Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 30: Weekend With No Monsters

June’s POV:

Funny how the scary, don’t-know-don’t-care, dark-eyed guy from my class—the one everyone avoided or admired from a distance—is now my fake boyfriend. Or... more than that. Maybe. I don’t even know anymore. All I know is that somehow, the guy who once barely looked at me is now the only one I’ve ever been able to sleep beside without feeling like I was going to shatter into a million pieces.

It’s kind of insane when I think about it.

Tonight, I slept for four full hours. Four. Hours. That might not sound like much to anyone else, but for me? That’s a goddamn miracle. And the most shocking part? Not a single nightmare. No visits from the darker corners of my mind. No flashbacks. No twisted echoes dragging me back into the hell I’ve lived through. Just... sleep. Deep, calm, quiet sleep.

And him.

His arm was thrown loosely over me like it belonged there, like I belonged there. His breathing was steady, warm against the back of my neck, and for the first time in years, my body didn’t feel like it was waiting for something bad to happen. It felt... safe. Not perfect. Not healed. But safe enough to rest.

I made the mistake once—staying over at Bart’s place. Big mistake. I had a nightmare, like I always do. Started crying in the middle of the night, couldn’t wake up, couldn’t pull myself out of it. When I finally did, he was pissed. Not concerned. Not even confused. Just angry.

Angry that I’d "ruined" his precious sleep. He said it, too. Word for word: "You ruined my much-needed sleep."

Like my trauma was some kind of inconvenience. Like my pain had to be polite and quiet and invisible.

I never stayed over again. Never gave him the chance to see me like that a second time. I never even let myself fall asleep around him after that.

But Justin...

God, Justin was different.

He didn’t do anything dramatic or special. He didn’t promise to protect me or say anything comforting. He didn’t even ask what was wrong. He just lay there beside me—silent, solid, and steady. Like a wall between me and the darkness. Like someone who’d seen hell too, and wasn’t scared of mine.

With him, I drifted. Not into nightmares. Not into fear.

But into peace. frёewebnoѵēl.com

And even now, as I lay here in the soft gray of early morning light, staring at the way his chest rises and falls, I still can’t wrap my head around it.

How did I end up here?

Wrapped in his warmth. Breathing in his scent. Feeling like I might actually survive the night for once.

He doesn’t even know the gift he gave me.

He just was.

And somehow, that was enough.

Yeah... I stayed over the whole damn weekend.

Didn’t go home. Didn’t even think about going home, honestly. The thought of walking through that front door, hearing the creak of the hallway floorboards, catching even a glimpse of him—it made my chest tighten like I couldn’t breathe. I knew the moment I stepped back into that house, the voices would come crawling back. The whispers. The panic. The shame. The silence, even louder than the screaming in my head.

I wasn’t ready for that.

Not again.

I was scared—no, terrified—that if I even looked at him... that monster of a father I’m supposed to call dad... the part of me that’s barely holding on would just break.

Because I see him, and I’m eight again. I’m small and helpless and pinned down in the dark, and no matter how much I scream or cry or beg, no one ever comes. No one ever saves me. The walls just watch. The door stays shut.

So, yeah, I stayed at Justin’s.

The guy who doesn’t ask questions.

The guy who doesn’t push or pry or pity.

He didn’t even comment when I didn’t leave. Just handed me a clean hoodie and let me take the first shower that didn’t feel like I was trying to scrub something invisible off my skin.

We barely talked. We didn’t have to. Sometimes silence says everything. And somehow, his silence was the only kind that didn’t hurt.

We ate in his kitchen, watched mindless shows, barely looked at each other—but I felt seen. Like he knew I needed this. Not grand gestures. Not therapy talk. Just... presence. A place to exist without flinching.

And every night, I crawled into his bed.

No shame. No hesitation. Just instinct. Like my body knew it was safe here before my mind could even catch up.

He let me curl into him without a word, his arm a weight across my waist that didn’t feel like a trap—it felt like home. His warmth, the steady beat of his heart, the way he didn’t recoil when I shifted closer... it calmed something inside me I didn’t even know was screaming.

And I slept.

Not once. But twice.

Peacefully. Like a human being.

Not a broken thing.

Not a girl with secrets.

Just... June.

And maybe it doesn’t make sense.

Maybe it’s messed up that I found more safety in the bed of a boy who once scared me than I ever did in the place I was supposed to call home.

But I’m not questioning it.

Because for the first time in years, I felt like I belonged somewhere—even if it’s temporary. Even if it’s a lie we’re both pretending is a favor or a front or some game we’re playing.

It was real enough for me to breathe again.

And that’s more than I ever thought I’d get.

*********

I didn’t survive just the night—I survived the whole weekend. That in itself felt like a miracle.

I hadn’t planned to stay. Really, I hadn’t. But the moment I woke up in Justin’s bed, wrapped in the clean scent of his sheets and the warmth of his arm slung heavy over my waist, I couldn’t make myself move. My body felt grounded in a way it never had before, like my skin wasn’t crawling or waiting for the next shadow to strike. His breathing was even and steady, and for once, the world wasn’t loud or sharp or cruel. It was still. And that stillness felt like a rare gift.

We spent that Saturday morning in comfortable silence, the kind of silence that doesn’t demand words. He made pancakes. Actual pancakes. Not the dry microwave crap I was used to burning at home, but fluffy, golden, syrup-drenched perfection. I didn’t even know he could cook. I teased him about it, and he just shrugged like it was nothing. But that small domestic gesture made my chest ache in the best way—like maybe I was allowed to be taken care of too.

We played video games afterward, something stupid and chaotic involving rainbow-colored characters beating each other up with frying pans and fireballs. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt. Real laughter. Not the polite, hollow kind I perfected at school, but something real and raw that spilled out of me without permission. I caught him looking at me mid-laugh, his usual guarded expression softened, almost boyish, like he was seeing something he didn’t expect. Maybe I was too.

Then we went grocery shopping. It was such a simple thing, but I couldn’t remember the last time I walked down aisles without flinching at raised voices or sudden movements. He let me pick what I wanted, didn’t make fun of my obsession with spicy ramen or how I spent too long debating which brand of chocolate chip cookies tasted best. He just pushed the cart beside me, occasionally stealing glances like I was the most interesting thing in the building.

We went back and made dinner together—pasta, if you could call it that. I burned the garlic bread, and we both nearly set off the smoke alarm. He laughed at me, I mock-glared, and somewhere in the middle of all the playful bickering and sauce-splattered counters, I felt... normal. Safe.

That night, we tangled up in the sheets again. There was fire in it, yes, the kind of desperate passion that made me forget where I ended and he began. But there was also something gentler—his hands knew where to touch without pushing too far, and when I tensed, he paused without question, just waiting for my body to trust his again. That kind of patience made me ache more than any kiss.

Afterward, we lay in the dark, tangled together. I listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek and realized the silence wasn’t scary here. It was calming. It was permission to exist without fear, even if only for a few more hours.

When Sunday rolled around, I didn’t want to move. I stayed curled up beside him for as long as I could, dragging out every second like it would buy me more time. We made lazy breakfast, curled on the couch watching trash TV we half-mocked and half-enjoyed, and he let me doze on him without complaint. No demands. No expectations. Just warmth.

But Sunday evening eventually came, cruel and inevitable.

The moment the sky started turning orange and the time edged past six, a weight settled over my chest like a boulder. I could feel the dread creeping in—tangible and cold and merciless. I was going to have to go home. School was tomorrow. That meant I had to return to that house. That man.

That monster.

Tuesdays and Thursdays. Always the same.

Every Tuesday and Thursday evening, just before my mom came home from her shift, he would come into my room like it was his right. Like I was his. I stopped locking my door because he always had a key. Always. I learned not to scream, not to fight too much, because it only made it worse. I just... endured. That was my survival skill.

I tried to tell my mom once. I remember sitting at the edge of her bed, clutching the edge of my sleeves with white knuckles and whispering, "He hurts me. He touches me."

She looked at me with this vacant sort of blankness before her expression twisted into something worse—denial. Anger. Disgust. But not at him. At me. "Why would you say something so disgusting? He loves you like his own daughter. Don’t ruin this family with your lies."

So I never brought it up again. I buried it. Deeper and deeper.

Because if the woman who adopted me—who was supposed to love me—couldn’t see the truth, why would anyone else believe me?

That’s why leaving Justin’s place felt like walking off a cliff.

I stuffed my clothes back into my bag slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. Justin noticed. Of course he did. He asked, "You good?" with that quiet tone he reserved for things he knew were heavier than they looked.

I nodded. Lied. "Yeah. Just not ready for Monday."

He didn’t push, but his eyes stayed on me, watching every movement. He offered to drop me off. I declined. I didn’t want him anywhere near that house. Not because I was embarrassed of where I lived—but because I didn’t want that darkness touching him. He was... something different. Something clean in a world that had always felt tainted to me.

I hugged him before I left. Clung to him a little longer than necessary. He held me just as tightly, one hand gently threading through my hair, the other splayed wide across my back like he could hold me together by force alone.

"I had fun," I whispered against his shirt.

"Me too," he said, voice barely audible.

But as I pulled away, I saw something flicker in his gaze—like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how.

Neither did I.

The walk home was the worst part. Every step closer to that house made the walls close in. My skin started to crawl again. My stomach turned. I wanted to turn around and sprint back to Justin’s arms, back to warmth and safety and ramen noodles and soft sheets.

But I didn’t.

Because I’d learned that running doesn’t change the inevitable. It just delays it.

When I walked through that front door, the silence was deafening. My mother was working late. The lights were dim. The house smelled like beer and stale air. I kept my eyes down, my bag clutched tightly to my chest, my steps quiet.

He was in the living room.

I didn’t speak. Neither did he. But his eyes followed me as I walked past, lingering too long. I could feel it—the twisted anticipation. Tuesday was coming.

I closed my bedroom door and pressed my back against it, sinking to the floor.

And I cried. Silently. Bitterly. Because I had tasted something like peace. I had spent two whole days pretending I was normal. Loved. Safe.

Now the countdown to Tuesday had already begun.