Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 80: Your Boyfriend Is Here

June – POV

I didn’t expect him to come back.

Didn’t expect him to step foot on this campus again, not after everything—not after I ran, not after I left him with his monsters and mine tangled like thorns between us.

But there he was.

Justin.

His figure cut through the crowd like a shadow in daylight—silent, composed, with that same brooding focus he always wore like armor. He wasn’t even trying to blend in, wasn’t pretending to be a student returning to his books and lectures and a life he didn’t belong to anymore. He stood still, carved from stone, eyes fixed on me like I was the last page of a book he couldn’t stop rereading.

I’d seen him.

And I pretended I hadn’t.

Walked out of the literature building with my head high and my heart hammering like it wanted to leap out of my chest and beg him to say something—anything.

But I didn’t stop. I didn’t look. Not directly. I didn’t allow myself.

Because I didn’t know what I would see if I did.

Regret? Anger? Lust? Ownership?

...Or indifference.

I told everyone he was just caught up in something. That he was fine. That of course, we were still together—he was just... busy. It was easier to lie than to say we weren’t anything anymore. That I ran out in the middle of the night with my skin still raw from what I saw him do.

I’d borrowed time and wore it like a borrowed dress. I smiled when they asked. Laughed when someone joked about Justin being such a "mysterious boyfriend." And now the mystery was standing a hundred feet away, watching me like I was a stranger.

The voices didn’t hold back.

He’s not here for you, doll. He’s here to see if you’re broken yet.

He wants to know if you still wear his jacket because you love him or because you forgot how to let go.

Go to him. Or don’t. But don’t pretend this will stay clean.

I gritted my teeth.

For once, I didn’t snap back at them. For once, I wasn’t sure if they were lying.

We had never really been real—Justin and I. We were forged out of necessity, stitched together by trauma and blood and a silent need to survive. A relationship of inconvenience. That’s what I called it once. A sick joke. But somehow, it had wormed its way under my skin, made a home in my bones, and now I didn’t know how to tell where the fake ended and where the real had started.

He looked good. He looked... controlled.

Too controlled.

Like he’d buried the part of him that whispered, "Give me your monsters. I’ll kill them all."

And I wondered if he came back to study. Or to haunt me.

And what was I supposed to do now?

Smile and pretend? Hold his hand again like it wasn’t once stained with the blood of the man I used to call father? Keep up the illusion for everyone else’s comfort?

Or was this it?

Were we supposed to look at each other from across this campus for the rest of the semester, pretending we weren’t one wrong glance away from detonation?

God.

I felt like I was breathing underwater.

I kept walking. Past him. Past the weight of his stare. Past the ghost of who I’d been when I was with him.

I didn’t look back.

But I kept the jacket on.

And maybe—just maybe—I wanted him to see that.

******

"June! JUNE! Your boyfriend is here!"

Oh, for the love of—

I froze mid-step just as I was about to slip into the lecture hall, perfectly on time for once. But no, of course not. Of course the universe decided to set the stage for the most theatrically humiliating moment of my week. She grabbed my wrist—Marissa, bright-eyed and too observant for her own good—spun me around, and pointed right down the hallway. The fuck I knew he was there that’s the whole reason for my rushing to the lecture room!

And there he was.

Justin.

Great. Stupid, ridiculous, meddling, cruel universe.

There he stood like some carved piece of divine judgment—towering in a black hoodie and those godforsaken combat boots, his face unreadable but eyes locked on me like I was prey, a question, a memory. I swore I stopped breathing for a second.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

None of this was.

I’d rehearsed this moment, sure—him walking in, me casually cool, maybe tossing a sarcastic "nice of you to join the land of the living." But I didn’t expect it to hit like a freight train. And I definitely didn’t expect what came next. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com

Because just as I sucked in a breath, about to plaster on a smile like a perfectly normal girlfriend seeing her boyfriend after being so totally not traumatized by the last few months...

Bart.

Bart-fucking-Andrews.

My ex.

And next to him?

Army.

My ex-best friend.

Holding hands.

Of course.

Of course they had to round the corner like a poorly timed punchline in a tragic comedy. The two people who had humiliated me, betrayed me, dragged my name through the campus grapevine until I was nothing but a cheat, a liar, a joke.

And now, here I was—caught between Justin’s stare, my "boyfriend" who may or may not hate me, and the two ghosts of my social suicide holding hands like they were just skipping down a meadow of my ruined reputation.

Fantastic.

Absolutely fucking fantastic.

Smile, sweetheart. If you’re gonna burn, at least be the match.

I sucked in a breath and forced it. The smile. Polished, sweet, pretty—maybe a little too wide. My hand twitched at my side like it wanted to slap someone. I didn’t know who. Myself, maybe.

I raised my eyes. Met Justin’s stare.

Cold.

Blank.

But something flickered behind those eyes.

Disappointment?

No—worse.

Calculation.

And I felt my stomach tighten, twist like a fist. Please, I thought, don’t walk away. Not right now. I need this. Just this illusion. One last time.

I moved toward him like I wasn’t unraveling with every step. Like I wasn’t remembering how he looked last time—covered in shadows, blood, and all the things I couldn’t name. But this wasn’t about that.

This was about saving face.

This was about power.

This was about walking up to Justin in front of Bart and Army, slipping my hand into his, and pretending that we were still untouchable.

That I was not the girl everyone whispered about in bathrooms.

That I was not the girl who cracked.

So I did it.

I walked right up to him. Let my fingers graze his. Lifted my chin and said, sweetly, "You’re late."

He didn’t speak at first.

Just looked down at me with that unreadable expression. Then, slowly, so slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Not a smile.

Not really.

More like a warning.

Careful, June. You’re playing with fire. And he likes it too much.

And so do I.

God help me, so do I.

I tucked my hand into his.

It was instinct. Reflex. Muscle memory from the days when I thought we were real—before I understood what lived behind his eyes.

His hand was warm. Still. Solid. But unmoving.

And for one suspended breath—one agonizing, eternal second—I thought he might pull away.

Rip out of my grasp. Expose me.

Shatter the fragile little illusion I was desperately trying to maintain with all the grace of a deer caught in floodlights.

I squeezed his hand tighter.

Please don’t pull away. Please don’t pull away.

He didn’t.

But he didn’t squeeze back either.

No warmth. No reassurance.

Just stillness. A living, breathing question mark.

So I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I smiled. I put on that well-rehearsed, easy-breezy, oh-so-happy-to-see-you smile, and turned toward the lecture hall like nothing was wrong. Like we were still the golden couple. Like I wasn’t unraveling inside. Like every nerve in my body wasn’t begging me to run.

I tugged at his hand—just a little. Just enough to guide him forward.

He moved. Followed.

My heart pounded out a Jumanji beat so loud I could hear it in my ears. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. My skin felt tight. My mouth tasted like ash. I could feel the weight of eyes behind us—Marissa’s, Bart’s, Army’s—watching like hawks, no doubt cataloguing every detail.

Was he holding her hand?

Did he smile?

Did she look nervous?

Of course I looked nervous, I was standing next to the very definition of a slow-burning apocalypse in a hoodie.

You’re doing great, darling. Really. Next time let’s walk a tightrope over a pit of lava while juggling knives, hmm?

The voice in my head was back. Sinister, dry, humming with amusement. It never quite left anymore.

I swallowed hard and kept my head up.

We stepped into the classroom. A dozen heads turned. Whispers followed.

He’s back.

That’s her.

I could feel the judgments rolling toward me like heat waves.

Smile, pretty puppet. Your audience awaits.

I found us seats in the back—corner row, away from too many wandering eyes. I let go of his hand slowly, like unhooking a live wire, and tried not to look like I was bracing for an explosion.

Still, he said nothing.

He sat.

Quiet. Unblinking.

A storm with a heartbeat.

And all I could do was sit beside him, heart hammering, nerves shredded, smile cracked and brittle at the edges.

I didn’t know why he came.

I didn’t know if we were still pretending.

And I didn’t know if the bomb was about to go off.

All I knew was that I couldn’t breathe—but I couldn’t show it.

Not here.

Not now.

Not when the whole fucking world was watching.