My body forgot the difference between real and fake.
Around us, football players argued about routes and professors and somebody’s terrible parking job. Trays scraped. Forks clinked. Girls looked over. Guys nodded at Drew. Every few minutes, someone would glance at his hand near my leg and then look away like they’d learned something private.
Drew’s thumb moved once against my knee.
A tiny stroke.
Barely anything.
My breath caught anyway.
He turned his head slightly, mouth near my ear. “You good?”
No swagger.
No joke.
Just checking.
That was worse.
“Yes,” I said.
His thumb moved again, softer this time.
And there it was.
The danger.
Not the public claim. Not the jealousy. Not even the kissing.
This.
Sitting at lunch with his hand on my knee while he argued with Dante about a coverage read. Him eating off my plate without asking. Me taking his water because mine was empty. Drew noticing when I shifted my injured leg and moving his chair half an inch so I had more room.
It slid into place too naturally.
Like a relationship.
Like the kind I had wanted with Tristan. Easy routines. Private jokes. Someone saving me a seat without making me beg for space in his life.
Except Tristan had always made me feel like I was waiting outside a locked room.
Drew kept pulling me through doors and acting confused when I hesitated.
This was just pretend.
Right?
It had to be pretend.
So why did it feel more solid than anything real I had ever tried to build?
After lunch, he walked me across the quad.
That should not have been an event.
It was.
