Page 30 of Faking the Rules

I collapse onto my bed, still fully clothed, curling around the hollow ache in my chest. The sheets still carry the faint scent of him from this morning—was it only this morning?—when everything seemed possible, when the line between fake and real had blurred beyond recognition.

Now clarity has returned with brutal force. This began as an arrangement, a convenient fiction to serve our separate purposes. That Declan may have developed genuine feelings along the way doesn't change the fundamental dishonesty at its core—or the fact that I was his second choice when crafting this scheme.

Sleep eludes me, my mind replaying every moment between us, searching for signs I missed, clues to his true intentions. When dawn finally breaks, I've reached no conclusions, only a bone-deep certainty that whatever is developing between Declan and me is far more complicated, far more real, and far more dangerous than either of us anticipated.

And I have no idea what to do about it.

Chapter 6

The next three days pass in a blur of avoidance and anxiety. I skip the one class Declan and I share, having Mia deliver my portion of our project notes with strict instructions not to engage beyond the academic. I take new routes across campus, eat at odd hours, and retreat to the sanctuary of the library's most obscure corners.

His texts come regularly—respectful but persistent, never demanding a response but making it clear he's waiting, hoping.Take all the time you need, but know I'm here.And:I miss you, Ellie. When you're ready to talk, I'll tell you everything.And finally, simply:I'm sorry. For all of it. But not for falling for you.

Each one lands like a stone in the still pond of my carefully maintained detachment, sending ripples through my determination to keep emotional distance. Each one makes me question whether I'm protecting myself from genuine hurt or simply avoiding the risk inherent in opening myself to genuine connection.

By Wednesday evening, restlessness drives me from my dorm room, the walls closing in after days of self-imposed isolation. The campus is quiet, most students at dinner orbeginning their midweek partying ritual. I walk aimlessly, letting my feet guide me while my mind continues its circular argument about Declan, about trust, about the feasibility of something real growing from such artificial beginnings.

I'm so lost in thought that I don't immediately register where I've ended up—standing outside the library's east entrance, staring at a familiar figure seated on a bench, head bent over a notebook, pen moving across the page with deliberate focus.

Declan.

Even in profile, backlit by the library's outdoor lamps, he's breathtaking—all sharp angles and strong lines, intensity radiating from his concentrated posture. He's dressed simply in jeans and a black hoodie, his hair falling across his forehead as he writes. This version of him—the student, the thinker, far removed from the hockey star or campus celebrity—still surprises me, still contradicts the easy stereotypes I initially assigned him.

I could walk away.Shouldwalk away, before he notices me. But my feet refuse to move, frozen in the moment of decision—retreat to safety or advance into the unknown complications of whatever exists between us.

Before I can choose, he looks up, some sixth sense alerting him to my presence. For a heartbeat, we simply stare at each other across the twenty feet of concrete and carefully tended shrubbery that separate us. Then he closes his notebook slowly, tucking it into his bag without breaking eye contact, as if afraid I'll vanish if he looks away.

"Ellie," he says, just loud enough to carry to where I stand. Not a question, not a demand. Simply an acknowledgment of my presence, leaving the next move entirely to me.

I could still walk away. But the hollow ache that's been living in my chest throbs with renewed intensity, demanding resolution, closure— or something far more frightening.

My feet move of their own volition, carrying me toward him until I'm standing a few feet away, arms crossed protectively across my chest. "What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.

"Waiting," he says simply.

"For what?"

"For you."

The directness of his answer steals my breath. "How did you know I'd come this way?"

He shrugs, a small smile touching his lips. "I didn't. I've been at different spots on campus every evening. Quad on Monday, coffee shop yesterday, here tonight." His expression turns rueful. "Was planning to work my way through all your usual haunts until you were ready to see me."

The revelation silences me momentarily. He's been strategically positioning himself in my path, not to force a confrontation, but to be available when I was ready. The consideration in this approach—the respect for my boundaries while still demonstrating his commitment—touches something deep inside me.

"Can I?" I gesture to the bench beside him.

Relief washes over his features as he slides over to make room. "Of course."

I sit, maintaining a careful few inches between us, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to resist the treacherous impulse to reach for him. For a moment, we sit in silence, the evening air cool around us, the library's lights casting long shadows across the walkway.

"I owe you an explanation," he finally says. "About Kaitlyn. About how this all started."

"Yes," I agree. "You do."

He takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself. "Kaitlyn and I dated last semester. It was casual—at least, I thought it was. I was seeing other people, and I thought she was too.”

“How many other people?”

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