Page 95 of Play Fake
Beck’s room smells like…Beck.
The faint spice of his body wash and whatever else he uses, creating a mix that’s both distracting and…intoxicating in a way.
Sunlight breaks through the half-open blinds, cutting across the navy comforter where I’m sprawled on my stomach, laptop open and textbook splayed somewhere between my elbow and the bed frame.
It’s Sunday morning, and we promised ourselves we’d make solid progress on our Abnormal Psych project—outline the case study, work on the divided the sections, maybe even draft a paragraph or two if we were feeling ambitious.
So far, ambition has not made an appearance, but the urge to kiss him again is definitely in attendance.
Beck sits in his desk chair, turned just enough to face me instead of his laptop. He’s got a pen spinning idly between his fingers, a notebook balanced on his bouncing knee. The assignment instructions are pulled up on his laptop screen, but he hasn’t looked at them in at least ten minutes.
Mostly because he’s looking at me.
Again.
I tilt my head, letting my hair slide over one shoulder as I glance up from the page I’m pretending to read. “You know, we’re never going to get this done if you keep staring at me like that.”
His mouth quirks, slow and unbothered. “What? I’m just admiring the view.”
Heat blooms up the back of my neck before I can stop it. “Beck.”
“What?” he repeats, grin widening a fraction. “You’re the one making yourself at home on my bed. I’m only a guy after all.”
I bury my face in my arm to hide the way my lips want to betray me with a smile. We’ve been dancing around the kiss all weekend—neither of us bringing it up, both trying—and failing—to pretend that nothing shifted Friday night. But here, in the easy quiet of his room and his gaze snagging on me like he just can’t help himself…pretending keeps getting a little harder.
I push myself upright, crossing my legs on the bed. “Okay, how about you put those pretty eyes to use and actually read the diagnostic criteria?”
He laughs, low and warm, leaning back in his chair as if he has all the time in the world. “Yes, ma’am.”
Beck finally drags his chair closer to the desk and props his elbows on the armrests, scrolling through the DSM-5 criteria like he’s actually paying attention now.
I flip to the relevant page in our textbook and start typing an outline into our shared doc. “Okay,” I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Schizophrenia. We should probably start with the diagnostic criteria before we pick a case study.”
“Right,” he says, voice lighter than usual. “Positive symptoms, negative symptoms, disorganized speech, catatonia…you need two or more present for a significant portion of time during at least one month.”
I blink. “Okay, overachiever. Didn’t realize you had this memorized.”
He shrugs, spinning his pen between his fingers again. “You’d be surprised what sticks.”
I smirk and keep typing. “So…criterion A is basically the hallmark symptoms—hallucinations, delusions, disorganized behavior. B is social or occupational dysfunction. And C is continuous signs for at least six months, including that one-month active phase.”
He nods along, adding, “And diagnosis usually involves a clinical interview, ruling out substance use, other medical conditions, or mood disorders with psychotic features. Sometimes they’ll use structured interviews like the SCID to assess symptoms more objectively, but more often than not, the disease has progressed a lot before it’s ever fully diagnosed to the point where it can be treated. Normally, it’s not diagnosed until after at least one major episode.”
My fingers still over my keyboard. That wasn’t the kind of detail most students throw out offhand.
I glance up at him. He’s leaning back now, gaze fixed somewhere near the corner of the room—not at me. The joking edge from earlier has slipped away and his posture has stiffened some.
“Okay,” I say slowly, watching his face. “You definitely didn’t get all that from the lecture.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just taps the pen against his notebook in an uneven rhythm. For a heartbeat, a heavier silence stretches between us.
I set my laptop aside and draw my knees up, resting my chin on them. “Beck…are you ever going to tell me how you know so much about schizophrenia?”
His eyes finally meet mine, and for the first time all day, there’s nothing playful there. Just that guarded intensity he getssometimes, as if he’s weighing how much of himself he’s willing to let me see.
The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s not a smile. “I could tell you,” he says quietly, “but…I’d rather show you.”
My heartbeat stumbles. There’s something in his voice, soft, sure, and a little vulnerable—that tells me whatever he’s about to share, it’s not a story he offers lightly.
