Page 66 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

The next few weeks settled into a pattern of secret visits and near-misses. My museum office became our safest meeting spot - nobody questioned the hockey captain getting "academic support" during his recovery. But other places required more creativity.

The library proved particularly challenging. Every creaking floorboard sent us jumping apart, my hands reluctantly leaving his hair, his lips still warm against my neck. Once, Dean Williams walked past our study room right as Jack was teachingme about "proper book handling techniques" that had nothing to do with preservation protocols.

"Quick question about the Victorian medical exhibit," I said loudly, practically leaping to the other side of the table.

"Yes, very fascinating historical significance," Jack added, somehow managing to look scholarly despite his flushed face and messed-up hair.

The dean paused, peering through the glass. Jack held up a medical text like a shield while I pretended to take extremely detailed notes.

"Excellent dedication to academic pursuits," she said finally. However, her raised eyebrow suggested she wasn't entirely convinced by our study session charade.

After she left, Jack dropped his head to the table with a groan. "We're terrible at this."

"Speak for yourself. My 'taking notes' performance was Oscar-worthy."

"Sophie, you were writing the same word over and over. And it was 'kissing.'"

"That's... historically relevant."

His laugh was worth every near-discovery, every rushed hiding spot, every elaborate excuse. Even with broken ribs limiting his movement, he found ways to drive me crazy - trailing fingers along my arm while discussing surgical techniques, whispering Victorian poetry in my ear during study sessions, looking at me like I was rarer than first editions.

The team, despite their show of discretion, took every opportunity to play lookout.

"Five minutes!" Mike would text when he saw faculty approaching the study room. "Straighten your clothes and open some books!"

Tommy started carrying spare medical texts just to toss into rooms before administrators entered. "Historical research materials!" he'd announce loudly. "Very educational!"

But it was the quiet moments that undid me - Jack falling asleep during our study sessions, face peaceful despite his healing ribs. The way he still color-coded his notes to match my system. How he'd absently reach for my hand while reading like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Your Victorian medicine midterm grade posted," he said one evening, scrolling through his phone in bed while I organized the mountain of books surrounding him.

"And?"

"98%." His smile was proud. "Turns out all those 'independent study sessions' paid off."

"Funny, my academic performance seems to have declined since starting these sessions."

"That's because you spend more time studying anatomy than medical history."

"Says the guy who keeps requesting detailed lessons about Victorian healing techniques."

"Can you blame me?" He pulled me closer, careful of his ribs. "My tutor's very thorough."

A knock at the door sent me diving behind his desk, adding another bruise to my growing collection.

"Just me!" Dex called. "But Coach is doing room checks in ten."

I emerged, rubbing my elbow. "We need a better system."

"I don't know," Jack grinned. "I kind of like having the museum girl sneak around for me. Very Victorian romance novel."

"Except for the broken ribs and terrible hiding spots."

"Details." He caught my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm. "Worth every bruise."

As Jack's ribs healed, our stolen moments became less about hiding and more about discovering. Late nights in the rare book room turned into quiet conversations between shelves, his fingers tracing the spines of first editions while mine traced the veins in his wrist. Sometimes, we'd sit for hours, my back against his chest, reading Victorian medical texts and making completely unprofessional notes in the margins.

"Listen to this," he'd murmur, his breath warm against my ear. "'The surgeon must maintain absolute precision despite circumstances.' Reminds me of someone else who likes control."

---