Page 54 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

I shifted slightly to see the dial, bringing us impossibly closer. "It's within preservation parameters."

"Good." His hand found mine again, thumb tracing patterns that had nothing to do with professional distance. "We're good at preserving things. Maybe too good sometimes."

"The first time I rode a motorcycle," Jack said suddenly, his voice barely audible over the rain, "I was terrified. Everyone thought I was naturally good at it, naturally confident. The bad boy who was born to break rules and ride bikes. But I was only playing a role. Being what people expected."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because." He shifted slightly, his hand still covering mine on his waist. "Sometimes the scariest part isn't learning something new. It's letting people see you learning. Letting them see you vulnerable. Like admitting you know the exact preservation requirements for Civil War surgical tools because you actually care about medical history, not because you're trying to impress someone."

The rain drummed on the garage roof, creating a strange bubble of intimacy. In the dim light, with the storm surrounding us, everything felt both more real and less certain.

"I did research," he said quietly. "After you... after everything. Found Sarah's senior recital program. The date she claimed I was helping her? I was actually in Boston for a game. We have photos from the team bus, timestamps on social media, about fifty witnesses including the coach and my grandmother, who was apparently documenting my 'athletic phase' for her scrapbook."

My heart stuttered. "Jack—"

"I'm not telling you this to defend myself. I'm telling you because sometimes what looks like a pattern is really just everyone trying to make things fit their expectations. Sarah wanted the sensitive musician. Emma wanted the artistic soul. Kendra wanted the cultured intellectual."

"And what did you want?"

"Someone who saw me. Not the roles, the expectations, or the carefully constructed image. Just... me." His thumb traced patterns on my hand, sending electricity through my skin. "Someone who color-codes dental tools and gets excited about Victorian medical practices and hits people with historical artifacts."

Despite everything, I laughed. "That was one time."

"Best concussion of my life."

"You're ridiculous."

"Says the girl who installed humidity indicators in a surgical kit case."

"These instruments survived actual battlefield conditions! They deserve proper preservation protocols."

"See?" He turned slightly enough that I could see his profile in the dim light. "That passion right there? That's real. That's you. Not trying to impress anyone, not playing a role. Just purely, authentically caring about something."

"Like someone who memorizes preservation requirements just because they matter to someone else?"

"Like someone who learns about Victorian medical practices because watching you talk about them makes everything else fade away."

The rain was easing now, but neither of us moved. His hand stayed over mine, warm and steady and more intimate than any almost-kiss.

"I don't know how to trust this," I whispered.

"I know." He squeezed my hand gently. "But maybe that's okay. Maybe we start with something simple. Like learning to lean into turns. Like trusting that some things – like Civil War surgical kits and complicated feelings – are worth protecting."

Thunder rumbled in the distance, but it felt less threatening now. More like background music to whatever was happening in this strange, rain-soaked moment.

"The artifacts should be safe to transport now," he said, but didn't start the bike.

"Probably."

"We should go."

"Probably."

Neither of us moved.

"Sophie?"

"Yeah?"

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