It isn’t.
Because he says it like a fact.
Not a line.
Not a tactic.
Just a deeply Drew observation he sees no reason to pretty up.
I recover enough to say, “That was somehow worse and better at the same time.”
He smiles.
“Story of my life.”
I should walk away.
I know I should.
Tell him no.
Tell him to go fake date a mirror.
Tell him I would rather be publicly pitied forever than voluntarily become part of whatever giant football-player scheme he’s building in that suspiciously underused brain.
Instead I hear myself ask, “And what exactly would fake dating you involve?”
His whole face changes.
Victory.
Warm and immediate.
Not smug.
Worse.
Pleased.
“Well,” he says, like we’re discussing a joint business venture, “you’d have to stop looking at me like I personally invented mosquitoes.”
“No promises.”
“Some public lunches. A couple games. Maybe let me walk you places so people stop offering you emotional casseroles with their eyes.”
I bite back a laugh and fail.
He notices.
Of course.
“And,” he adds, “sleepovers at my place. Netflix and chill. A few Instagram selfies of the two of us….public hand holding.”
I look at him for one long second.
Because beneath all the dumb jock swagger and the giant shoulders and the outrageous audacity of kissing the corner of my mouth in the middle of campus like a caveman with a strategy, there it is.
The actual offer.
