Fake Dating The Bad Boy

Justin POV:

I don't belong here.

Not in this school. Not in this classroom. Not in this world filled with people who talk too much, laugh too loud, and think that GPA determines intelligence. They all follow the same predictable routine—wake up, show up, and pretend their lives mean something.

I watch them from my seat at the back of the class, hood up, arms crossed, drowning in the noise of their pointless conversations. I blend into the shadows, unnoticed but never unfelt. They know I'm here. Even if they don't look at me, they feel my presence, like a storm waiting to break.

The teacher drones on, her voice an irritating hum in the background. I already know everything she's saying—read ahead weeks ago, aced every test without trying. But I sit here anyway, because attendance matters, and I don't feel like dealing with the hassle of being called out for skipping. Not today.

I glance at the clock. Five minutes until the end of class. Five minutes until I can disappear again.

People think I don't care about anything. Maybe they're right. I don't care about school, don't care about parties, don't care about fitting in. I don't care that the football team, with their overinflated egos, step aside when I walk past. I don't care that girls whisper about me, their voices dripping with curiosity and something else—something that makes them bite their lips when they think I'm not looking.

I don't care about them.

I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs out in front of me, fingers tapping idly on the desk. My hoodie shields me from wandering eyes, a barrier between me and them. The less they know, the better.

A sharp buzz in my pocket. My phone. A message. Probably from someone who shouldn't have my number. I don't check it.

The teacher calls my name, her tone cautious, like she's afraid to provoke something lurking beneath my silence. I lift my gaze just enough to meet hers. Her breath hitches. I don't answer. She moves on.

One minute left.

I love the idea of Justin having a hated obsession—his so-called enemy, June Matthews. That adds tension and intrigue. Here's a continuation of the chapter with that included:

Today, she wasn't in class.

June Matthews.

The golden girl. The one everyone adored. The one who never shut up, never stopped smiling, never stopped existing so loudly it was impossible to ignore. Even when I wanted to. Especially when I wanted to.

She wasn't in her usual seat, three rows ahead of me, twirling a pen between her fingers, flipping her hair just to remind everyone she was her—June Matthews, cheer captain, queen of fake kindness, and a living, breathing annoyance.

I bet she's off somewhere with Bart Andreason, her football-playing, oxygen-wasting boyfriend. Probably sneaking into some empty classroom to make out, because that's what people like them do. They don't think. They don't care. They just exist in their perfect little worlds, blind to everything outside their bubble.

Bart Andreason.

I feel my jaw clench at the name. The guy has everything handed to him—popularity, talent, respect. Even fear. People actually fear him. They shouldn't. Because if there's one person they should be afraid of, it's not the grinning, muscle-headed jock.

It's me.

I shake my head, forcing my thoughts back. What do I care if June Matthews is skipping class to suck face with Bart? I don't. I shouldn't.

But for some reason, my hands tighten into fists.

The moment the bell rings, I'm gone. I move through the halls like a shadow, unseen but always noticed. People step out of my way without thinking, like it's instinct. Maybe it is.

Outside, the air is crisp, the sky a dull shade of gray. Perfect. I pull my hoodie lower, shove my hands into my pockets, and take my usual route out of school—past the side exit, where the cameras don't reach, where the teachers don't bother looking.

Because Justin Black doesn't ask for permission. He doesn't follow the rules.

He disappears.

And that's exactly what I do.

The school disappears behind me as I step onto the cracked pavement, the cold air biting at my skin. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, head down, hood up. The world around me blurs—just background noise.

The sidewalk stretches ahead, empty, just how I like it. No one calls after me. No one follows. They never do.

I live alone.

No mom waiting at the door, asking how my day was. No dad sitting at the table, pretending to care. No siblings running around, annoying the hell out of me. Just me, a half-empty fridge, and a place quiet enough to suffocate in.

And I prefer it that way.

I take the long way home, cutting through backstreets and alleyways where no one looks twice at a guy dressed in black with shadows clinging to him like second skin. The streetlights flicker as I pass, the dull hum of the city filling the silence. A siren wails in the distance.

I reach my apartment building—a worn-out complex where the elevator barely works and the walls are too thin. The kind of place where people mind their business, where no one asks questions. That's why I picked it.

Climbing the stairs, I pull out my keys and push the door open. The space inside is small—barely furnished, barely lived in. A couch, a bed, a desk covered in books I don't need to study. The kitchen? Useless. I survive on takeout and whatever I bother throwing into the microwave.

I drop my bag on the floor and sit on the couch, running a hand through my hair. The silence settles around me, thick and unmoving.

Some people hate being alone.

I don't.

It's better this way. No expectations. No disappointments. No one to leave. No one to stay.

Still, for some reason, my mind drifts back to today.

To June Matthews' empty seat.

To the way my gut twisted when I realized she wasn't there.

I scowl at myself. Stupid. Who cares where she is? Probably off playing the perfect girlfriend to her perfect boyfriend.

I lean back, closing my eyes, willing my thoughts away.

Justin Black doesn't care.

He never does.

And if that's a lie, no one has to know.