Page 24 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Sorry," he says as we drip our way up three flights of stairs. "Elevator's been out for a month."

"It's fine." I'm past caring about my appearance at this point, my carefully styled hair plastered to my skull, makeup likely creating raccoon eyes.

His apartment is a surprise—not the bachelor disaster I half-expected, but a modest, thoughtfully arranged space. Exposed brick walls, second-hand furniture that somehow works together, and an entire wall dedicated to music—guitars hanging in stands, vinyl records organized meticulously, a keyboard in the corner.

"It's not much," he says, suddenly self-conscious as he watches me take it in.

"It's you," I reply honestly. "I like it."

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, then guardedness, as if my genuine approval is more threatening than criticism would have been.

"Bathroom's through there." He points down a short hallway. "There should be clean towels under the sink. I'll find you something dry to wear."

The bathroom is small but clean, decorated with the same thoughtful minimalism as the rest of the apartment. I peel off my sodden dress, using a towel to dry off as best I can. My reflection is a disaster—mascara running, hair a tangled mess, the carefully constructed image of Lena Carter completely washed away.

A soft knock at the door. "I've got some clothes," Max calls. "I'll leave them outside."

"Thank you." I wait until his footsteps retreat before cracking the door to retrieve the pile—a faded band t-shirt and sweatpants with a drawstring I'll need to tie several times to keep them from falling off.

When I emerge, he's changed into dry jeans and a henley, his hair still damp but less catastrophic than mine. He glances up from where he's making tea in the small kitchen area, and something flashes in his eyes before he can hide it.

"Better?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

"Much." I gesture to my borrowed outfit. "Though I doubt this will end up on my Instagram."

The joke falls flat. He just nods and returns to the tea.

"I hung my dress over the shower rod," I say, filling the awkward silence. "Not sure it's salvageable, but?—"

"It's fine." He hands me a steaming mug. "I don't have fancy tea, just the regular kind."

"Regular tea is perfect." I wrap my hands around the mug, grateful for its warmth. "Thank you. For the rescue."

He shrugs, moving to the window to check the rain, which continues to pour. "Looks like we might be here a while. Sorry about that."

"I'm not in a rush." I take a tentative sip of tea. "Unless you have other plans?"

"Just keeping up the professional arrangement." He turns, leaning against the windowsill, studying me over his own mug. In the soft lighting of his apartment, with the rain drumming against the windows, the carefully maintained distance between us feels both vast and paper-thin.

"Max." I set down my tea. "Can we talk? Really talk, not just play our parts?"

He's silent for a long moment, then sighs. "About what?"

"About how ridiculous this is. How exhausting it is to pretend we don't actually enjoy each other's company."

His jaw tightens. "I thought that was the agreement. Professional. Stick to the script."

"And it's terrible." I step closer, frustrated. "We were good together, Max. Before you overheard that stupid conversation."

"Good at pretending, you mean."

"No. Good together. I laughed more with you in those first few weeks than I have in years." I run a hand through my damp hair, searching for words. "Look, what you heard—yes, I talk about metrics and engagement with Tori. That's part of my job. But that doesn't mean everything between us is calculated."

He studies me, skepticism written across his features. "So which parts are real and which are performance? Because from where I'm standing, it's hard to tell."

The question hits a nerve—the same one that's been raw since Cameron's video. "That's not fair. You knew what this was from the beginning."

"Did I?" He sets his mug down with more force than necessary. "Because I thought I was helping someone change a narrative, not being treated like a trained pet who performs on command."

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