Page 88 of Play Fake
We pack up together, falling into step as we head for the doors.
“You’ve got your social work class next, right?” Beck asks, glancing down at me as we push through the building’s double doors, his hand once again finding mine.
I blink, surprised he remembered. “Yeah. How’d you?—”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “You’ve mentioned it a few times. And cheer practice later this afternoon?”
My stomach does a tiny, unexpected flip. Hepays attention.
“Right,” I say, trying not to sound as flustered as I suddenly feel.
He slows as we near the edge of the quad. “Want to meet at the library before practice? Get a head start on the project?”
It’s not a suggestion tossed out casually—it’s like he already built it into his day.
“Yeah,” I say, warmth blooming in my chest. “That works for me.”
“Cool,” he says with that quiet ease of his, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’ll grab us a table.”
We pause outside the building, caught in that small pocket of time where neither of us seems ready to walk away yet. The world hums on around us—students passing, skateboard wheels rattling over pavement—but for a second, it feels like just us.
He gives my hand a light squeeze before letting go. “See you later, Soph.”
“See you,” I reply, my voice softer than I intend.
As he walks away, I catch myself grinning like an idiot, my heart doing its now-familiar flip at his retreating back.
By the time I make it to the library, I’m one missed snack away from a full-on meltdown. My stomach growls loud enough toecho off the walls, earning me a side-eye from a passing grad student.
Figures. I skipped lunch to finish an assignment, and now I’m about to tackle Abnormal Psych with nothing but willpower and regret.
I scan the rows of tables, and there he is. Back corner. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Head bent over the packet like he’s game-planning for the Super Bowl instead of a group project.
When Beck looks up, one earbud still dangling around his neck, his whole face softens. That quiet smile hits me dead center.
“Hey,” he says, voice low.
“Hey.” I drop into the seat across from him, tugging out my notebook. My stomach chooses that exact moment to let out a dramatic growl.
He raises a brow. “Let me guess. Lunch didn’t happen?”
I sigh. “Not even close.”
Without a word, he pushes a family-sized bag of Skittles across the table. “Emergency rations.”
I blink at him. “You carry candy like this on purpose?”
“Obviously.” His expression is dead serious, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Never know when someone’s going to need saving.”
I laugh, tearing the bag open. “You’re enabling terrible habits.”
“I’m keeping you from passing out mid-discussion,” he says, leaning back. “There’s a difference.”
I toss a red Skittle in my mouth, narrowing my eyes playfully. “Fine. Candy hero.”
His grin widens a little before he flips open the project packet. “Ready to get started?”
And just like that, we dive into the project.
