Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 31: Real Or Fake

Justin’s POV

She left on Sunday evening.

I stood by the door longer than I should have after she walked out, the faint trace of her scent still hanging in the air—lavender and something warm, like home. Her footsteps echoed faintly in the hallway as she left, each one sounding like a goodbye I wasn’t ready for.

Was it wrong to want her to stay? To want to wake up to her tucked into the same blankets with me, her hair a tangled mess on my pillow, her breath soft and steady beside mine?

For someone who used to be alone—no, for someone who preferred to be alone—I was becoming attached to June way too fast. Too much. Too deeply. And I didn’t know what the hell to do about it.

And it wasn’t just about the sex — though that had been mind-numbing in the best kind of way. It was about her presence. The quiet moments. The way she filled up a space, not with noise, but with this soft, aching calm that seemed to settle over my chaos.

When she started packing up her things—just the little hoodie she wore, her charger, the hair tie she left on my nightstand—I felt a weight settle in my chest. But it wasn’t until I saw the change in her eyes that I realized this wasn’t just about leaving. Her whole mood shifted. Her laughter faded. Her smile cracked and vanished. She became quiet, withdrawn, almost like she was shrinking inside herself. Like she was bracing for impact.

I watched her that whole day, noting the shift. The change. She’d started pulling away in subtle ways — little things. She got quiet. Zoned out more than once. Her gaze kept flicking to the clock, her shoulders tense like she was waiting for the world to crash in on her.

And when it was finally time to leave?

She looked... scared. Gloomy. Broken in a way I couldn’t name.

Like she was dreading something.

It wasn’t just goodbye she dreaded. It was whatever she was going back to.

Was she going back to some kind of storm I didn’t know about? Because that wasn’t the same June from the night before — the one who laughed while stealing my pancakes and fell asleep on my chest like she hadn’t slept safely in years.

No... this was someone else. Someone scared. Someone running.

And as much as I told myself not to care, not to get involved... I did.

I cared.

Did she have a fight with her parents or something? I wanted to ask, but she kept evading. Said she’d be fine. "See you at school tomorrow," she whispered, offering a brittle smile like it was supposed to reassure me.

It didn’t.

I offered to take her home, but she refused. Told me she’d take the bus, said she needed to clear her head. I didn’t push. I didn’t want to spook her.

But as she left, I couldn’t stop thinking that she was heading into something dark. Something that didn’t just scare her—but broke her a little every time she went back to it.

She didn’t demand I pick her up like a good boyfriend would. Hell, I didn’t even know if we were really dating now, or still caught up in this ridiculous fake-boyfriend charade that had started as a cover-up for a situation neither of us could explain.

After everything that happened this weekend—sleeping beside her, hearing her whimper in her dreams, touching her like I was afraid to break her—I couldn’t see her as fake anymore.

She was real.

Too real.

And I was fucked.

That’s the reason I never brought people to my apartment. Never shared my bed. Never introduced anyone to the silence I lived with, because the moment they left, the silence grew louder. Heavier. The whole place suddenly felt too big and too empty, like every corner of it echoed back pieces of me I didn’t want to face.

I sat down on the edge of the bed we’d shared, my palm brushing over the sheets that still held her warmth. The dent where her body had been felt too permanent, like she had made an imprint in my life I couldn’t shake.

Fuck.

I thought I could handle this. I thought I could play along, pretend like this was all just convenient. But the second she left, it felt like something had been torn out of me.

I slumped back against the headboard and closed my eyes.

And that’s when the voices came back.

I’d been quiet all weekend. Like they were taking a break too. But now they were back, whispering reminders I’d tried so hard to drown.

You’re too broken for her.

She’ll leave you.

She should leave you.

She’ll remember who you are.

Because yeah, that’s the truth, isn’t it?

I knew her before. When we were both younger. When I was locked away in that godforsaken lab and she was just Number 12. She’d promised me help. She said she’d come back for me. That she’d find someone. Do something. Anything.

I waited six years. Nothing.

I thought she had died. Or been captured again. Maybe punished. I didn’t want to believe she’d abandoned me—not after everything we’d survived.

But then I saw her again. At school. Living like a goddamn golden girl, surrounded by wealth and safety. Adopted by rich, powerful parents. Wearing designer clothes, smiling like she’d never seen a day of hell.

And when I joined her school—on purpose, just to confront her—she didn’t even recognize me. Didn’t spare me a glance. Didn’t give a fuck.

She looked right through me.

And yeah, I wanted to wreck that perfect little life she’d built. Wanted to tear it down like the walls of every lab cell I’d been trapped in. I wanted her to see me and remember—not just the promises she broke, but the pain I carried because of her absence.

But now?

Now that she was in my life again... I was incapable.

I couldn’t hurt her. Not when she looked at me with those eyes. Not when she clung to me in her sleep like I was the only lifeline she had left.

Because somewhere along the way—between fake kisses and tangled sheets and shared silences—I started to care.

And that scared the shit out of me.

And maybe, just maybe... she wasn’t living a perfect life like I thought. Maybe she hadn’t been saved at all. Maybe she was still trapped—just in a different kind of prison. One with golden bars.

Like the way she screamed in her dreams. Cried in her sleep. Or flinched sometimes when I touched her too suddenly, like the past was still gripping her with invisible hands.

Maybe, just like me, she hadn’t really escaped.

No matter how happy she looked at school... maybe it was just another mask.

Maybe this whole relationship we were pretending to have wasn’t so fake after all. Maybe it was the most real thing either of us had touched in years.

I stood up and paced the room.

The echo of her laughter from earlier floated through my mind—when we’d played that stupid racing game and she beat me because I "sucked at turns." Or when we went grocery shopping and she clung to my arm like we were one of those picture-perfect couples, arguing over cereal brands like that moment could last forever.

I even remembered how we ended up back in bed afterward, unable to keep our hands off each other, like gravity kept pulling us together.

And now she was gone.

I looked at the clock. It was barely 9 PM. But I knew what time it was for her. It was Sunday night.

And that meant tomorrow was Monday. School day

My gut twisted. Something wasn’t right.

There was something in the way she froze when she realized the weekend was over. The way she clutched the edge of her hoodie with white knuckles. Like Monday wasn’t just the beginning of another school week—but the countdown to something she couldn’t avoid.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized something was wrong in that house she returned to. Maybe it was the way she never talked about her parents. Or how she never let me walk her home. Or how she brushed off personal questions with jokes or distractions.

And then I remembered how she’d told me once, offhandedly, almost like she regretted it the second the words left her lips: "Sometimes the people who take you in don’t always save you."

I thought she meant emotionally.

But now I wondered if she meant physically.

I clenched my fists.

If someone was hurting her...

If someone dared to touch her, control her, break her the way people once tried to break me...

I didn’t know what I’d do. But I knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

I reached for my phone. My finger hovered over her contact. I wanted to text her, just to make sure she got home safe. But would that make her feel suffocated? Would I be pushing too hard?

Fuck it.

I sent a message.

"Made it home okay?"

No reply.

Minutes ticked by.

Still nothing.

I tossed the phone on the bed and paced again. My chest was tight, my mind racing. I wasn’t supposed to care this much. I wasn’t supposed to let anyone get this close again.

But June wasn’t just anyone.

She was a ghost from my past who’d suddenly become the only thing grounding me in the present. And if she was fighting battles behind that forced smile of hers, then I needed to know.

I needed to help her.

Even if she didn’t want me to.

Even if it meant facing the truth about our shared past—and the promises we both failed to keep.

Because she gave me peace.

She made me want to be more than a ghost.

And maybe it was time I tried to be hers.