Page 37 of Faking the Rules

"Easy for you to say," I mutter. "Your reputation is only enhanced by being seen with someone who spends more time in the library than at parties."

He stops abruptly, turning to face me with unexpected seriousness. "You think that's what this is about for me? Reputation enhancement?"

The hurt in his voice catches me off guard. "No," I backpedal quickly. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" he presses, his eyes intent on mine.

I struggle to articulate the insecurity that still lingers despite the intimacy we've shared. "Just that... you have less to lose in this equation. People see you with me and think you're broadening your horizons, showing hidden depth. They see me with you and assume I'm just another conquest, or that I'm using you for social advancement."

His expression softens, understanding replacing the hurt. "Ellie," he says, his voice dropping to that register that seems to vibrate through my body. "I couldn't care less what people think about us. But I care very much what you think. And if you're still wondering if this is some kind of game or image rehab for me, then I need to do a better job showing you it's not."

Before I can respond, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me—not a casual peck, but a proper kiss, deep and thorough, right in the middle of the main quad with dozens of witnesses. It's a declaration, a claiming, a public announcement that whatever is happening between us is real and significant.

When he finally pulls back, my face is flaming and my knees are embarrassingly weak. Around us, the whispers have intensified, and several people aren't even bothering to hide the fact that they're recording the moment on their phones.

"There," Declan says with satisfaction. "That should clarify things."

"Or fuel speculation for weeks," I counter, but I can't suppress the smile tugging at my lips. The gesture was equal parts ridiculous and romantic, pure Declan in its blend of showmanship and sincerity.

"Let them speculate," he says, reclaiming my hand as we resume walking. "We know the truth."

The simple confidence in his statement settles something inside me—a persistent doubt that has lingered despite the evidence of his actions, his words, his touch. Maybe he's right. Maybe what matters isn't what others think or believe, but what we know to be true between us.

By the time we reach my dorm, some of my earlier anxiety has dissipated, replaced by a cautious optimism that perhaps we can navigate this transition from fake to real without the entire process becoming public entertainment.

"Team meeting in thirty minutes," Declan says, checking his watch reluctantly. "But I'll call you after? Maybe dinner tonight?"

"I'd like that," I admit, still getting used to the freedom of expressing what I actually want rather than what seems safest.

His smile is like sunrise after the longest night, transforming his features with simple joy. "Great. I'll pick you up at seven?"

"Perfect." I hesitate, then rise on tiptoes to press a quick kiss to his lips. "Good luck with Coach."

"I don't need luck," he says with theatrical confidence. "I've got you."

The simple declaration, delivered with his trademark blend of arrogance and sincerity, makes my heart skip. I watch him walk away, his athletic grace evident even in this mundane movement, and wonder at the strangeness of fate—how something that began as calculated performance has become the most authentic connection I've experienced since before my mother walked out the door without a backward glance.

As I climb the stairs to my room, my phone buzzes with a text message. Expecting Declan, I check it with a smile already forming.

The smile freezes, then dies as I read:Enjoy it while it lasts, Library Girl. He always comes back to where he belongs. Always.

Attached is a photo I've never seen before—Declan and Kaitlyn in what appears to be an intimate embrace, his face buried in her neck, her expression triumphant as she looks directly at the camera. The timestamp shows last night, around the time Declan and I were having our intense conversation on the library bench.

The photo is clearly doctored—I know exactly where Declan was last night, and it wasn't with Kaitlyn. But the manipulation is skillful enough to give me pause, to awaken the dormant insecurities that have merely been sleeping, not banished. What if it was taken right before I saw him? What if --

"Delete it," a voice behind me says, making me jump. I turn to find Mia, her expression a mixture of concern and anger as she peers over my shoulder at my phone screen. "It's fake, Ellie. Badly photoshopped. Look at the lighting on his hair versus the rest of the scene."

I squint at the image, seeing what she means now that she's pointed it out. Relief floods through me, quickly followed by anger at my own gullibility, at Kaitlyn's increasing desperation to drive a wedge between Declan and me.

"She's escalating," I say, deleting the message as Mia suggested. "First the social media post, now fake photos. What's next?"

"Nothing, if she has any sense of self-preservation," Mia says darkly. "Because if she keeps this up, I'm going to personally ensure she regrets it."

The fierceness of her defense warms me even as I shake my head. "Don't. It's not worth it. She's just—"

"Pathetic?" Mia supplies. "Desperate? Psychotic? All of the above?"

I laugh despite myself, the tension easing from my shoulders. "Something like that."

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