Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 95: She Knew

JUSTIN POV

I didn’t think. I moved.

I crossed the space between us and kissed her like it was the last thing keeping me sane. And maybe it was. Her lips met mine in a rush of fury and hunger, and suddenly we were back where we always ended up—wrapped around each other like a bad habit we couldn’t kick.

I grabbed her by the waist, lifted her like it was the most natural thing in the world, and she latched on, legs tightening around my hips like she belonged there.

"Fuck," I groaned into her mouth as her fingers pulled at my shirt like she wanted it off yesterday. Her lips were hot and demanding, her tongue sliding against mine like we were fighting for control, and neither of us was ready to surrender.

I slammed her back into the wall. Not to hurt her. To ground myself. Because if I didn’t, I was going to lose what little control I had left.

She moaned into my mouth—low and broken and perfect. I buried my face in her neck, tasting her skin, nipping at that same spot she’d tried so hard to cover.

"You taste like lies," I said, teeth grazing her jaw.

"And you kiss like punishment," she breathed.

"Then maybe we deserve each other," I growled, kissing her again, harder this time.

I slid my hands under her hoodie, gripping her waist. Her body responded to me like it always did—like mine was the only touch it remembered.

"I fucking missed this," I admitted before I could stop myself.

She pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes wild. "You missed the sex?"

"No," I said, forehead against hers. "I missed you."

She didn’t speak.

Just looked at me, breathing hard, lips red and kiss-swollen, like she was trying to memorize every second.

And then she kissed me again. And that kiss?

That was the beginning of the end.

It was the kind of kiss that scorched everything clean. One that left no room for pretending or faking or hiding behind made-up rules.

Her hands were in my hair, yanking. My hands were under her hoodie, exploring.

I gripped her thighs tighter. She rolled her hips, rubbing against my hard-on through both our clothes, and I almost lost it right there.

"You want the truth?" I panted. "If this is the last time, I want to remember it. All of it. You. Me. Us. No pretending."

She didn’t answer. Just kissed me harder.

*******

I hadn’t brought her here to screw her against the wall—though every inch of my body wanted that. No. I’d brought her here to talk. To get answers. To try and leave this mess with some sort of dignity if we had to part ways. But here we were—her mouth crushed against mine, my hands under her hoodie, her thighs clenching around me like she’d never let go.

"Fuck," I cursed, tearing my mouth from hers like it physically hurt. Because it did.

It took everything—every ounce of self-control—to step away from her. To put distance between my body and hers. To stop tasting her long enough to remember why I came here in the first place.

She stood there, dazed, her lips kiss-swollen and pink, hair tousled like we’d just rolled out of bed instead of tearing at each other in a goddamn emotional war zone.

Then she walked toward the couch and flopped down like we hadn’t just nearly lit her apartment on fire with nothing but heat and desperation.

I ran a hand through my hair and paced for a second. Breathing hurt. Wanting her hurt more.

"June," I started, voice low but tight, "I’m fucking serious. This has been going on too damn long."

She looked up at me, eyes unreadable, arms wrapped around her body like she was bracing for impact.

I dropped into the armchair opposite her—far enough to keep myself from touching her again, close enough to see her.

"I want to know where you stand," I said, not blinking. "I’m done playing fake boyfriend. I want to be your real boyfriend."

She opened her mouth, but I cut her off.

"No. Don’t bullshit me. I’m not doing this anymore—this back and forth, hot and cold. One week you’re mine, the next you’re screaming it’s all fake."

She flinched. Yeah. I’d hit a nerve. Good. Because this wasn’t some joke. This wasn’t just some messy friends-with-benefits where we pretended feelings didn’t exist. This was real. Too real.

"I can’t keep being your placeholder, June," I continued, voice sharper now, the frustration finally boiling through. "I can’t keep kissing you like I mean everything and then watching you pretend it means nothing. It’s driving me insane. I’m already halfway gone, but you—"

I cut myself off, jaw clenched, fists curling on my knees.

"I need to know," I said, quieter now. "Are you in or out? No more maybe. No more ’fake.’ If you don’t want me—if you don’t really want this—then tell me now. And I’ll walk."

Even if it fucking kills me.

Because if I stayed in this limbo one more goddamn day, I’d lose whatever sanity I had left.

She didn’t speak immediately. She just sat there—knees tucked up, face turned away—and I hated how badly I wanted her to look at me. I hated how much I wanted her to say yes.

So I sat there, barely breathing, my whole goddamn heart in my throat, waiting for the one girl who had the power to ruin me completely... to decide if she would.

"What about your different personalities?" she asked, her voice low—careful, but not cruel. Just... searching.

I froze. My stomach dropped. Fuck. She knew.

"I know it wasn’t really you that day," she added quietly. "When you told me to stab my adoptive father... you were so cold. It didn’t seem like you."

I stared at her. At the way she sat with her arms crossed and her hoodie drawn tight around her like armor. She wasn’t afraid, but she was bracing herself. For what, though? For me?

She knew.

God. She knew.

No one ever really had before—at least not out loud. Not like this. I’d been so fucking careful. So good at pretending. Rico, maybe, had his suspicions. Hell, he probably knew more than I ever let on, but he never pressed. Never said the words. Not even when I blacked out after torching the last of the lab scum who hurt us.

But now June was looking at me like she’d peeled away every mask, every lie I told myself, and she saw it.

The crack in my carefully built dam finally started leaking.

I laughed. Bitter and broken.

"You think I don’t know that?" I said, quieter than I meant to.

My hands were clenched into fists on my knees again. Always fucking fists. Always ready to fight—someone, myself, anything.

"You think I haven’t tried to pretend I’m... normal?" I asked. "Every day since that lab, I’ve tried to convince myself I’m sane. That I can be like other people. That I’m not like... them."

I didn’t say who them was.

Didn’t have to.

My parents. Both of them locked up. Both of them certified. A match made in a padded cell. And someone—some twisted doctor with a god complex—thought it’d be a great idea to make me.

A walking experiment.

A product of madness bred for more madness.

I felt June watching me. I didn’t look at her. I was afraid if I saw pity in her eyes, I’d break something. Or someone.

"You want honesty?" I said, swallowing down bile. "Fine. Some days I’m a good guy. Like... the guy your mom would be proud of. A fucking gentleman. Holds doors open. Asks permission. Tries to make you smile even when he’s breaking inside."

My voice cracked, and I hated it. Hated how raw this was.

"Other days?" I laughed again. "I’m a party-chasing manwhore. Careless, selfish. Drinking, fucking, not giving a shit who gets hurt as long as I feel something."

My eyes snapped up to hers.

"And then there are days when I become someone else entirely. When I do things—terrible fucking things—and I swear it’s not me. It’s like... watching from behind a foggy mirror. Watching someone else wear me."

I rubbed the heel of my hand against my temple like that could stop the pressure building there.

"I’ve tortured people," I said flatly. "Hunted down everyone who worked in that lab and made them scream. I burned them, June. I enjoyed it. Not because I thought it was justice. But because something inside me needed to watch them suffer."

Silence fell like a guillotine.

Her eyes never left mine.

"And then," I said hoarsely, "sometimes I’m just a scared fucking kid. Nine years old. Still strapped to a table in that lab, begging someone to let me out. Terrified. Broken. Alone."

My voice dropped to a whisper.

"I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay in a long time. But when I’m with you..." My voice caught. "Sometimes it feels like I could be. Like you’re the one thing that quiets the chaos."

I stood abruptly, pacing again because sitting made me feel trapped and trapped made me feel like screaming.

"But how the fuck do I tell you that?" I asked the ceiling. "How do I tell the girl I want more than anything that I’m not whole? That I don’t even know who I’ll be tomorrow? That being with you—loving you—is the only real thing I’ve got... but I might ruin it because my head is a fucking war zone?"

I turned to her then. Looked her dead in the eye.

"You ask me who I am? I don’t fucking know, June. I’m all of them. And none of them. But I do know one thing."

I took a breath.

"I want to be with you. All of me. The broken parts. The violent ones. The ones that want to destroy the world and the ones that just want to hold you. I want to try. But if you can’t—if you’re scared, if you want to walk away now—I won’t stop you."

My jaw clenched, but I forced the next words out.

"I’d rather lose you than be the reason you’re scared to sleep at night."

The silence that followed was so thick I could hear my own heartbeat.

I didn’t beg.

I wouldn’t.

But I wanted her to say something. Anything.

Tell me I’m not too far gone.

Tell me you don’t care about the monsters in my head.

Tell me I’m still worth something.

Even if I don’t believe it myself.

Foll𝑜w current novels on fre(e)w𝒆bnovel