My Fake Boyfriend Is the School Bad Boy novel Chapter 110

Chapter 110 Reaching For The Same Tray

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The confession settled in the narrow space between us.

My biggest fear is losing the one good thing I have. Ryder Steinmann stood inches away, his thumb resting against my cheekbone. The silver ring on his finger felt cool against my flushed skin. He laid his bruised heart bare on the concrete floor. He waited for my response.

My pulse drummed a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I stared into his hazel eyes. The crimson safelight painted his sharp features in deep, rich shadows. He offered zero deflection. He offered no sarcastic jokes to break the tension. He stripped away the dangerous Crestview Prep persona and left the raw, breathing boy in its place.

I opened my mouth. I wanted to match his honesty. I wanted to tell him he occupied my thoughts from the moment I woke up to the second I fell asleep. I wanted to tell him the fake dating contract felt like a distant, meaningless memory.

But the sound died in my throat.

Fear seized my vocal cords. The magnitude of his feelings terrified me. Love did not fit into a neat box. Love presented a chaotic, unpredictable variable. If I admitted the depth of my own emotions, the safety net vanished. We became real. And real things held the

power to break.

I took a step backward.

The movement broke the connection. His hand fell to his side. The loss of his touch sent a cold shiver down my spine. I needed space. I needed to clear my head. The scent of dark coffee and cedar clouded my judgment. The cramped dimensions of the darkroom felt

suffocating.

“We need to clean up, I blurted.

The statement sounded hollow. It sounded like a coward’s retreat.

I faced the deep stainless steel sink. The three plastic chemical trays sat in a neat row. The water in the washing basin continued to run in a steady stream. I gripped the cold metal edge of the sink. I stared at the clear liquid in the developer tray. I commanded my hands to

stop shaking.

I heard the heavy rustle of his leather jacket. His combat boots shifted on the concrete floor. He did not push the conversation. He did not demand an answer to his confession. He recognized my panic, and he granted me the retreat. His patience broke my heart a fraction more.

“Point me to a task, Ryder said…

“Grab the wooden tongs, I instructed. I kept my gaze fixed on the running water. “Rinse them under the cold tap.”

He stepped to the sink. He claimed the space beside me. Our shoulders brushed. The small darkroom offered zero room for a wide perimeter. Every movement forced a near collision. He reached for the tongs resting near the edge of the basin. His forearm brushed my elbow. I flinched, hypersensitive to the contact.

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Chapter 110 Reaching For The Same Tray

The hum of the ventilation fan filled the silence. It sounded like a mechanical heartbeat.

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He washed the plastic and wooden tools. He set them on a dry towel near the enlarger machine. I pulled the rubber stopper from the

washing basin. The water swirled and drained with a loud gurgle. We worked side by side in the crimson glow.

My mind raced through a storm of conflicting thoughts. He feared losing me. He believed I was the only good thing in his chaotic world. The pressure of that belief crushed my lungs. I wanted to turn around. I wanted to grab the lapels of his leather jacket and pull him down to my level. I wanted to erase the distance and prove I felt the exact same pull. But the terror anchored my feet to the floor. The fake dating contract provided a shield. As long as we pretended, I protected my heart from the ultimate ruin.

He picked up the first tray. He dumped the clear developer fluid down the main drain. The liquid splashed against the metal grate. He rinsed the plastic basin with cold water and set it aside on the counter.

He moved with a quiet, lethal grace. The cramped room confined his restless energy. He belonged in wide-open spaces or fighting in dark parking lots. The domestic task of cleaning photographic equipment looked foreign in his large, scarred hands. I watched his long fingers grip the plastic. I watched the thick silver rings catch the red light. Those hands possessed the power to shatter metal lockers. Those hands also possessed the gentleness to trace invisible stars on my skin in the dead of night.

I grabbed the middle tray. The sharp vinegar scent of the stop bath burned my nose. I poured the mixture down the drain. The wet plastic slipped in my fingers. I fumbled, my heart skipping a beat, but I caught the edge before it clattered into the sink. I exhaled a shaky breath. I rinsed the tray and stacked it on top of his empty basin.

One tray remained. The fixer.

It sat in the center of the deep stainless steel sink. A shallow pool of chemical solution rested at the bottom.

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