Page 89 of Play Fake
He’s all focus, the kind that makes the rest of the room fade out. His pen scratches across the margins, eyes narrowing every so often like he’s piecing something together. I’m trying to match his energy, but my brain is mostly split between the content in front of me and the sound of him tapping his pen against the table.
“Okay,” he says, breaking the silence. “Do you want to handle the community support and stigma section? You’re the social work expert.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Expert is a strong word, but…yeah, that works. You’re taking the diagnostics?”
“Yep.” He flips through his notes like he’s already halfway done. “Symptoms, treatment options, the whole deal.”
I tilt my head. “You sound way too confident.”
He doesn’t look up. “That’s because I know my stuff.”
I smirk. “Show-off.”
He glances up, deadpan. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I roll my eyes and go back to highlighting. But he’s not wrong—he really does know this material. When I stumble over a section, I ask without thinking.
“Okay, explain the difference between positive and negative symptoms again. I always blank on that.”
He doesn’t even look at the page. “Positive symptoms are added behaviors—hallucinations, delusions, disorganized thinking. Negative symptoms are losses of function. Emotional flatness, reduced speech, stuff like that.”
I stare at him. “You didn’t even check.”
He shrugs, tapping his pen. “I remembered.”
“Of course you did,” I mutter, but it comes out softer than I intended.
We keep working, falling into this easy rhythm of teasing and explaining, passing the Skittles back and forth like someunspoken truce. The rest of the world disappears—just him, me, and the project between us.
Then it happens.
Beck shifts his chair closer to point something out on my notes. I lean in at the same time to ask a question, and suddenly?—
Our noses are almost touching.
My breath catches. His does too. His gaze flicks down to my mouth for the quickest heartbeat before snapping back to my eyes.
The air between us goes sharp, warm,alive.
“Uh—” My voice is embarrassingly soft.
“Yeah?” His answer is just as quiet.
“What…what were you gonna show me?”
He clears his throat, turning his notebook toward me like nothing happened. “This part.” His voice is lower than usual, a little rough around the edges.
I try to focus, I really do, but all I can think about is how close he is. The faint stubble along his jaw. The way his lashes catch the light. The steady sound of his breathing right next to mine.
My heart thunders against my ribs.
When I glance up again, he’s already watching me. Not smug, but curious.
I freeze.
“You’re staring, Soph,” he murmurs.
“I—no, I wasn’t.”
