.
Cardan, of course, noticed immediately.
“Ratings are up twelve percent,” he said one Friday afternoon, leaning against her desk with that infuriating glint in his eye. “We’re national now. Even that breakfast crew in Brisbane quoted us.”
Jude didn’t look up from her laptop. “Maybe they just liked my oat milk slander.”
“Or maybe,” Cardan said, drawing the word out like a challenge, “our devoted listeners are in love with love.”
She sighed. “Don’t start.”
“But I haven’t even said anything yet.”
She arched a brow.
Cardan grinned. “Okay. What if we gave the people what they wanted?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m suggesting.”
“Yes, I do.”
He leaned in, resting his forearms on the table. “One more date this weekend. One. We go somewhere public. Somewhere we can be seen, maybe photographed. I even promise to be charming and pay for your overpriced pasta.”
Jude stared at him.
“It’s good for the show,” he added. “Good for us.”
There was something earnest in his eyes, just beneath the smirk. A flicker of nervousness, maybe. Or hope.
She looked back at her screen. “You’re really going to use our numbers to emotionally manipulate me?”
“Jude,” he said, placing a hand over his heart, “I would never. I’m simply presenting data in a persuasive manner.”
She exhaled. “Fine.”
Cardan blinked. “Wait, really?”
“One date. Don’t get cocky.”
He grinned like she’d handed him a throne. “Too late.”
~~
The dress hung on the back of her closet door.
Nothing dramatic. Just a soft, wine-coloured thing she hadn’t worn in months. She told herself she was picking it because it looked good in pictures. Not because it made her feel—anything.
She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her phone. The clock ticked past the time they’d agreed to meet.
She should’ve left fifteen minutes ago.
Instead, her fingers curled tighter around her phone.
Why had she agreed to this?
She replayed the conversation in her head — Cardan’s easy charm, his dumb grin, the way his voice softened when he’d said it would be good for us.
Us. Like there was an us.
That was the part that kept gnawing at her. Cardan liked to flirt — with microphones, with listeners, with her — but what if that was just it? A bit. A long-running joke. And she was the punchline.
She thought of all the tweets. The fan edits. The way even Vivi had said, “Maybe he’s not faking.”
But Jude had been fooled before. Had been kissed and lied to and left wondering if she’d imagined the whole thing.
So, she didn’t go.
The first text came at 2:14.
Cardan: Are you on your way?
Then.
Cardan: You didn’t get kidnapped by baristas seeking revenge, right?
Cardan: Jude?
Cardan: Okay, at least tell me if you’re not coming. I’ll just sit here looking pathetic otherwise.
Cardan: Not that I don’t look good doing it.
Cardan: …please?
She read every one, heart stuttering in her chest. But she didn’t answer.
She turned her phone facedown, got up, and took the dress off the door.
~~
That Monday the studio was ice cold, neon panels of the 97.8 FM sign blinking quietly, casting a pinkish glow over the soundproof walls. Jude adjusted her mic with clinical precision, eyes fixed on the mixing board like it might spontaneously combust.
Across from her, Cardan lounged in his usual chair—but the lazy sprawl was tighter today. Too controlled. Like someone trying to pretend they weren’t furious.
He hadn’t said more than good morning.
They were twenty minutes into the broadcast, and the usual rhythm—their banter, the teasing—was gone. The silences between them stretched just a second too long.
A caller requested some Taylor Swift breakup anthem, and Cardan snorted.
“Ironic,” he muttered, flipping through the notes on his tablet.
Jude didn’t rise to it. She swallowed hard and played the next track.
When the segment ended, the ON AIR light blinked off. Silence dropped between them like a loaded gun.
Cardan finally spoke. “So... you stood me up.”
Jude didn’t look up. “I forgot.”
“Don’t lie to me, Jude.”
Her jaw clenched. “Fine. I didn’t forget.”
He leaned forward, voice lower now, almost wounded. “Was it that awful of an idea? Spending one night pretending we actually—”
“Pretending is exactly the problem,” she snapped, eyes flashing to meet his. “You flirt with anything that breathes, Cardan. On air, off air—doesn’t matter. It’s your thing. So when you ask me out and bat your lashes, forgive me for not assuming it’s real.”
A beat passed. The air in the room shifted.
“You think I was messing with you?” he said, incredulous.
She didn’t answer.
Cardan sat back in his chair, voice rougher now. “Jude, I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks. The flirting wasn’t a bit. Not with you. It’s never been with you.”
Her heart thudded painfully.
He looked down at his hands, suddenly quieter. “I thought maybe… if we pretended for the show, it would be safer. Easier. I thought maybe you’d… start to see me. Not the guy with the mic and the jokes, but me.”
The silence that followed was heavier than anything they’d said.
Jude’s throat tightened. The part of her that always needed control—that always needed a plan—wanted to scoff. Laugh it off. Anything to keep the truth from showing in her face.
But he looked so uncharacteristically raw.
“I didn’t come because I didn’t want to want it too much,” she admitted. “And if it was a joke, I didn’t want to be the punchline.”
His gaze snapped back to hers, and this time it didn’t waver. “It’s not a joke. You never were.”
Jude stood up too fast, the chair legs squeaking across the floor. The silence between them pulsed like a heartbeat.
And then he stepped toward her.
“Say something,” Cardan said, just a little breathless.
She stared at him for a beat too long. And then: “You’re insufferable.”
“I know.”
“You talk too much.”
“I do.”
“And I hate how you always know how to get a laugh—”
“You love it,” he whispered.
“Shut up,” she muttered, grabbing his collar.
And then she kissed him.
It wasn’t a soft kiss. It was everything they hadn’t said, every charged silence, every look across the soundboard when neither one could admit what they wanted. His hands came up to cradle her face. She pressed in closer, just to make sure it was real.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Cardan rested his forehead against hers.
“So…” he murmured. “Is this still fake?”
“Try me again and you’ll find out,” she warned, but she was smiling.
The ON AIR light blinked red, theme music spilling out of their headphones.
Jude groaned and shoved his shoulder. “We’re back.”
Cardan turned back to the mic with a grin that could have lit up the entire studio.
“Welcome back, Elfhame,” he said, voice warm, smug, and unmistakably happy. “This is Wicked Mornings with Jude and Cardan. And today... we’ve got a love story for you.”
Jude rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, somehow, yours.”
She tried not to smile. She failed.