Page 37 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

He's going to make it. The playoff. The scouts. Everything. Because he's finally letting himself be both – the hockey star and the scholar. The bad boy and the boy who reads poetry at dawn.

My phone buzzed with a text from Jack:

"Dean approved the paper. I'm still eligible."

Then another:

"Thank you. For seeing me. The real me."

The real you. The one who hides behind smirks but writes like he's painting with words. The one who takes hits for teammates but treats books like treasures. The one I'm absolutely, completely—

"That's what partners do," I texted back.

"Partners?"

"Well, I did help you commit academic redemption at 4 AM. I think that makes us partners in crime."

"Speaking of crime... meet me at the museum tonight? I have a theory about Victorian medical practices you'll want to hear."

He's using academic references as an excuse to see me. This ridiculous, brilliant boy is using VICTORIAN MEDICAL PRACTICES as a pick-up line.

"This theory better be worth breaking into the museum for."

"Trust me. Some theories are worth the risk."

And sitting there, surrounded by Victorian literature notes and the lingering scent of his cologne, I realized something: Jack Morrison wasn't just worth the effort.

He was worth everything.

The academic risks.

The broken boundaries.

The early morning confessions.

The late-night study sessions.

The way he made my carefully organized world feel bigger, brighter, and more alive.

But watching the dawn paint gold across his sleeping face, listening to him quote Victorian literature in his dreams, feeling how perfectly his jacket fit around my shoulders – I knew.

Some things were worth complicating.

Some people were worth the risk. And Jack Morrison, with his hidden depths and midnight confessions, was both.

I texted back:

"Museum. Midnight. Bring coffee and your Victorian medical theories."

His response came instantly:

"It's a date, museum girl."

A date. With the boy who quotes Heathcliff and plays hockey. Who breaks rules and writes essays at dawn. Who's finally, finally letting himself be everything he is.

And I couldn't wait.

The week that followed felt like living in two worlds. During the day, we maintained our careful mentoring facade – though Jack's smirks held new meaning, and our study sessions crackled with unspoken possibilities. At night, we met in the museum or the bookstore, building something new in the spaces between academic and personal.

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