Page 67 of Faking It with the Bad Boy

"Says the guy who color-codes his research notes now."

"Your influence is corrupting my carefully crafted chaos."

But it was the midnight ice sessions that changed everything. Jack was finally cleared for light skating six weeks post-injury, and somehow, I found myself there after hours, supposedly "monitoring his form."

The rink was different at night. Empty bleachers created strange echoes, and the ice seemed to glow under emergency lights. I sat on the bench, watching Jack glide across the surface with the kind of grace that made my heart forget basic anatomy.

"Your technique needs work," I called from the bench, watching him glide across the empty ice.

"Really?" He turned sharply, spraying ice as he stopped in front of me. Even after weeks off, his movements held that fluid confidence that had first caught my attention. "Care to demonstrate proper form, Professor Chen?"

"I don't skate."

"Everyone skates." He held out his hand, eyes soft behind his practice visor. "Come on. For academic purposes."

"I don't even have skates."

His grin turned mischievous. "That's why I borrowed these from the equipment room." He reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of women's skates. "They might be a little big, but..."

"You planned this."

"Maybe." He knelt in front of the bench, skates in hand. "Trust me?"

And that was the problem, wasn't it? I did trust him. Trusted him enough to let him help me into the skates, his fingers gentle as he laced them up, and I trusted him enough to let him guide me onto the ice, his hands steady on my waist as I wobbled like a Victorian lady in her first corset.

"Easy," he murmured, skating backward while guiding me forward. "Keep your knees soft. Let me lead."

"Pretty sure this isn't regulation hockey instruction."

His laugh echoed across empty seats. "No, this is something better. Step, glide... there you go. Just like Victorian dance lessons. Though with more potential for embarrassing falls."

"Pretty sure Victorian dance lessons didn't involve ice and possible concussions."

"No, but they did involve a lot of close supervision." His hands tightened slightly on my waist as I slipped. "Very strict protocols about proper form."

We moved slowly across the ice, my hands gripping his forearms, his body warming mine despite the chill. Each glide brought us closer until I could feel his heartbeat through his practice jersey.

"See?" His voice was low, intimate in the empty rink. "You're a natural."

"I'm a disaster waiting to happen."

"You're perfect." He said it simply, like a fact, like something too true to need elaboration. "Even when you're threatening my life with dental tools or hiding from faculty in questionable places or making me fall in love with you more every time you color-code something."

My breath caught. Or maybe I just forgot how to breathe entirely.

"Is that what we're calling this?" I managed. "Falling?"

"Well," his smile turned wicked, "we are on ice."

He kissed me then, soft and slow and perfect. His hands slid from my waist to my back, pulling me closer despite the awkwardness of skates and ice. I wound my fingers in his practice jersey, tasting mint and possibility and something uniquely him that made my knees weak (though that might have been the skating).

The lights flickered on with cruel timing.

"Really?" Mike's voice echoed across the rink. "The one time I don't text a warning..."

We startled apart, which was a terrible idea on ice. I went down hard, pulling Jack with me despite his attempt to stay upright. He managed to twist, so I landed on top of him instead of the other way around, protecting me even in an ungraceful fall.

"Ribs!" I gasped, hands fluttering over his chest in panic.

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