Sitting beside him, I watch as he adjusts the ice pack. "So you told her about me. Your fake boyfriend."
He looks up quickly. "I panicked. It was either that or be paired with the son of the state's biggest weapons manufacturer. A nineteen-year-old who still giggles when someone says the word 'penis.'"
I start laughing. "That bad, huh?"
"Worse," he assures me. "The last guy she set me up with spent the entire evening telling me about his collection of taxidermied squirrels."
"Okay, that's legitimately horrifying."
Caleb's expression softens slightly. "I shouldn't have used your name without asking. I'll tell her we broke up or something."
I think about how fast we're moving. Meeting parents isn't supposed to happen this soon, maybe not at all. But picturing Caleb stuck with another awful date bugs me more than it should.
"What if you didn't have to?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Didn't have to what?"
"Tell her we broke up." The words taste wrong. "Actually, what if I went with you?”
His eyes widen slightly. "To the gala? You can't be serious."
"Why not? It fits with our plan. Makes our relationship more believable to have outside confirmation."
"It's a political event," he warns. "Extremely stuffy. Full of the exact kind of people you despise."
"I own a suit, and I can be charming when properly motivated."
He studies me, clearly trying to determine if I'm serious. "You would really do that? Spend an evening with my family and their political cronies?"
Shrugging, I attempt to be casual despite how my offer could be seen. "What are fake boyfriends for?"
Something complicated crosses his face: surprise, relief, and something else I can't quite identify. "You don't have to."
"I know, I want to."
It's not entirely a lie. The thought of Caleb facing his family alone, being paraded around as what he once mentioned, "the token gay," makes something protective flare inside me. And after tonight, after seeing him stand up for our frat despite the size of the asshole mouthing off about us, I find I want to stand up for him too.
"Okay," he says finally, a small smile forming. "If you're sure. Fair warning, though, my mother will interrogate you, my father will barely acknowledge you, and at least one distant relative will say something horrifically offensive and probably homophobic."
"Sounds like a typical family gathering,"Like I’d know what that is, but I've seen them on TV.
He laughs, the sound tired but genuine. "You have no idea."
Seconds tick by. His knuckles look worse now, even with the ice.
"That was impressive, by the way," I say quietly. "What you did tonight."
He looks down. "It was stupid. I lost my temper."
"You stood up for yourself. For all of us." Pausing, I then add, "No one's done that for me before."
He glances up, something vulnerable in his expression. "Well, don't get used to it. I'm not making a habit of punching bigots, tempting as it might be."
"Shame. You're good at it."
He smiles, and I find myself caught again by his eyes, dark and expressive, reflecting the soft lamplight of the common room. They're his best feature. Though as he shifts position on the couch, I revise that thought. His eyes and his ass are tied for first place.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
