Page 36 of Faking the Rules

"What look?"

"The one where your mind is racing a million miles an hour, analyzing everything." His chest vibrates with quiet laughter beneath my cheek. "It's cute. Terrifying, but cute."

I pinch his side lightly, earning a satisfying yelp. "I was thinking about how weird this is," I admit. "Us. This. Everything."

He shifts slightly, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. "Weird good or weird bad?"

"Weird unexpected," I clarify. "If someone had told me a month ago that I'd be waking up in Declan Wolfe's bed, having...feelings for him, I'd have suggested psychiatric evaluation."

"Feelings, huh?" His grin is unbearably smug. "What kind of feelings might those be, Gardner?"

I roll my eyes, trying to maintain some semblance of the walls he's systematically dismantled. "Don't push your luck, Wolfe."

His phone buzzes on the nightstand, saving me from emotional exposure. He sighs, pressing a quick kiss to my forehead before reaching for it.

"Coach," he explains, checking the screen. "Team meeting at noon. Something about championship preparations." He sets the phone down, returning his attention to me with a smile that melts my insides. "Which gives us exactly three hours to shower, eat breakfast, and maybe..." His hand slides down my side, leaving trails of electricity in its wake. "...continue this enlightening conversation."

I laugh, pushing him away halfheartedly. "I need to get back to my dorm. Change clothes, get my books for class."

"Skip it," he suggests, nuzzling my neck in a way that makes rational thought increasingly difficult. "Stay here with me."

The temptation is powerful—to remain in this bubble of warmth and newly discovered pleasure, to pretend the outside world with all its complications doesn't exist. But reality intrudes like cold water, reminding me of papers due and presentations to prepare.

"I can't," I say reluctantly. "I have Feminist Literary Theory at two, and the paper's due today."

He groans dramatically but releases me, flopping back against the pillows. "Fine. Be responsible. See if I care."

The petulant act makes me laugh again, a lightness in my chest that feels foreign after so many months of careful emotional control. "You could join me in the shower," I suggest, emboldened by this newfound intimacy between us. "For efficiency's sake."

His eyes darken at the suggestion, desire flaring hot enough that I feel it like a physical touch. "Efficiency," he repeats, already sliding out of bed, gloriously nude and completely unselfconscious. "Yes. Very important. Conservation of resources and all that."

What follows is anything but efficient, but the waste of water is more than compensated by the discovery that shower sex with Declan Wolfe is just as earth-shattering as bed sex, if somewhat more logistically challenging.

By the time we're dressed and fed—Declan insisting on making breakfast despite my protests that coffee would suffice—it's nearly eleven, and the real world is pressing in with increasingly urgent insistence.

"I'll walk you back," he says, gathering his keys and phone.

"Not necessary," I demur, suddenly anxious about being seen together on campus after the events of the last few days. The posts about our "fake" relationship have doubtlessly continued to spread, and while what's developing between us feels undeniably real, I'm not eager to subject it to public scrutiny so soon.

Declan's expression tells me he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "Hiding me already, Gardner?" The question is light, teasing, but I catch the hint of vulnerability beneath.

"Not hiding," I correct, stepping close to smooth the collar of his shirt, needing physical contact suddenly. "Just... protecting this. Whatever it is. Before it becomes public property."

His hands settle on my hips, warm and steady. "I get it," he says softly. "But Ellie, people already think they know what's happening between us. The only way to counter that is to show them the truth."

"And what is the truth?" I challenge, the question that's been hovering at the edges of my consciousness since last night. "What are we, Declan?"

"We're us," he says simply. "No labels necessary yet if you're not ready. But I'm not pretending this isn't real anymore, and I'm not hiding how I feel about you to make other people comfortable—including you."

The gentle challenge in his words silences my instinctive retreat. He's right. We've moved beyond performance into something authentic, and hiding it only feeds the narrative Kaitlyn is spreading—that we're a calculated arrangement rather than two people genuinely drawn to each other.

"Okay," I concede, rising on tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips. "Walk me back. Show the world that Declan Wolfe is willingly associating with a known academic."

His answering smile is worth the anxiety the decision provokes. "Their minds will be blown," he agrees, taking my hand as he leads me toward the door. "The scandal of it all."

The campus is busy with mid-morning activity when we emerge from his apartment building, students hurrying to classes or lounging on benches enjoying the early spring sunshine. I'm acutely aware of the stares that follow us, the whispers that trail in our wake as we walk hand-in-hand across the quad. Declan seems oblivious—or perhaps just unconcerned—his thumb tracing small, soothing circles on my palm as if sensing my discomfort.

"Ignore them," he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath stirs my hair. "They'll find something else to gossip about by tomorrow."

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