Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 97: Kitchen Romance

June POV:

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just slid closer—his fingers slipping under the hem of my sweatpants, palms warm and steady. I stiffened for a second, because Justin, with his unpredictable moods and hands that could both soothe and destroy, was now massaging my thighs like it was the most normal thing in the world.

God help me, it felt divine.

His thumbs pressed deep into the muscles, working over every knot, every tensioned inch of me, like he could smooth away the anxiety lodged inside my bones.

"You’re tense," he murmured, eyes on my legs like he was studying something holy. "Let me take care of it."

I scoffed, but it came out breathy. "Did real dating always involve thigh massages?"

He gave me a crooked grin. "If it doesn’t, we’re doing it wrong."

His hands moved slower now, more deliberate, kneading like he had nowhere else to be—like this, touching me, was the only thing that mattered. I tried to keep my breathing normal, tried not to shift under his touch like some starved creature aching for more.

And then, like the traitor I am, I moaned.

It slipped out—a soft, almost silent sound, but it was real and raw and oh-so-damning.

He looked up, eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and possession.

"Don’t stop," I muttered, biting my lower lip.

"Wasn’t planning to," he said, voice low, amused.

I let my head fall back against the couch. I hadn’t meant to relax this much, but his touch was turning my brain to mush, the fatigue from everything—the club, the arguments, the fake labels, the damn hickeys—finally catching up with me.

His hands slowed.

The warmth spread.

I blinked... once, then again.

Then darkness.

I was out.

Not because I didn’t want to enjoy it—but because, for the first time in weeks, my body let go.

And the last thing I heard before sleep claimed me was Justin’s voice, soft and hoarse:

"Girlfriend."

Like he was tasting the word for the first time.

And somehow, in his mouth, it sounded less like a label... and more like a promise.

I blinked awake slowly, still swimming in that hazy, half-dreaming space where everything felt soft and weightless. My body was warm, cocooned in safety and something that smelled like musk and faint cologne.

It took a second to realize where I was.

Then I looked down—Justin.

He was curled up at the end of the couch, my legs resting across his lap like they belonged there. One arm draped lazily over my knees, like even in sleep he refused to let go of me.

His head had tilted forward, dark lashes brushing against his cheek. No lines of tension. No clenched jaw. Just... peace. Real peace. The kind that didn’t look rehearsed or defensive. It made him look younger somehow, softer—like the boy he could’ve been if life hadn’t decided to play goddamn Jumanji with his brain.

I just... stared.

Because it was rare. So rare to see him like this. Unmasked.

I hated the idea of waking him, honestly. But—

"Shit," I muttered under my breath. My bladder had other plans. The kind that screamed get up or risk humiliation.

I tried to move my leg gently, thinking I could just slide out without disturbing him.

Wrong.

The moment I shifted, his eyes snapped open like a trap being sprung. No confusion. Just sharp, alert intensity, the kind that said I sleep with demons under my pillow.

He looked at me, then at my legs, then back up. His grip tightened for a second like he thought I was trying to sneak away again.

"I need to pee," I whispered.

His brows knit together like he didn’t quite compute that for a second. Then he blinked, and just like that, the tightness in his shoulders eased.

He leaned back slightly, his voice rough and sleep-heavy. "You always gotta run from me in the weirdest ways."

I gave him a look. "Trust me, this isn’t the kind of running that involves emotional trauma. This is biological warfare."

He chuckled—raspy, tired, amused—and finally let go of my legs.

"Go," he murmured, dragging a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "Before I start thinking you’re just trying to crawl away from your boyfriend."

My face went hot. He was joking. Probably.

Maybe.

But I wasn’t about to test that theory with a full bladder.

So I bolted.

*****

Three minutes. That’s all I was gone. Just enough time to empty my bladder, splash some cold water on my face, and try to remind myself that this wasn’t a fever dream. That I’d actually agreed to date Justin. The guy with voices, control issues, and a body count (emotional and otherwise) longer than my shopping list. But also the guy who made my body light up like a damn Christmas tree just by looking at me.

I padded back into the living room, the floor cool under my bare feet, and stopped in my tracks.

"What the hell..."

Justin was bent over in front of my fridge, rummaging through it like a man on a mission. My cabinets were open. Two of my ceramic mixing bowls were already out on the counter, along with a half-used packet of pasta, olive oil, garlic, and—was that my last wedge of Parmesan?

"What are you doing?" I asked, blinking.

He didn’t even flinch. Still buried in my fridge like he owned the place.

"Making dinner for my girlfriend," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. His voice was calm, focused. He finally straightened, shutting the fridge with his foot and tossing a bell pepper onto the counter like a weapon of war.

"Wait—your what?"

He glanced at me, cocky smirk forming. "You said yes, didn’t you?"

"Yeah, but I didn’t know it came with a full-course meal."

"It does," he said, rolling up the sleeves of his black hoodie with a flourish. "It comes with homemade dinner, aggressive kissing, unsolicited thigh massages, and occasional mental breakdowns. No returns."

My jaw dropped. "You’re making this up as you go."

"Damn right," he said, opening a drawer with far too much confidence for someone who didn’t live here. "Now where’s your peeler? That bell pepper’s looking at me wrong."

I stared. I stared. Because this—this domestic scene—wasn’t supposed to be real. Justin, the guy who literally kidnapped my dignity by carrying me out of class like some barbarian, was now in my kitchen trying to play MasterChef: Psychotic Boyfriend Edition.

And somehow... it was working?

"You can cook and not just breakfast?" I asked skeptically, walking over to the counter.

He looked insulted. "Sweetheart, I didn’t survive by just torturing people. I can make a mean pasta. My Alfredo makes people cry."

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Is it the taste or the food poisoning?"

Justin just chuckled, slicing into the pepper like a man with a vendetta. "Keep talking, and you’ll be the one crying. From how good it is."

God. What the hell had I signed up for?

***********

"I can help, you know," I said, stepping beside him and reaching for the cutting board like I hadn’t spent the last three minutes staring at him in disbelief.

Justin moved the knife just out of my reach, one brow cocked in amusement. "Nope. You sit. Look pretty. Maybe play DJ if you want."

"You’re not serious."

He turned, put both hands on my shoulders, and spun me gently away from the counter. "Dead serious. I’ve got a whole plan in my head. You, in the kitchen? Disaster waiting to happen."

I narrowed my eyes. "I know how to cook!"

"Burning water doesn’t count."

I slapped his arm, earning a grin that made my stomach flip. "At least let me do something," I insisted.

He thought for a second, then his expression lit up with a mischievous glint that immediately had me suspicious. "Alright. You can put an apron on me."

"That’s it?"

"Only if you behave."

I rolled my eyes but pulled the apron from its hook. "Fine, chef. Arms up."

He did, and I stepped close, looping the strings around his neck and tying them behind his back, my fingers brushing against the broad muscles of his shoulders. God help me. The man could’ve made tying an apron X-rated. I moved to adjust the waist ties, and that’s when it happened.

His hand caught mine.

We froze.

I looked up.

He was already looking down at me.

His eyes darkened, the usual storm behind them suddenly brewing into something deeper, something that made my breath catch in my throat.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he whispered.

And then his lips were on mine.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t slow.

It was a claim.

One second I was standing, and the next, I was on the counter, his hands gripping my thighs as he stepped between them. My fingers tangled in his hoodie, dragging him impossibly closer. His mouth moved like it was trying to memorize mine, like he needed me to know that this wasn’t just another kiss. This was a meltdown. A detonation.

My sweatpants slipped slightly on the counter as I pulled him closer, moaning softly into his mouth when his hand found the small of my back and pressed me into him. It was messy, hot, devouring. My legs instinctively wrapped around him.

His tongue brushed against mine, and I swear I forgot what breathing was. Time didn’t exist anymore. Only lips. Only tongues. Only him.

And just as fast, he pulled back.

I blinked, dazed and breathless, mouth swollen and brain liquified.

"Stop distracting me," he said, voice low, strained, wrecked.

I gaped at him. "Me?"

He smirked like the devil, then gently guided me back to sit properly on the counter.

"Sit here. Look hot. Be good." He leaned in and kissed the tip of my nose. "If you’re lucky, I’ll give you dessert after dinner."

Then he turned around, walked to the sink, washed his hands like nothing had happened, and started slicing vegetables.

What. The. Actual. Hell.

My brain was short-circuited. My lips were still tingling. And the man was casually humming while sautéing garlic.

I was in hell.

Sexy, frustrating, delicious-smelling hell.

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