Page 87 of Play Fake
A pang of something bittersweet hits my chest. I don’twanthim to leave—not after this. But I nod, trying to play it cool. “Yeah. Probably smart.”
He stands, stretching a little, and I walk him to the door. The room suddenly feels smaller without him sitting there, warm and solid beside me.
At the door, he hesitates. Just for a second. And then he leans down, wrapping me in a hug—strong and warm, his hoodie soft against my cheek.
Before I can fully process it, I feel it.
A gentle brush of his lips against the top of my head.
It’s quick. Probably unplanned. But it sends a shiver down my spine, warmth blooming in my chest so suddenly I almost forget to breathe.
“Night, Soph,” he says quietly when he pulls back. His voice is softer than usual, almost rough around the edges.
“Night,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
He gives me one last little smile before heading down the hall, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket.
I stand there for a long moment after the door clicks shut, heart racing like I’ve run a marathon, fingers ghosting over the spot where his arm had been.
This started as pretend. So why does it suddenly feel soreal?
29
SOPHIE
The campus is still waking up when I spot him Monday morning, walking toward me across the quad, hair messy like he rolled out of bed a little late, but somehow still manages to look unfairly good.
Before I can say anything, he’s right there, his arms coming around me in a hug that’s quick but firm. My cheek brushes against his hoodie, and I breathe in his woodsy scent that’s only him, just as his lips graze the top of my head.
It shouldn’t make my heart skip, but it doesn’t get that memo.
“Morning, Soph,” he murmurs, his low morning voice sending even more shivers down my spine.
“Morning,” I manage, my voice a little breathier than intended.
When we start heading toward class, our hands brush once. Twice. A spark races up my arm each time. Then, without saying a word, he hooks his fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I feel like a teenager, but my stomach does a few backflips from the simple gesture.
When we reach the psych building, Beck lets go just long enough to open the door for me, his hand brushing the small of my back as I walk past. It’s such a small touch, but it lights me up from the inside out.
I can’t really explain the shift that’s happened between us since the other night after the game, but it’s there.
The hallway is buzzing with students, but walking next to him feels like being in our own little pocket of quiet. When we reach our usual row, he sets his bag down and tilts his head at me with that lopsided smile that’s starting to undo me more and more each day.
“You’re extra smiley this morning,” I tease as I slide into my seat.
He raises an eyebrow, dropping into the chair beside me. “Am I not allowed to be in a good mood?”
“Oh, you’re allowed,” I say, pretending to jot something down while my heart tries to beat out of my chest. “Just…noted for the record.”
His low chuckle rumbles next to me, and I have to bite back my own grin.
Professor Nelson starts the lecture, launching straight into today’s topic—personality disorders and treatment plans. I try to focus, I really do, but my brain keeps wandering back to the way Beck’s hand felt in mine. Warm. Certain.
Every now and then, he leans slightly toward me, either to read a note over my shoulder or whisper something quietly about the lecture, and each time, my stomach swoops just a little.
By the end of class, I’ve retained maybe sixty percent of what was said.
