Page 128 of Play Fake
I groan. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”
“Not a chance,” she says, blue eyes twinkling with mischief.
By the time we pull into her dorm lot, the campus is quiet. A few scattered windows glow, but most of the building is dark, the Sunday night lull settling over everything.
She reaches for the door handle, and before she can grab it, I slide out and jog around to open it for her.
She gives me a half amused look as she steps out. “You don’t have to do that every time, ya know.”
“I know,” I say, shrugging. “But I want to.”
Her smile deepens, and she slips her hand into mine as we walk toward her building. I press the door open for her before following her down the hall, the familiar hum of the radiator kicking on somewhere above us.
When we step inside her room, it’s warm and quiet. She tosses her bag onto the chair in the corner, kicks off her boots with a small sigh, and turns to me.
“You want to stay?” she asks. Her voice isn’t shy, but it’s soft—like she already knows the answer.
I nod once. “Yeah. I do.”
We move around each other easily in her tiny space, like we’ve done this a hundred times before. She heads to the bathroom to wash her face while I dig through the small overnight bag I keep stashed in the corner of her room now—something that started out as a just-in-case thing and has slowly become…normal.
I pull out a clean T-shirt and some athletic shorts. When I look up, she’s standing by her dresser, hair tied up messily on top of her head in just a sports bra and shorts, one of my shirts dangling from her fingers, a dark gray one with soft, worn fabric.
She lifts her brows, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “You weren’t planning on wearing this one, were you?”
I lean back against the wall, crossing my arms. “You’re stealing my shirt.”
“Borrowing,” she corrects, already tugging it over her head. It swallows her, the hem hitting mid-thigh, sleeves slipping past her hands.
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “Definitely stealing.”
She spins once, like she’s modeling it, a shade of red coloring her cheeks. “It’s comfy and smells like you.”
And, honestly? Watching her standing there, hair up, bare legs peeking out from under my T-shirt, face clean from washing off her makeup, I clear my throat. “You look better in it than I do anyway.”
She grins and pads over to the bed, climbing in like she’s claimed the whole thing, and maybe my shirt too. Permanently.
When I finally crawl in beside her, she curls into me like she always does, head resting on my chest, one hand fisting lightly in the fabric of the shirt she stole.
The room is dark except for the faint glow from the streetlight outside. My fingers trace slow, lazy circles on her back. Her breathing evens out, warm and steady against me, and I realize just howrightthis feels.
“This was a good weekend,” she murmurs, already half-asleep.
“Yeah,” I whisper into her hair. “It was.”
42
SOPHIE
Everything feels scattered.
The wedding is only a few days away, and it’s like every tiny detail Claire planned months ago is suddenly unraveling at the same time. My phone has basically turned into a panic button.
Claire: Do you think we need extra candles for the reception?
Claire: I can’t find the lavender ribbons for the centerpieces.
Claire: What if the flower girl trips?
