Fake Dating The Bad Boy Chapter 25: Walking Temptation

Justin's POV:

I stood in the kitchen, gripping a glass of cold water, trying to drown out the voices in my head. Shut up. Just shut the hell up.

But then I heard it—soft at first, then louder.

Crying. Begging.

My entire body went rigid.

I turned sharply toward the bedroom, my mind already racing. June was pleading—desperate, her voice thick with terror. My gut twisted, a cold dread washing over . For a second, I thought maybe—maybe—she was rembering. The lab. Our past. .

But no. That couldn't be it. She didn't rember.

She looked at like I was a stranger.

So what the hell was she seeing right now?

I moved fast, shaking her shoulders. "June." Nothing. I patted her face, firr this ti. "Wake up." Still, nothing. She just kept thrashing, sobbing, whispering pleas that made my chest feel like it was caving in.

Damn it.

I clenched my jaw, frustration bubbling under my skin. She wasn't waking up. She was trapped. And I had no idea how to pull her out.

So I did the only thing I could think of.

I stord to the bathroom, filled a glass with water, and marched back.

Then I splashed it right onto her face.

She gasped, jerking awake, her wild, panic-stricken eyes locking onto mine. My own heart was still hamring.

"Shit," I muttered, exhaling shakily. That was too close.

But all I could do now was watch her, gripping the empty glass, waiting.

I didn't ask her about her nightmare.

Because I knew what it was like.

I knew the feeling of waking up gasping for air, drenched in sweat, your mind still trapped in the past. I knew how it felt when soone tried to ask, to pry, to make you relive it all over again with their well-aning questions.

I preferred to live with my demons alone. And if she was anything like , so did she.

But if she wanted to talk, I'd listen.

She sat there for a mont, her breath still uneven, her hands gripping the sheets like they were the only thing keeping her grounded. I could tell—she didn't want to talk about it.

So I kept my mouth shut.

After a mont, she exhaled, steadied herself, and muttered, "I need to use your bathroom."

I nodded, stepping aside as she slipped past .

And just like that, she was gone, leaving standing there, gripping an empty glass, still hearing the echoes of her cries in my head.

I never would've guessed that June, the queen bee, had demons of her own.

At school, she was untouchable—perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect life. Or at least, that's what everyone thought. What I thought.

But after tonight? I wasn't so sure anymore.

I always imagined soone like her slept peacefully, wrapped in silk sheets, dreaming about whatever rich, popular girls dream about. Not thrashing in her sleep, begging, pleading like she was trapped in so hellish mory.

I didn't know what haunted her. But I knew the look in her eyes when she woke up.

Because I'd seen it before.

In the mirror.

Did she rember?

Was she just pretending not to? Or were these nightmares just fragnts of sothing buried so deep she had no idea they were real?

I don't know.

She never looked at like she knew . Never hesitated, never had that flicker of recognition in her eyes. If she rembered, wouldn't she have said sothing by now? Or maybe she did rember... and just didn't want to acknowledge it.

I get it. Burying the past is easier than facing it. I've been doing it for years.

But that nightmare—it wasn't just a nightmare. The way she cried, the words she mumbled in her sleep... it was too real. Too familiar. Like she was reliving it.

So, which was it? Was she feigning ignorance? Or had her mind locked those mories away so deep she actually believed they were just bad dreams?

I don't know.

But I need to find out.

After a while, she ca back, and just like that—it was gone.

The fear, the panic, the raw vulnerability I saw on her face just minutes ago—it had vanished. Like she had wiped it off along with the water I threw on her. The June standing in front of now was the June I knew. The queen bee. The untouchable. The girl who didn't let anyone see her break.

If I hadn't been here, if I hadn't witnessed it myself, I would've never believed she had been crying and thrashing in her sleep like she was trapped in hell.

I had already changed the bed sheets. The ones I'd soaked when I splashed water on her.

She was still in her party clothes, tight and short, and I knew they couldn't be comfortable. Not after everything.

I got up without a word, went to my closet, and pulled out one of my shirts—one long enough that it would fit her like a dress.

"Here, you can change into this," I said, handing her the shirt. My voice was even, casual. Like nothing had happened.

Because if she wanted to pretend like it hadn't, I'd let her.

She hesitated for a mont before taking the shirt from my hand. Our fingers brushed, and even though it was just a split second, it was enough to send a jolt through .

I turned away, giving her so privacy, even though every part of wanted to steal a glance. The way her dress hugged her body all night had already been torture, but imagining her peeling it off now—that was sothing else.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind her, and I exhaled, running a hand through my hair. Get it together.

A few minutes later, she stepped back into the room. And fuck .

My shirt swallowed her fra, the fabric hanging loosely off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin and the delicate curve of her collarbone. The hem barely grazed her thighs, leaving just enough to the imagination. She wasn't even trying—but that was what made it worse.

She caught staring and raised an eyebrow. "What?"

I forced a smirk, leaning against the wall. "Nothing. Just didn't think my shirt could look better on soone else."

She rolled her eyes, but I didn't miss the way her lips twitched—like she was fighting a smirk of her own.

I expected her to get back into bed, but she didn't move toward it. Instead, she crossed the room and leaned against my desk, arms folded. Avoiding it.

She wasn't planning on going back to sleep.

"You should get so rest," I said, even though I already knew she wouldn't.

She scoffed. "Yeah, not happening."

She didn't have to say why. I knew. The nightmares. Whatever hell she had been trapped in—she didn't want to risk going back.

Silence stretched between us, thick with sothing unspoken, electric. I watched as she shifted her weight, the hem of my shirt riding up just a little more, exposing more of her thighs. Fuck.

I pushed off the wall, stepping closer. Not too close—but close enough.

"So, what now?" I murmured, voice lower than I intended.

Her eyes flicked up to et mine, and there was sothing in them. Sothing I couldn't quite place. A challenge? A dare?

Or maybe... a question.

She licked her lips—fuck, she needed to stop doing that.

"I don't know," she said softly. "You tell ."

"I'm gonna fix myself so coffee," I muttered, needing a distraction—needing space.

I didn't wait for her response. I turned on my heel and walked out of the bedroom, my pulse thrumming in my ears.

She was a walking temptation.

Every part of wanted to stay in that room, to see just how far this tension would push us. But if I did, I wasn't sure I'd be able to stop myself. And if I started sothing, I knew damn well she wouldn't stop .

I ran a hand over my face as I reached the kitchen. The cool air did nothing to ease the heat coursing through . I needed to clear my head.

I grabbed the coffee tin, pouring it into the machine with a little more force than necessary. The scent of fresh grounds filled the air, but it wasn't enough to ground . Not when I could still picture her standing there in my shirt, bare legs, lips slightly parted, eyes holding sothing dangerous.

I exhaled sharply, gripping the counter.

What the hell was I supposed to do now?

"I'd like so as well if you don't mind," ca her soft voice from behind .

I froze.

I hadn't even heard her walk in. But there she was, standing in my kitchen, wearing nothing but my shirt.

The fabric swallowed her, hanging loose off her fra, but it wasn't enough to hide the curves underneath. The hem barely grazed her thighs, teasing glimpses of smooth, bare skin. And her hair—slightly ssy, like she'd just tumbled out of bed—made it so much worse.

I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes locked on the coffee machine.

"You shouldn't drink coffee this late," I said, forcing my voice to stay even.

"Neither should you," she countered, stepping closer.

Damn it.

I could feel her now—her warmth, her presence pressing against my space like she was testing sothing. Or maybe she already knew the answer. She had to.

I glanced at her, and that was my mistake.

Because her lips were slightly parted, her eyes holding sothing unreadable—but not innocent. The way she watched , like she was waiting to see what I'd do next...

I took a slow breath.

"June..." I started, warning clear in my tone.

She tilted her head slightly, an amused glint in her eyes. "Relax, Justin. It's just coffee."

Bullshit.

This wasn't just coffee.

This was playing with fire. And we both knew it.