Page 38 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

Tuesday night found us in the medical history section, Jack perched on a ladder while I cataloged new acquisitions below.

"You know what's interesting about Victorian medical practices?" he asked, passing down a leather-bound volume.

"Besides everything?"

"They were all about maintaining appearances. Perfect facades hiding messy realities." He glanced down at me, eyes serious. "Like someone else I know."

Like you, pretending to be less. Like me, hiding behind professionalism. Like us, dancing around what's really happening here.

"The playoffs are this weekend," I said instead of all the things I wanted to say. "Are you ready?"

"For hockey? Yes. For the scouts? Maybe. For my father's expectations?" He climbed down, standing closer than strictly necessary. "That's more complicated."

"Like everything else?"

"Like us?"

The question hung in the air between shelves of medical history. A week ago, I would have deflected by citing professional boundaries. I would have pretended we were still just mentor and mentee.

Instead, I reached up and straightened his collar. "You know what else they believed in Victorian times?"

"That leeches cured everything?"

"That some things were worth the scandal."

His hand caught mine, still resting on his collar. "Sophie Chen, are you suggesting we cause a scandal?"

"I'm suggesting that maybe some facades aren't worth maintaining. Some expectations aren't worth meeting. Some rules—"

He kissed me then, right there between the medical texts and anatomical diagrams. It wasn't our first kiss since the party,but it felt different. More deliberate. Like choosing something instead of falling into it.

When we broke apart, he rested his forehead against mine. "The dean would not approve."

"The dean doesn't know you can quote entire passages of Victorian literature while half asleep."

"Or that you secretly love hockey now."

"I do not love hockey. I love—" I stopped, catching myself.

Love watching you play. Love how you light up on the ice. Love how you're finally letting yourself be brilliant in every arena. Love...

"You love...?" His smile was teasing, but his eyes were serious.

"Medical history. Obviously."

"Obviously." But he was still smiling, and his hand was still holding mine, and maybe some things didn't need to be said yet.

They could just be lived.

In quiet bookstores and empty museums.

In early morning study sessions and midnight confessions.

In all the spaces between who we were supposed to be and who we actually were.

Together.

The playoff game was three days away.

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