Page 86 of Play Fake
His lips quirk. “Yeah. They keep me grounded. I don’t deserve either of them, but they’re kind of my world.”
Something about the way he says that makes my throat feel tight.
The credits roll, but neither of us moves to shut it off. Beck’s arm is still draped over my shoulders, his fingers drawing lazy shapes on my skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it anymore.
I tilt my head just enough to look up at him. His profile is softened by the low light, lashes dark against his cheeks. He looks…relaxed. The kind of relaxed that sneaks up on you when you’re not trying.
“Tell me something real,” I whisper.
His eyes flick down to me, one brow lifting. “Something real?”
“Yeah.” My voice is quiet.
For a second, I think he’s going to deflect. That’s usually his thing when anything gets too personal. But then he lets out a slow breath, eyes drifting back to the ceiling.
“When I was a kid,” he starts, voice low. “I used to stay up late listening to my dad’s old records. Real vinyl, old rock stuff. I’d sit on the floor in front of the speakers and pretend the lyrics were talking to me. Like if I could memorize every line, I’d figure life out somehow.”
My chest squeezes. “That’s actually kind of adorable.”
He chuckles softly. “Don’t tell Logan. He’d never let me live it down.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I promise.
Then he turns his head toward me, eyes catching mine. “Your turn.”
I bite my lip, thinking. There’s so much I could say—but the way he’s looking at me makes me want to give him somethingtrue.
“Okay,” I say finally. “When I was little, I used to pretend my house had a secret passage. I’d search every wall, everycloset, convinced I’d find some hidden door that would take me somewhere that was just mine. Quiet. Safe.”
He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t tease. He just watches me, expression soft in a way that makes my stomach flutter.
“Did you ever find it?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. But sometimes when things got too loud at home, I’d lie under my bed with a flashlight and a book, pretending that was it. My secret place.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. It’s just breathing. Warmth. The quiet buzz of something between us that’s been growing slowly over the last few weeks.
“Guess we’re both kind of weird,” he murmurs.
“Guess so,” I whisper back, smiling against the lump in my throat.
We don’t stop after that.
The “tell me something real” moment opens some invisible door, and suddenly we’re just…talking. About everything and nothing. Favorite childhood snacks. The weirdest thing we’ve ever Googled. The songs we secretly love but would never admit in public—he knowswaytoo many early 2000s pop lyrics, which I store away for later teasing.
It’s simple. The kind of conversation that stretches time without you noticing. He’s lying halfway back against the wall now, one leg dangling off the bed, the other bent up. I’m curled into his side, my head resting lightly against his shoulder.
Every now and then, he says something that makes me laugh so hard I have to bury my face in his hoodie to muffle it, which only makes him laugh more.
And then?—
His phone buzzes.
He shifts, pulling it from his pocket and squinting at the screen. “Logan,” he mutters, thumbs tapping a quick reply. Hiseyes widen slightly when he checks the time. “Holy crap. It’s two in the morning.”
“What?” I sit up, blinking at the laptop still sitting forgotten at the foot of the bed. “No way.”
“Way,” he says, grinning. “Guess I should head out before Logan decides to come drag me home himself.”
