Page 36 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"Sounds stupid when you say it out loud."

"Sounds human." I moved closer, pulling his literature notes from his hands. "But you're not failing. Not while I'm here."

"Even though I'm ruining your perfect mentoring record?"

"Please. You ruined my perfect everything the day you got hit with dental tools."

He laughed, soft and real. "Best assault of my life."

We worked through sunrise, piecing together his paper between coffee runs and increasingly ridiculous literary analyses. At some point, I stopped watching the clock and started watching him – the way his forehead creased when he concentrated, how he muttered Victorian quotes under his breath, and the precise way he wrote despite his exhaustion.

Stop noticing things. Stop cataloging every expression. Stop falling for the way he makes even Victorian literature sound like poetry when he's half asleep.

I don't remember falling asleep. But I woke up to early morning sunshine and Jack's jacket draped over me like a blanket. He was asleep, head pillowed on Victorian literature notes, looking younger without his usual carefully maintained edge.

He looks different like this. No masks. No pretenses. Just Jack – the one who quotes poetry, takes hockey hits for teammates and tries so hard to be what everyone expects.

"Jack," I whispered, poking him with a pen. "Wake up. We fell asleep in the library."

"Five more minutes," he mumbled. "Dreaming about dental tools."

"That's mildly concerning."

He opened one eye. "You're still here."

"Where else would I be?"

"Most people would've given up around the third coffee run."

"Most people don't know you're worth the effort."

The words were too honest for early morning. Jack sat up slowly, his hair a disaster, his eyes soft from sleep, and something else.

I didn't mean to say that. I meant to stay professional.

"Sophie," he said quietly. "I need to tell you—"

The library door opened with a bang. We jumped apart as the morning staff arrived, looking unsurprised to find students asleep among the books.

"Paper's done," Jack said quickly, gathering his things. "I should... shower. Before class."

"Right. Yes. Very hygienic."

Very hygienic? What is wrong with me? Why can't I just say what I mean? That I'm proud of him. That I believe in him. That I—

We parted awkwardly at the library steps, both pretending we couldn't feel something shifting between us.

Later that day, Jack's paper arrived in my inbox. Ninety-six percent. Along with a note:

"Couldn't have done it without you. And not just the academic part. Your favorite Victorian hockey player."

What he's saying is that we're recognizing this connection between us, right?

I started typing a response about appropriate mentor-mentee communication, then deleted it. Instead, I wrote:

"Keep surprising people. It's what you're best at. Your favorite dental tool-wielding tutor."

Sitting in my room that evening, I couldn't stop thinking about how he'd looked in the early morning light, all defenses down, finally showing me the real Jack Morrison. The one who understood Heathcliff because he knew what it meant to fight against expectations. The one who quoted Victorian literature inhis sleep and wrote brilliant papers when he stopped pretending to be less than he was.

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