Page 55 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"I missed you. Not just... this." He gestured vaguely at the motorcycle, at our current position. "But late nights in the museum. Discussing medical history. Watching you organize things by date and significance and color-coding. The way you handle old medical tools like they're precious. The way you light up when you find a new detail in the archives."

Don't cry. Don't let him see how much that matters. Don't think about how specific these details are, how he notices things no one else does, how he makes everything harder by being so—

"I color-coded your note," I admitted. "The one you left in the surgical catalog. Purple for apologies. Blue for medical references. Green for..."

"For?"

"For the parts that made me wish I was brave enough to believe you. The parts that sounded so real it hurt."

His breath caught. Slowly, carefully, like handling rare artifacts, he brought my hand to his chest. His heart raced under my palm, a rhythm as unsteady as mine.

"Still think I'm pretending?"

The preservation specialist called before I could answer, their number flashing across my phone like a lifeline. Reality crashed back in with all the subtlety of a Victorian amputation.

The ride to the specialist's office was different – less tense, more something else. I leaned into turns without hesitation, following Jack's movements like we'd been doing this for years. Like trust was something you could learn, love was something you could practice, and some things were worth the risk of being wrong.

He took the corners with extra care, mindful of the precious cargo we carried – both the surgical kit and whatever fragile thing was rebuilding between us.

"The preservation requirements," he said at a stoplight, "for Civil War-era surgical tools. The humidity has to stay between 45-55%, the temperature stable at 70 degrees, and minimal vibration exposure."

"You memorized the preservation protocols?"

"I memorized everything you care about."

The rest of the ride passed in a silence heavy with things we weren't quite ready to say.

"Thank you," I said when we arrived, reluctantly handing back his jacket. "For the ride. And the lessons."

"Anytime." He smiled – that real smile that had nothing to do with bad boy images or careful performances. "I mean it. Anytime you need anything."

I nodded, clutching the surgical kit like a shield. But before I could turn away, he caught my hand.

"Sophie?"

"Yeah?"

"Green's my favorite color too."

He was gone before I could respond, the motorcycle's roar fading like thunder. I stood there, holding a Civil War surgical kit and what felt dangerously like hope, watching him disappear into traffic.

Later, I found a note tucked into my museum locker:

***

"Some lessons can't be taught through rules.

Some trust has to be earned in rain.

Some hearts learn to beat in synchronization

Through turns and trials and trying again.

The surgical kit taught me something today – How some things survive impossible conditions,

How preservation isn't just about protocols,

How protection sometimes means taking risks.

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