Page 18 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"I think," he continued, ignoring my attempt at deflection, "we both have expectations we're trying to live up to. You with your rules and family legacy. Me with my bad boy reputation and hockey future."

His copy of "Great Expectations" had fallen open to a passage about Pip's first dinner at Miss Havisham's. The margins were filled with his neat handwriting: observations about social performance, pretending to be something you're not, and the weight of others' expectations.

"That's..." Insightful. Uncomfortable. True. Making me think about things I'd rather not examine too closely. "...against Rule 335. No personal discussions."

"Pretty sure we broke that rule somewhere between Paradise Lost and family pressure."

The library felt different now as if the darkness had transformed it from a study space into something more intimate. The towering shelves loomed around us like silent witnesses, their contents - hundreds of years of human stories - watching our own story unfold.

"Your glasses," I said suddenly, noticing them peeking from his jacket pocket. A stack of sticky notes marked our place in four different Victorian novels, each color representing a different theme we'd been tracking. "The ones you wear for reading. Where are they?"

He reached into his pocket, retrieving the wire-framed glasses that had started appearing during our late-night study sessions."Promise not to tell anyone? They'd ruin my carefully cultivated image."

"Put them on."

He did, and something in my chest tightened. In the moonlight, with his glasses and surrounded by books, he looked more like a graduate student than a hockey star. The glasses softened his features and made him look more like the person I'd glimpsed in his essay notes - thoughtful, observant, surprisingly literary.

"What?" he asked, noticing my stare.

"Nothing. Just cataloging violations of Rule 552." Behind him, his open notebook showed a detailed analysis of Victorian social structures, complete with modern parallels.

"Which one is that again?"

"No looking unfairly attractive while discussing literature."

The words hung between us, as tangible as the dust motes dancing in the moonlight. Jack turned toward me, and I suddenly realized how close we were. His "Great Expectations" essay lay forgotten between us, the pages covered in thoughtful commentary about masks and expectations and the price of pretending.

Did I say that out loud? I definitely said that out loud. Quick, cite another rule. Quote something academic. Do NOT think about how he looks in those glasses or how warm he feels this close or—

"Sophie," he said softly, and my name had never sounded like that before. His hand came up, barely touching my cheek. The touch was softer than anyone would expect from a hockey player, from the supposed campus bad boy.

"I'm about to break a lot of rules."

My heart hammered against my ribs. The library felt too small suddenly, despite its vaulted ceiling and endless rows of books. Our study materials lay scattered around us - evidence of hours spent discussing Victorian literature, of conversations that had wandered far beyond academic requirements.

His lips were inches from mine when the emergency lights flashed on, followed by the heavy tread of security boots. We jumped apart like guilty Victorian teenagers caught reading questionable novels.

"Anyone in here?" a voice called. Flashlight beams swept across the room, catching the gilt edges of leather-bound books and making the brass reading lamps glint accusingly.

We scrambled to our feet, nearly knocking over a stack of literary criticism. Jack's glasses were askew, and my carefully organized notes had scattered across the antique carpet like academic confetti.

"Just students!" I called back, my voice embarrassingly high. Several annotated pages of "Great Expectations" fluttered to the floor. "Power outage trapped us!"

The security guard rounded the corner, a flashlight beam catching us in its glare. Officer Martinez - I recognized him from my late-night museum shifts. His eyebrows rose as he took in the scene: books everywhere, coffee cups in various states of emptiness, and enough sticky notes to supply a small office.

"Library's closed. You two need to... wait, Morrison? What are you doing in the rare books room?"

"Tutoring," Jack said smoothly, pushing his glasses up. He gestured to the scattered evidence of actual studying - his half-finished essay, my color-coded notes, the Victoriannovels bristling with page markers. "Very academic. Completely legitimate."

Martinez's flashlight beam lingered on Jack's open notebook, where his neat handwriting filled the margins with surprisingly detailed literary analysis. "This about that paper Williams assigned? On social mobility?"

"You know about Victorian literature?" Jack asked, surprise momentarily breaking through his casual facade.

"English major before I switched to security," Martinez grinned. "Your comparison of Pip to modern athletes isn't bad. But you might want to consider how the role of mentorship affects class transition." He nodded toward a particular passage Jack had highlighted.

We stared at him. Through the Gothic windows, the moon had shifted, casting new shadows across the room's elaborate woodwork.

"Clear out," he said finally, but his tone was gentle. "Building's closing. Though..." he hesitated, "the morning shift doesn't start until six. Just saying."

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