Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 81: Your Boyfriend Is Here {ii}

Justin – POV

So.

She didn’t tell anyone we weren’t together anymore.

Huh. Cool.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh or break something. Maybe both. Probably both. But I kept my face unreadable. That was always my specialty, wasn’t it? The clean, cold mask. Just enough to keep the wolves guessing and the innocents from running.

She saw me.

Of course she did.

She looked right at me—that half-second flicker of disbelief in her eyes gave her away before she rearranged her face into that too-perfect smile. The one she used when she was covering something up. The one I’d seen before when she was still mine.

But she hadn’t expected the ginger girl to yank her back and announce to the whole fucking hallway like it was a high school rom-com.

"JUNE! YOUR BOYFRIEND IS HERE!"

Cue spotlight. Cue the crowd.

June stiffened like a deer caught mid-step. You’d think she’d just been handed a live grenade. And then—because she’s always been a performer, even when she’s lying to herself—she did the thing I knew she would.

She smiled.

She smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world to see me there.

Like we hadn’t torn each other apart. Like she hadn’t run from me. Like I hadn’t buried pieces of myself trying not to follow her when everything in me screamed to drag her back.

She reached for my hand. Slipped her fingers through mine.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t return the pressure either.

Just stood there, watching her like I was watching someone else’s life through a glass wall.

She tugged gently. I followed.

Not because I forgave her.

Not because I was okay.

But because I wanted to see how far she’d take this act. Because part of me still needed to know if she was pretending for them... or for herself.

"You gonna let her lie to your face like that? Let her drag you through a circus like some housebroken mutt?"

"Shut up," I muttered internally. But they wouldn’t stop.

The voices always got louder when she was around. Louder still when she was smiling at me like that smile hadn’t died on her lips the night she ran.

We walked into the lecture hall, hand-in-hand. Her grip tightened before she let go, like she was scared I’d combust if she released me too fast.

She sat beside me like it was still us.

But it wasn’t. Not really.

She could pretend. Play the sweet girlfriend. Reclaim her image for the vultures watching from the corners of campus.

But I knew the truth.

She’d slept in another man’s bed.

She’d run from me, not because she was scared of what I did—but because she couldn’t handle what I am. What I’m becoming. What I’ve always been, deep down.

And yet here she was, right back in my space, fingers curling into mine like nothing broke between us.

I should’ve hated her for that.

I should’ve walked away.

But I didn’t.

I sat beside her. I let them whisper about us. Let them believe whatever lie she wanted to sell today.

Because maybe—just maybe—I wanted to see how far this rabbit hole went.

And maybe I wanted her to remember that I’m not so easy to leave behind.

*****

She kept eyeing me from the corner of her eye.

Subtle. Calculated. Like she thought I wouldn’t notice.

But I did.

Of course I did.

She always used to look at me like that—when she wanted to know if I was angry, if the monsters inside me were rattling their cage too loudly, if I was about to break something or walk away. Now it was different. The look was cautious... but not unfamiliar. She was measuring me. Wondering what I was thinking. Just like I was wondering what the hell was going on in that pretty little head of hers.

She was the fake June today.

The pristine, polished one.

The golden girl of the Matthews. The sweet, smart, always-laughing, always-kind girl. The one everybody on campus envied. The one who smiled like she didn’t have corpses buried under her ribcage. The one who lied with her eyes and made the whole world clap for her.

June Matthews. Darling of the university. The girl next door.

Not the one who screamed my name in the dark.

Not the one who clung to me as she bled the memories of her twisted father out through her tears.

Not the one who remembered me—Number Nine—and still looked at me like I wasn’t a monster.

Not the one who left.

So, what now? Do I confront her?

Do I pull her aside after class and ask her why the hell she snuck out on me like a fucking thief in the night?

Do I ask her why she’s pretending—again—that this stupid fake relationship of ours is still intact when we both know it ended?

Did it end when she ran away?

Or did it end when Rico found her waking up in another guy’s bed?

Hell if I know. But I do know this—now’s not the time to lose my shit. As much as I want to.

Because if I do—if I so much as raise my voice in public—there’ll be a report. And if there’s a report, the social services will be on my ass faster than a bullet. I might be out of that lab, but I’m still under the microscope. Always.

They think I’m some miracle.

The most affected test subject to walk out alive. The one who shouldn’t be sane. The one who somehow passed every psychological evaluation, ticked all the boxes. They called me stable.

Stable.

What a goddamn joke.

They’re watching me. They always have been. Especially on campus. Evaluators, therapists, social workers—all with their neat little files, waiting for me to snap so they can label me a threat and drag me back.

That’s why I kept to myself when I first enrolled.

That’s why I didn’t talk to anyone.

That’s why I didn’t go looking for her—because even when I saw her, I figured she didn’t recognize me. She passed right by me like I was another nameless face in the crowd. Maybe that was safer.

Then it happened.

The lie.

The fake relationship.

For appearances, for convenience, for her reputation. I became her shield, her pretend boyfriend. Just long enough for the campus to stop talking about the Bart incident. Just long enough for her to rise back to her throne.

But something changed.

It stopped being fake. It became something.

We got closer. She let me in. And I saw it—her shadows, her trauma, the blood and guilt she was too afraid to voice. Her father, the monster in a clean white shirt. The same one who touched her. Hurt her. Broke her.

And she fought him.

She didn’t run, not then. She stood her ground. And I was there. I held her hand through it. I helped her finish what she started. I thought...

Hell, I thought maybe there was something real between us. Something pure in the way we were both fucked up.

Then came the memory.

She remembered me. Remembered the lab. Remembered Number Nine. Me.

And for a second, I believed we were close to a happy ending.

Stupid.

Because the next thing I know, she sees me lose it. Sees what I become when the voices win. Sees the black rot inside me. And what does she do?

She runs.

Doesn’t scream. Doesn’t confront. Doesn’t cry.

She runs.

And now here we are.

Back in the same goddamn classroom.

Back in this stupid, make-believe relationship.

Back to square one.

She smiles. Laughs with her friends. Acts like nothing ever happened. Like I’m still her boyfriend. Like she didn’t leave me bleeding inside a silence she created.

Why?

To protect her perfect image?

To keep her secrets safe?

Or maybe—just maybe—because she knows if she stops pretending, the whole illusion shatters and everyone will see her for what she really is.

Just like me.

Damaged. Dangerous. And trying like hell to stay human.

I don’t know what this is anymore. But if she wants to keep playing pretend, fine. I’ll play. I’ll smile when I have to. I’ll let her cling to my arm in front of her idiot friends. I’ll be the boyfriend everyone envies.

And maybe—just maybe—I’ll be the one who reminds her that running doesn’t erase what we are.

Not to each other.

Not to ourselves.

******

I didn’t hear a damn word the lecturer said.

Not even a syllable.

It was all white noise, fading into the background like a radio stuck between stations. My focus had narrowed to one thing—and one thing only.

Her.

June.

Sitting just one seat away from me, but feeling galaxies apart.

She didn’t look at me. Not directly. But I could see her peripheral flicks—those sideways glances she thought were subtle. They weren’t. Not to me. I read her body language like a second language I used to be fluent in.

She was fidgety.

Restless.

Not nervous... guilty.

She kept adjusting her pen. Tapping her fingers against her book. Flipping her notes even though the lecturer hadn’t moved to the next slide. And I knew—knew—the moment she realized the class was nearing its end, because she stiffened.

Then, like a switch flipped, she started quietly gathering her things.

Packing up early. Getting ready to bolt.

That’s what she does now, right? Run?

She hadn’t said a single word to me since she dragged me into the classroom with that fake-perfect smile. Not a whispered "hey," not a "can we talk later?" Nothing.

Not even a glance that lasted long enough to sting.

I leaned back in my seat, deliberately slow. Let my body tilt just slightly so I could watch her properly. Study the girl who once told me I made her feel safe in a world that treated her like prey.

And now... she was the predator pretending to be prey again.

I dropped my elbows onto the desk.

Laced my fingers together.

Lowered my head into my palms and tilted it—just enough—to face her.

She noticed.

I saw the slight hesitation in her hands, the falter in the speed she was zipping her pencil pouch. Her eyes darted to mine—quick, startled, then gone.

But not fast enough.

Caught you, sweetheart.

She was wearing that same perfume. The one I told her once smelled like soft winters and danger. She’d laughed when I said it. Asked how a scent could smell dangerous.

You don’t know what you do to me, I’d told her.

Apparently, she still doesn’t.

Because here she was again, playing the perfect version of herself—the golden girl who studied hard, smiled wide, and loved her boyfriend so dearly she never let him walk her to class.

The one who looked like she didn’t remember holding a bloody knife with me in a basement that reeked of sin.

The one who never ran.

But she did.

She did, and now she’s pretending again. And I’m just... watching.

Watching her lie.

To everyone.

To herself.

To me.

I wanted to reach out. Just grab her wrist as she stood and whisper in her ear, You gonna run again, June? Or are we gonna talk like adults this time?

But I didn’t.

Because I’m tired of chasing people who already decided to leave.

Instead, I just kept watching.

Waiting.

Because she’s going to have to look at me eventually.

"Don’t tell me my girlfriend is planning to bolt on her boyfriend?"