Page 78 of Play Fake
For a split second, something flickers across his face. Not resistance exactly, but…nerves. The kind you see when someone’s walking toward a door they’re not sure they want to open. But he doesn’t shut down.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “That works.”
I smile. “Cool. I’ll text you when I’m done.”
We reach the fork in the path where I need to peel off for my next class. I glance back at him, and he’s watching me go with this quiet, thoughtful expression that makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.
“See you in a bit,” I call out.
“Yeah,” he replies, voice a touch softer than usual. “See you.”
I turn away, and I swear I can still feel his eyes on me as I walk down the path. My cheeks are warm, my pulse a little too quick—and for the first time, it feels like the ground beneath us is starting to shift in ways neither of us has quite named yet.
The second my professor dismisses us, I sling my bag over my shoulder and weave through the crowded hallway, texting Beck as I push the door open into the crisp midday air.
Class is out. Grabbing food real quick—meet you at the tables out the south side of the quad in ten?
My stomach growls as if on cue, and I veer toward the dining hall. The smell hits me the second I walk in—warm bread, melted cheese, coffee, and way too many students crammed into one space. I scan the grab-and-go section, zeroing in on the pre-made sandwiches.
Turkey and cheddar. Chicken pesto. And…gluten-free turkey club.
My fingers hover for a second. Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab the gluten-free sandwich and toss it into my basket along with a regular one for me.
I snag a bag of chips, flip it over, and squint at the allergen list. No gluten. Perfect. Two water bottles go in next.
The cashier gives me a distracted smile as she scans everything, and I swipe my card, my pulse weirdly quick for something so simple. It’s just food. It’s really not a big deal.
Still, as I step back outside and cross the quad, my bag swinging at my side, I catch myself smiling.
The tables we agreed on sit under a row of old oaks, their leaves just starting to turn. The late afternoon light filters through the branches, scattering gold patterns across the worn wood. Beck’s already there, baseball cap turned backward on his head, wearing a white T-shirt that accentuates his broad shoulders well, notebook open in front of him.
He glances up when he hears my footsteps, and his face softens into that easy, quiet smile that somehow makes everything inside me tilt a little.
“Hey,” I say, holding up the brown paper bag like evidence. “I come bearing food.”
His brows lift, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Too late.” I grin, setting the bag down between us as I slide into the seat. “I grabbed you the gluten-free turkey club. I checked the chips too—they’re safe, or at least I think so. You might want to double check.”
For a heartbeat, something unguarded flashes across his face. Not surprise, exactly, but something warmer, softer.
“Thanks, Soph,” he says quietly, and somehow the way he says my name makes my stomach swoop.
I shrug, unwrapping my sandwich. “Figured you’d be hungry.”
We settle in, the hum of campus around us. Students pass by in clusters, laughing, while music drifts from somewhere nearby, and for a second it almost doesn’t feel like we’re two people sitting down to talk about a heavy project. It feels…easy. Natural.
Beck pulls out the project packet and sets it between us on the table, but neither of us opens it right away. Instead, our sandwiches disappear slowly, conversation winding between bites.
It starts simple?—
“Favorite movie?” I ask, wiping my fingers with a napkin.
He chews, swallows, then shrugs. “Remember the Titans, probably. I’ve seen it like…twenty times. My dad and I used to watch it together before games.”
The way he says it—quiet, fond—makes my chest squeeze. “Good choice,” I say softly.
He lifts a brow at me. “Yours?”
