Faking with Benefits : A Friends to Lovers Reverse Harem Romance

The door clicks shut behind him, and I close my eyes. This was exactly what I was afraid of. “He blames himself.”

“Why?” Zack says, picking up a croissant and taking a huge bite. “He wasn’t there.”

“Because he still thinks I’m just some kid he should’ve taken care of,” I spit. If I’m honest, the overprotective teacher act is getting really old.

“He’s right,” Josh says flatly, stroking my shoulder. “He should’ve.”

I push him off and slide out of bed, grabbing a hair tie off my dresser. “Do you honestly think he wouldn’t have helped me if he’d known what was going on? It’s not his fault he didn’t know.” I yank my hair up into a ponytail.

“He was there,” Josh insists. “He should’ve been paying closer attention. He sat in a room with you for hours every week, he should’ve noticed something was up.”

I shake my head, gritting my teeth. “It was ten years ago. He needs to get over it.” Anger glows inside me. “Why the Hell would he just walk out? It’s not my fault Donny was a prick. I don’t deserve to be avoided. I didn’t do anything wrong.” Shoving my feet into my slippers, I stomp to the bedroom door. “Screw this. We’re sorting this out right now.”

Zack goes to stand, but Josh grabs a handful of his shirt and yanks him back down onto the bed as I slam out of the room.

When I step into the lounge, Luke is standing by my window, looking down into the city. Every line of his body is tense, and my anger dies down a bit. This must be eating him up inside.

He swallows when he hears me come in, turning his head but not looking at me. “Layla—”

“It’s not your fault,” I say firmly.

“It is my fault, sweetheart.” His voice is resigned. “It was.”

“You couldn’t have known—”

“I was your teacher,” he interrupts me. “It was my job to protect my students. I had responsibility over you. And I failed you.”

“You had your own stuff going on,” I point out. “You were getting divorced, for God’s sake, of course you were preoccupied.”

He laughs, but the sound is hollow. “Are you joking? In what world is an adult divorcing his wife on par with a child getting bullied and harassed to within an inch of her life? I…” A shudder passes through his broad shoulders. “You were sitting in my class for hours every week, and I never even suspected.”

“Right,” I say slowly. “Because you were a teacher, not a mind reader. You can’t know something you’re not told.”

He’s quiet for a moment, dipping his head. I think he hasn’t heard me, and open my mouth to repeat myself — then freeze when I see his white-knuckled grip on my windowsill. I stare. Luke is always so controlled. So in-charge of his own emotions. I’ve never seen him white-knuckle angry.

“Except I was told,” he says eventually. “Wasn’t I?”

I blink. “What?”

He turns on me, and his expression is so intense I fight the urge to take a step back. His mouth is hard. His eyes are burning with self-hatred. “You said you went to all of your teachers. All of them. Did you ever come to me?”

I don’t say anything, but I’ve never been a very good liar. He can see the answer on my face.

He closes his eyes. “You did.” He rubs his forehead. “Tell me what happened.”

“It’s not a big deal—”

“Tell me.”

I sigh. “I asked to speak to you after class once,” I admit. “You agreed and set up a meeting at lunchtime in the staff room. Then you never showed. I waited all hour, but…” I trail off. I still remember that lunchtime. Sitting on a plastic chair in the hallway, getting stared at by passing teachers who obviously thought I was in trouble. Watching the clock slowly tick down the minutes before PE, dread building in my stomach.

“Jesus.” He turns away from me, running his hands through his thick hair.

I try to soften the blow. “It was partly my fault. I knew that you were busy with A-level students. I should’ve tried again.”

“Why would you?” He asks, his voice bitter. “When I obviously didn’t care?”

“You do care. I know you do. And you know why?” He doesn’t respond. I take a step forward. “Because you believe me now.”

He frowns. “What? Yes. Of course I believe you. Why wouldn’t I?”

I lick my lips, trying to keep my breathing steady. “I bet if I told any of my old teachers this now,” I say slowly, “they would brush it off. Or they’d say I was lying, and that I never came to them for help.”

His Adam’s apple jerks as he swallows. “Of course, you did. I… back then, I was barely making it into work. I can absolutely believe that a quiet, well-behaved GCSE student asking for a lunch meeting would’ve slipped my mind. Hell, I was probably locked in my office, trying to avoid Amy. Or arguing with her.” He takes a deep breath, then looks me dead in the eyes. “I am so sorry.”

“I forgive you,” I say promptly. “Now will you please move on?”

“It’s not like I can just forget this happened.”

“Why not?” I ask flatly. “It’s what I want.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand, sweetheart.”

Rage suddenly sloshes through my veins like rocket fuel. “I don’t understand,” I repeat slowly. “Sorry. Am I on drugs, or was I the one who was getting bullied? Me, not you. No one understands this better than me. But of course, you make this all about you, and your stupid teacher duty. In your head, I’m just a silly little sixteen-year-old student, who you’ll always know more than.”

He frowns. “Listen—”

“No,” I snap. “You listen to me. I am your coworker. Not your student. Not your pupil. There is no power structure between us anymore. We’re both adults. I am your equal now. You should be giving me just as much respect as you give Josh, and Zack, or any other person you’d meet on the street. But you don’t, and it makes me sick.”

His eyes widen. “This has nothing to do with respect, Layla.”

I wave him silent. “Do you not think it hurts me to constantly be reminded of high school? Back then, I was a victim. And now, I’m not. I’m not.” I repeat, my eyes stinging. “When you treat me like a helpless sixteen-year-old, it makes me feel like utter crap. So please, just… stop.” My voice breaks on the last word. “Stop.”

Luke looks at me, shocked, then takes a step towards me. I don’t even realise I’m crying until he touches my cheek gently, catching a teardrop with his thumb.

Electricity shoots through me. His skin on mine is intoxicating.

“I had no idea this was hurting you,” he says, his voice very deep. His thumb sweeps over my skin again, wiping off another tear, and I shiver. “I’m sorry. I never meant to upset you.”

I nod. “So you agree? You’ll drop all this bullshit, and just treat me like another one of your co-hosts?”

A look I can’t read flits across his face. He drops his hand. My cheek tingles with the memory of his touch. “I can’t,” he says stiffly. “I can’t treat you like Zack and Josh. Sorry.”

I’m so frustrated I could scream. “Why not?” I demand. “What can I do to prove to you that I’m your equal? I’m an adult. I live by myself. I make my own money. I have my own business, I’m arguably just as successful as you, but you’re always going to see me as below you, aren’t you?”

“Not below me,” he says urgently. “Never below me, Layla. I just—” He trails off and grimaces, swallowing hard. “If I let myself…” he tries again, then closes his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Christ.”

“If you let yourself what?” I prompt.

His lips part. I can see the struggle in his eyes. We’re both breathing hard. The moment seems to balance in the air between us, like we’re standing on the edge of a cliff, about to fall into the unknown.

Then Luke makes a strangled noise and reaches for me. My eyes fly open as he wraps a hand around my throat and tugs my mouth to his.