Page 27 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

I force myself to look away, silently retrieving my shoes from beside the bed. One of them makes a soft thud as it falls from my hand, and I freeze, watching Max's face. He doesn't wake, but his hand reaches out across the empty space where I should be, searching.

Something twists painfully in my chest. I should wake him. I should stay for coffee and awkward conversation and whatever comes next. That's what a brave person would do. That's what someone willing to explore whatever this is between us would do.

Instead, I find a notepad on his dresser and pick up a pen. I start to write,Last night was—but stop, staring at the words. Last night was what? Amazing? A mistake? The beginning of something? The end of our arrangement?

I don't know. And not knowing terrifies me.

I tear the sheet off, crumple it, and shove it in my pocket. No note. Just a clean exit. It's safer that way.

In the living room, I spot my phone on the coffee table. Six missed calls from Tori, a flurry of texts about a potential sponsorship that needs immediate attention. The real world, crashing back in.

I take one last look around Max's apartment—the guitars on the wall, the vinyl records arranged by genre then alphabetically, the half-empty mugs of tea we abandoned. For a moment, I let myself imagine a different morning: waking up in his arms, borrowing his t-shirt to make coffee, maybe playing one of his records while we eat breakfast.

The fantasy dissolves as quickly as it forms. That's not who I am, not who we are. We have a contract, an arrangement with a clear end date. Mixing business with pleasure never ends well, and my career can't survive another public relationship disaster.

I slip out the door, closing it softly behind me, and make my escape down three flights of stairs and into the early morning street.

The air is crisp with spring coolness, the sidewalks still damp from last night's rain. I must look ridiculous—a woman clearly in walk-of-shame mode, wearing men's clothes too large for her frame, hair untamed, feet sliding around in heels meant for dry floors and Instagram-worthy poses.

I flag down a passing taxi, giving the driver my address with as much dignity as I can muster. As the car pulls away, I resist the urge to look back at Max's building, to see if maybe he woke up and followed me. He didn't. Of course he didn't. Because this isn't a romantic comedy; it's real life with real consequences.

The taxi driver, mercifully, doesn't attempt conversation. I stare out the window as Brooklyn passes by, morning light beginning to paint the buildings gold. My mind won't stop replaying fragments of last night—the taste of his mouth, the sound of my name on his lips, the way we fit together like we'd been designed as matching pieces.

What was I thinking? This wasn't part of the plan. Sex complicates everything, especially sex that feels like…that. Sex that wasn't just physical release but something deeper, more dangerous.

By the time the taxi pulls up outside my building, I've constructed a mental fortress of rationalizations. It was just sex. A momentary lapse in judgment. The natural result of weeks of pretending to be attracted to each other. It doesn't have to change anything.

I pay the driver and hurry inside, grateful that it's early enough that none of my neighbors are around to witness my disheveled state. My apartment feels sterile and empty after the lived-in warmth of Max's place. Everything here is arranged for optimal photographic potential—neutral furniture that won't clash with sponsored products, strategic pops of color that maintain my aesthetic, nothing out of place.

I peel off Max's clothes, suddenly unable to bear the scent of him surrounding me. The shower is scalding hot, as if I could wash away not just the physical evidence of last night but the emotional residue as well. I scrub until my skin is pink, until I feel like myself again—or at least, the version of myself I present to the world.

Wrapped in a robe, I finally check the flurry of messages from Tori. The Luminous Beauty event is in three days, and they want to feature me and Max prominently since our "relationship journey" has been generating unprecedented engagement. There's talk of a potential ambassadorship if all goes well.

My stomach knots. The irony isn't lost on me—just as our fake relationship becomes more valuable professionally, we've complicated it beyond recognition personally. How am I supposed to stand beside Max at this event, playing the part of the smitten girlfriend, when I can't even face him this morning?

I'm about to call Tori when my phone buzzes with a new message. It's from Max.

I stare at his name on the screen, heart pounding unreasonably. What if he's angry I left? What if he wants to end our arrangement? What if he wants to talk about feelings?

Taking a deep breath, I open the message:

You stole my favorite band shirt. Not cool. I was planning to be buried in that. Now I need a new funeral outfit. Maybe something with sequins?

A startled laugh escapes me. No anger, no pressure for a deep conversation, just…Max being Max. A follow-up text appears:

Also, no goodbye kiss? I'm wounded. At least tell me you left because you're secretly a superhero with a morning crime-fighting schedule, not because you regret last night.

The knot in my chest loosens slightly. This I can handle—humor, lightness, no heavy emotional demands. I type back:

Your shirt is being held hostage. Ransom: one decent cup of coffee and promise of no morning-after awkwardness. And yes, crime fighting. Very important. The city needs me.

His response is immediate:

Hostage situation noted. Will prepare rescue mission involving coffee. As for awkwardness, I'm physically incapable of it. I'm basically a walking GQ photoshoot at all times. Just ask my bathroom mirror—we have long conversations about my natural grace.

Another laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me. How does he do that? Cut through my anxiety with just a few ridiculous words?

I hesitate, then type:

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