Chapter 81 KNOX

Chapter 81 KNOX
I kept Juniper’s hand in mine as we cut across the main path toward the arts building.

Campus was already awake and watching. Conversations dipped when we passed. Phones tilted a little too casually. 

A couple of guys near the fountain did a full double-take. I felt the attention the way I always did—like background noise, easy to tune out.

Except this time it had a focus. And that focus was the girl walking beside me in the dress Katy had strong-armed her into.

One of the guys by the fountain said something to his friend, low, and both of them looked at Juniper a beat too long. Something hot and unreasonable flared behind my ribs.

I wasn’t jealous. That wasn’t a thing that happened to me. I didn’t do jealous—I’d never had a reason to, never wanted anything badly enough for someone else’s attention on it to matter.

But my hand tightened around hers anyway, and I found myself angling half a step closer, like I could physically block a look from landing on her.

Not jealous. Just—protective. Territorial, maybe, in the most casual, arrangement-appropriate way possible.

Fine. Maybe a little jealous. I wasn’t examining it further than that.

Juniper’s fingers were tense in mine. She kept her chin up, but I could feel the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she measured every step like she was counting down the seconds until she could disappear into a classroom.

“Almost there,” I said under my breath.

“Almost seems far,” she muttered. “I can walk to my own class, you know. I’ve been doing it successfully for years without a personal escort.”

I glanced down at her, unimpressed. “And deprive campus of the rare and stunning sight of Knox Reyes being a devoted boyfriend before nine a.m.? Unthinkable. The people deserve this content.”

From behind us, Hunter’s voice carried easily. “He’s right, Speckles. Without the public boyfriend performance, half the student body would have nothing to gossip about before their first coffee. You’re basically providing a community service.”

She didn’t even break stride. “Wonderful. I’ll be sure to put ‘unwilling campus entertainment’ on my résumé. Right under ‘survived being publicly manhandled by an overcommitted fake boyfriend’ and ‘tolerated commentary from the peanut gallery.’”

Slates’s voice drifted forward, flat and unimpressed.

“She’s not wrong. This is the most entertainment we’ve had before all semester. Shame it comes with a dress code and public affection.”

Then I saw her. Tracy stood near the steps of the student center, arms folded tight across her chest, watching us with the kind of focus that could strip paint. Her eyes tracked from our joined hands to Juniper’s dress to my face and back again, building a case.

Something sharp and satisfied settled in my chest.

I didn’t break stride. I didn’t look away. I let go of Juniper’s hand—only long enough to slide my arm fully around her waist and pull her in against my side. Her body bumped into mine. My hand settled low on her hip, unmistakably possessive, and I felt her breath catch.

Tracy’s face went red so fast it was almost impressive.

Juniper looked up at me, startled. “What are you doing?”

“Giving everyone the show they came for.” I kept my voice pitched loud enough for nearby ears, quiet enough to still feel private, just for her. My thumb brushed once against her waist. 

“Especially the ones who seem particularly invested in the outcome.”

Her eyes flicked toward Tracy, then back to me, understanding landing a beat late. “You’re impossible.”

“Consistently.”

Behind us, Hunter let out a low whistle. “Jesus. He’s really committing to the bit.”

“That’s not a bit,” Summit said. “That’s a declaration of war.”

Katy sounded delighted. “Visual storytelling. I taught him nothing and he’s still delivering.”

Piper sighed. “I’m going to need a stronger coffee if this is the energy before nine a.m.”

Juniper tried to put a little space between us. I didn’t allow it. My arm stayed locked around her as we passed Tracy’s little viewing platform.

I didn’t bother with a smile. I just held Tracy’s gaze a half-second longer than necessary—calm, unbothered, faintly smug—before turning back to guide Juniper up the steps.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Juniper muttered.

“I’m enjoying it exactly the right amount.” I nodded toward the doors. “Your class is this way.”

We reached her classroom door before she’d fully recovered her balance. Students filed past us into the room, a couple of them slowing down to look, because apparently subtlety had left campus entirely today. 

A girl across the hall was already holding her phone at a suspicious angle. Two guys had stopped walking altogether.

I leaned in, close enough that my next words were just for her.

“I’m going to kiss you now.”

Her breath caught. “What—why—”

“Because everyone’s watching.” I tipped my head slightly toward the hallway, where at least four phones were doing a very bad job of pretending not to be phones. 

“And because it’ll sell it better than anything either of us says.”

"That's a very convenient excuse," she muttered.

I smiled, slow and unapologetic. "I'm a very convenient guy. Charming, available, excellent under pressure — and apparently very good at giving people exactly the show they came for. You're welcome, by the way."

"I didn't say thank you."

"You didn't have to. I could feel the gratitude radiating off you. It's a very specific energy."

"That's rage. You're feeling rage."

"Same wavelength, honestly. Easy mistake."

"Now suck it up and look like you're in love," I said, still close enough that only she could hear. "Not like you're mentally planning my homicide."

Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe I am."

I leaned in a fraction closer, close enough that the noise of the hallway — the phones, the whispering, all of it — dropped down to something distant and unimportant.

"Cute. Now ready for the kiss?"

She stared up at me for a second, something unreadable moving behind her eyes —

Her breath came a little unsteady. Mine wasn't much better, though I wasn't about to admit that out loud.

Then she nodded, small and quick, like she'd talk herself out of it if she thought about it any longer.

"Fine. Make it convincing, Reyes. I'd hate for all this public suffering to be for nothing."

That was all the permission I needed.

I framed her jaw with one hand, thumb brushing the edge of her cheek, and kissed her.

It started slow—deliberate, controlled, the kind of kiss meant for an audience. Careful pressure. Measured. The exact right amount of public affection and nothing more.

But the second her mouth softened under mine, the performance slipped.

She made a small sound against my lips that I felt more than heard, and something in my chest pulled tight—sharp and immediate. 

My hand slid from her jaw into her hair, fingers threading through the strands as I angled her closer. Deeper.

Fuck.

She tasted better than she had any right to. Warm. Soft. A little sweet. 

The kind of taste that short-circuited every careful intention I’d walked in with and replaced it with something far less controlled.

Her fingers curled into the front of my shirt like she needed the anchor, and I felt the pull of it all the way down my spine.

For a few seconds I forgot there was a hallway. Forgot the phones. Forgot the arrangement entirely. There was only the warmth of her mouth, the faint catch of her breath, the way her body leaned into mine like it already knew the shape of me.

When I finally pulled back, it was slower than it should have been. I stayed close enough that our foreheads nearly touched, close enough to see the dazed look in her eyes before she could hide it.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone actually applauded. Another girl said something to her friend that sounded suspiciously like I would kill for that. One of the girls near the lockers made a soft, wounded little sound. “Awww.”

I pressed one more kiss to her forehead—quick, almost gentle, a complete tonal betrayal of the one before it—then stepped back, already walking backward down the hall.

I blew her a kiss like the absolute disaster I apparently was now.
Her face went a deep, satisfying red.

“Have a good class, Speckles,” I said, still grinning. “And miss me. Because I’m going to fucking miss you.”

She didn’t answer. She just stood there, hand half-raised to her own mouth, looking thoroughly and spectacularly undone.

I turned around, still smiling, and walked straight into Hunter, who’d clearly witnessed the entire thing with the enthusiasm of a man watching the season finale of his favorite show.

“Boy,” he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder, “you need a fucking award. Best Actor. Best Original Screenplay. Possibly a Nobel Prize.”

“For what category, exactly,” Slate said dryly, falling into step beside us, “Fake Relationships or Aggravated Public Indecency?”

“Both,” Hunter said. “Give him both.”

I didn’t answer either of them. I was too busy trying to figure out why my hands wouldn’t stop feeling warm, why the taste of her still lingered, and why some small, traitorous part of me was already looking forward to the next time I got to walk her to class.

Fake or not, that kiss hadn’t felt like nothing.

And that was becoming a problem I had no idea how to solve.