Page 50 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"Yeah." I busied myself reorganizing displays, trying not to remember how he used to help with this, how his hands would brush mine, how everything felt possible in late-night museum light.

"Sophie—"

"Don't." My voice cracked. "Please. We got through it. Let's just..."

"What? Go back to pretending we don't know each other? Ignore everything that happened? Forget how real this was?"

"Was it?" I turned to face him, finally. "Real?"

He looked at me for a long moment, the emergency lights casting shadows across his face. "You know what your problem is? You're so scared of being wrong about me that you won't risk being right."

"And you're so used to playing roles that maybe you don't know what's real anymore."

"Maybe." He moved closer, close enough that I could smell cedar and ice and heartbreak. "Or maybe you're just looking for reasons not to trust this. Not to trust me."

"Jack—"

"You want to know something real?" His voice was rough. "I learned about Victorian medicine because watching you talk about it was like seeing poetry in motion. I memorized surgical techniques because your eyes light up when you explain them.I spent hours researching medical history not because it was another role to play but because it was part of you."

Don't cry. Don't believe him. Don't remember how it felt when this was simple, when trust wasn't broken, when love wasn't a diagnosis we were both trying to deny.

"Every statistic about Victorian mortality rates," he continued, voice low and intense, "every detail about surgical innovation, every connection between historical medicine and modern sports – I learned it all because I wanted to understand your world. I wanted to be part of it. Not for some game, not for some role, but because seeing you light up when we discussed medical history made everything else fade away."

The worst part was how genuine he sounded, how his voice held the same passion when discussing Victorian surgery as it did when talking about hockey. How he handled century-old medical tools with the same care he showed on the ice.

"I have to go," I whispered.

"I know."

But neither of us moved. The emergency lights hummed softly, casting everything in that strange, liminal glow that made reality feel fluid and uncertain.

"The humidity controls," I said weakly. "We should check—"

"Already set." He didn't step back. "Adjusted them during the final trustee presentation. The artifacts will be safe."

Of course, he remembered. Of course, he cared about preservation protocols. Of course, he made everything harder by being exactly what I accused him of pretending to be.

I made it halfway to the door before his voice stopped me.

"Sophie?"

"Yeah?"

"For what it's worth... every word was real. Every moment. Every late-night conversation about medical history and literature and all the things we were supposed to be instead of who we are." He laughed softly. "Even if you never believe anything else about me, believe that."

His words followed me down the hallway, echoing like footsteps in an empty hospital. By the time I reached my car, the storm had passed, leaving behind that peculiar clarity that comes after electrical disturbances – when the air feels charged with possibility and regret in equal measure.

The next morning, I found a note tucked into the surgical catalog:

***

"Some wounds need more than professional distance to heal. Some truths can't be caught in careful categories. Some hearts don't follow protocols.

I learned about Victorian medicine because it mattered to you. I memorized preservation procedures because you cared about them. I fell in love with medical history because I was falling in love with you.

I'm sorry I made you doubt what was real. I'm sorry I couldn't make you believe. I'm sorry we broke more than rules.”

J

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