Page 26 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

Afterward, we lie tangled in his sheets, the rain still pattering against the windows, creating a cocoon of sound around us. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare shoulder, neither of us speaking, afraid perhaps to break whatever spell has temporarily lifted the barriers between us.

"So," he finally says, his voice rough. "That happened."

I laugh softly, the sound slightly shaky. "Yes, it did."

"Not very professional of us."

"No." I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him. "Do you regret it?"

He considers this, his gaze traveling over my face as if memorizing it. "No," he says finally. "But I'm not sure what it means."

It's the question I've been avoiding since his lips first touched mine. What does this mean? Is it just physical release after weeks of tension? Is it a complication in an already complicated arrangement? Or is it something more—something real emerging from the performance?

"It doesn't have to mean anything," I say carefully, watching his reaction. "If you don't want it to."

Something flickers in his eyes—disappointment? Relief? I can't tell. "Is that what you want? For it to mean nothing?"

The question hangs between us, weighted with implications I'm not ready to face. The truth is, I don't know what I want anymore. When this arrangement began, the boundaries seemed clear. Now they're hopelessly blurred, and I'm not sure I want to redraw them.

"I want..." I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertip. "I want to not overthink this right now. Can we do that? Just be here, together, without analyzing what it means for tomorrow?"

He captures my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm that sends shivers down my spine. "We can try."

It's not a solution, not really. Tomorrow, we'll still have an arrangement with an expiration date. We'll still have appearances to make, a narrative to maintain. But tonight, in the shelter of his apartment with the rain creating a private world around us, we can pretend that nothing exists beyond this bed, these sheets, this moment.

So I do. I silence the voice in my head that's already catastrophizing, already planning damage control. I let myself sink back into his arms, into the warmth and solidity of him. Let myself believe, just for tonight, that this might be something real—something that exists beyond the carefully curated images we present to the world.

But as his breathing deepens toward sleep and I lie awake, watching the shadows play across his face, I can't quite silence the whisper of fear. Because if this is real—if what I'm feeling for Max is genuine—then when our arrangement ends, I won't just be losing a fake boyfriend. I'll be losing something I never expected to find.

And I'm not sure my carefully reconstructed image can survive another public heartbreak.

SEVEN

Lena

I wakewith the first gray light of dawn, momentarily disoriented by unfamiliar surroundings. Then awareness floods in—Max's arm draped heavily across my waist, his steady breathing warm against my neck, the scent of him on the sheets wrapped around my naked body. Last night's rain has stopped, leaving behind a quiet so complete I can hear my own heartbeat accelerating with panic. What have I done?

Carefully, I lift his arm and slide away, watching his face for any sign of waking. He stirs slightly, mumbling something incoherent before burrowing deeper into his pillow. The vulnerability in his sleeping face makes my chest ache with an emotion I refuse to name.

I stand beside the bed, suddenly aware of my complete nakedness—both physical and emotional. Last night, under the cover of rain and darkness, everything seemed simple. Necessary, even. But in the harsh morning light, complications multiply like rabbits in my mind.

We crossed a line. No, we obliterated it. The carefully constructed boundaries of our fake relationship, already blurring, have dissolved completely. How are we supposed to go back to "professional" after what happened? How am I supposed to look at his hands without remembering how they felt mapping the geography of my body?

My clothes from the gallery opening are still damp, hanging limply in the bathroom. I grab Max's t-shirt from the floor—the one I was wearing before it was enthusiastically removed—and pull it over my head. It smells like him, a fact my traitorous body responds to immediately.

Focus, Lena.

I need to leave before he wakes up. Before we're forced to have the morning-after conversation that will inevitably make things awkward. Before I have to see regret or, worse, tenderness in his eyes.

In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and attempt to wrestle my hair into something less resembling a bird's nest. My reflection stares back at me, stripped of makeup, of filters, of the careful image I maintain online. I look younger. Vulnerable. Terrified.

This isn't me. I don't do vulnerable. I don't wake up in men's apartments wearing their clothes, with my heart hammering anxiously in my chest. I don't have sex that makes me feel like I'm falling apart and being put back together in the same breath.

Except, apparently, I do. At least with Max.

I gather up my ruined dress, stuff it into my purse, and pull on the borrowed sweatpants. They're comically large, but they'll have to do until I get home. As I creep back through the bedroom, my eyes catch on Max's sleeping form. The sheet has slipped down, revealing the strong line of his back, the constellation of freckles across his shoulders that I explored with my fingertips last night.

The memory ambushes me—Max holding me against the wall, his mouth hot on my neck as I whispered things I'd never say in daylight. The careful way he'd asked "Is this okay?" before each new touch. The unexpected gentleness beneath his urgency. The way he'd looked at me afterward, brushing damp hair from my face with a tenderness that terrified me more than anything else.

---