Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 83: Fake Boyfriend Card

June POV:

I turned slowly, spine straightening like an antenna picking up a signal I did not want.

There he was.

Justin.

Sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled up like some tragic Greek statue that also happened to be hot. Head down, shoulders tense. Like he’d just had a panic attack. Or fought a demon. Or both.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, because it was better than saying, Oh God, why are you in this broom closet like a sad model from a mental breakdown calendar?

He chuckled without humor. The sound scraped low in his throat like gravel. Then he lifted his head and gave me that smirk—the one that earned him a reputation, the one half the campus swooned over and the other half wisely avoided.

And there it was.

The smirk.

That signature bad-boy-who-probably-doesn’t-pay-his-taxes smirk that got half the campus pregnant with just a glance. Sharp jaw, stormy eyes, cocky tilt of the lips—God help us all.

He stood up in one fluid, predator-smooth motion. The closet suddenly shrank. Walls tilted inward. Air? Gone. I forgot how to lungs.

The closet felt small. Too small.

"Scouting," he said, voice dipped in mischief. "Figured I’d find a good place to hide a body or two."

I stared at him.

His smirk didn’t budge.

"Not a funny joke," I said quietly. My chest tightened. I’d seen what he could do. I knew what he’d done to my adoptive father.

The smirk stayed.

That wasn’t funny.

He stepped closer.

I didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

His chest—broad and hard and unfairly distracting—hovered just an inch from mine. Not touching. But so, so there. His face dipped low. His breath hit my skin.

"Tell me, June..." His voice softened—no less dangerous, just quieter. "Are you scared of me?"

Yes.

No.

The wrong kind of yes.

The kind of scared you get when you’re locked in a tight space with a hot guy who knows exactly how to wreck you—emotionally, physically, spiritually. The kind of scared that means something very bad (and very good) is about to happen.

I was scared of how close he was. Of how my heart pounded like it remembered every single thing we did together. Scared of what I’d let happen if he just moved one inch closer. One brush of skin.

I nodded.

Not elaborating.

He leaned in—his lips grazing the shell of my ear.

"Liar."

His breath was warm. The word settled in my stomach like a stone—and bloomed like fire.

Fucking shit.

His voice—smoke and sex and hellfire. That close. That intimate. I could feel it roll down my spine like ink.

He didn’t touch me. Not yet. But I could feel the intention. Like the heat of a flame right before it kisses skin.

I should’ve moved. Should’ve shoved him back. Should’ve said something clever, something cutting.

But instead, I stood frozen, watching his dark eyes drink me in.

He wasn’t touching me.

Not yet.

But he was close. Too close.

"I think," he murmured, dark and wicked, "you’re turned on."

Satan. Absolute Satan.

He was right. And the fact that he hadn’t laid a single damn hand on me was driving me insane. I knew what those hands could do. I’d seen those hands in action. Felt them.

And now they were just... idle.

Mocking me.

The silence between us pulsed.

So did something else.

"Tell me you still want me," he whispered, low and lethal in my ear. "And I can give it to you—fuck you till you forget what you saw."

His breath was warm against my skin. His mouth ghosted near my ear, and I swear my legs forgot how to function.

"Don’t fall for it."

Too late.

My throat was dry, and my thoughts were a blur of red-hot need and utter panic. I knew if he touched me now, I’d unravel completely. Not because he forced it—but because I’d let him. Willingly. Stupidly.

Oh. My. God.

I was a goner.

Like, lights-out, say-your-prayers, buy-a-gravestone kind of goner.

Because I knew—knew—that if he touched me, if he started, I would not want him to stop. Not for air. Not for dignity. Not for monster attacks.

His mouth brushed the shell of my ear like a sin. I trembled. Full-body, traitorous, knees-loosening tremble.

His nose brushed along my jaw, barely grazing, sending shivers down my spine like his skin was a live wire and I was soaking wet.

He was temptation incarnate. Chaos carved into a beautiful monster. The art of seduction with a soul forged in the dark.

Then he leaned in closer, closer, his nose brushing a slow, infuriating path along my jawline. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a tease. A promise.

He was the art of seduction incarnate.

His breath was warm. His scent was sharp—like smoke, sweat, danger. My whole body was a fire alarm and he was the arsonist smirking with the matchstick.

I tilted my head—barely—an invitation he didn’t even need.

And just when I thought he was going to kiss me—finally, finally—he...

Pulled back.

What?

WHAT.

Justin stepped away. Casually. Like he hadn’t just short-circuited my entire nervous system.

Then he turned around, opened the closet door—opened the goddamn door—and looked over his shoulder like he was starring in a slow-motion cologne commercial.

"See you later... girlfriend," he said with a wink.

A wink.

Then he walked out. Left me there. Alone. High on lust and betrayal. No oxygen. No answers. Just my dignity melting into a shame puddle on the janitor’s linoleum floor.

I stared at the door like it might give me closure.

It didn’t.

"Fuck," I whispered to the cleaning supplies.

They agreed.

The voices in my head didn’t even mock me this time.

They just laughed.

*******

Oh no he didn’t.

The second I stopped seeing red stars and started seeing oxygen again, I composed myself—straightened my spine, adjusted my top, fixed my face. War paint on.

He thought he could walk out and wink?

Not today, Satan.

After composing myself—if you could call leaning against a broom shelf and whispering expletives under my breath "composing"—I stormed out of the janitor’s closet like a woman on a mission. My mind was made up. I was going to end him.

I yanked open the closet door, determination fueling every step like I was marching straight into a duel—and hell yes, I was going to end him. Castrate him with words. Maybe a mop.

I stormed out...

But the universe, with its usual impeccable comedic timing, had other plans.

Because as soon as I stepped out—still plotting my murder manifesto—I walked smack into someone’s back.

"Are you kidding me—"

I looked up, cursing and ready to snap.

And oh. Oh no.

It was Justin’s back I’d smacked into. The smug bastard hadn’t gone far—he was standing right outside, and worse, he was facing someone.

Someone I recognized.

Nate.

With a university badge clipped to his shirt.

A university staff badge.

What. The actual. Hell.

My brain stuttered. Was he a visiting lecturer? Guest counselor? Demon in disguise? What the hell was he doing here?! I had just drunkenly flirted with him in a bar, spilled my trauma like tequila, fucked and now he was dressed like a fully functioning member of society who got a paycheck to educate others?

But that wasn’t even the worst part.

The real problem was that he just watched both me and Justin exit a janitor’s closet one after the other. Alone. Sweaty. Flushed. Breathless.

Yeah. It didn’t look good.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist or a licensed therapist to connect the dots and come to one mortifying conclusion: Closet. Couple. Make-out. Possibly more.

"Ah... June?" Nate blinked, clearly doing mental gymnastics to recover. "Didn’t know you’re a student here."

His tone was casual, smooth even, clearly trying to defuse the nuclear tension sizzling in the air. But his eyes flicked between me and Justin. And yep—there it was. The flicker of disappointment. Or confusion. Or worse....

I gave him a weird little smile. You know the kind. The "please pretend you didn’t see that, and also maybe run over me with a bus for good measure" smile.

What did he expect me to say? Yes Nate, I’m pursuing a double major in Closet Shenanigans and Poor Life Choices. How about you?

Justin didn’t laugh. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

He just glared at Nate like he was already picturing which bones would crunch the loudest.

I braced myself, fully prepared to witness a public homicide. He looked seconds away from snapping.

I could practically feel Justin vibrating with barely-contained energy. He was glaring at Nate like he was two seconds from launching into a WWE takedown in the middle of the hallway. I could feel the mood shifting—dangerously fast—from awkward to volcanic.

And just when I braced for Justin to absolutely lose it, maybe bark something cruel or storm off dramatically...

He did something worse.

He turned toward me, slid his hand into mine like we were that couple—still that couple—and said with the smoothest, calmest voice ever:

"Come on, love. You still gotta prepare for the exams."

Wait.

What?

"love"?

"EXAMS"??

Was he seriously pulling the wholesome boyfriend card now? Now, after cornering me in a janitor’s closet and whispering things that made my knees threaten to quit the relationship with my body?

My eyes darted between the two men like a broken tennis match. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

Nate looked politely stunned.

Justin looked smug as hell.

And me?

I looked like I was on the verge of asking the nearest wall to open up and swallow me whole.

Did he just fake-boyfriend me?

I blinked at him, completely thrown. My brain rebooted mid-thought.

Nate was still standing there, awkward and blinking, his jaw slightly open. "Oh. You two are... together?"

Justin didn’t even flinch. "Isn’t it obvious?" he said smoothly.

He pulled me a step closer, like punctuation.

But his grip was firm. Warm. Possessive.

And I—traitor that I am—didn’t pull away.

Nate looked like he swallowed a lemon, then nodded slowly. "Right. Cool. Um. Good luck... with the studying. Both of you."

I followed him, eyes wide, thoughts racing, trying to remember when exactly my life had turned into a Greek tragedy with a dash of psychological thriller and soft-core soap opera.

Probably around the time I met Justin.

"Are you seriously pretending to be the sane one now?" I muttered as we walked, our hands still joined like we were going to carve our initials into a tree.

He leaned down just enough to let his lips brush my ear again. "You’re the one still pretending to be my girlfriend, remember?"

Touché.

Touché, you manipulative, ridiculously hot bastard.