Page 58 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

The simple statement settles in my chest, expanding with a warmth that makes it difficult to breathe. I reach up, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingertips. "I'm glad you're here too."

His lips find mine, the kiss slow and deliberate, lacking the performative quality of our public affection or the desperate urgency of our previous private encounters. This is something else entirely—a silent conversation, an exchange of truths too tender for words.

My hands slide beneath his shirt, seeking the warmth of his skin, the solid reality of him. He responds in kind, fingers tracing the curve of my waist, the line of my spine, with a reverence that makes me shiver.

"Lena," he murmurs against my mouth, my name on his lips a question and answer both.

"Yes," I whisper, understanding what he's asking. "Yes."

There's no rush as we undress each other by firelight, each layer removed with care and attention. No cameras to perform for, no angles to consider, no thought of how this might look to anyone but us. Just the growing vulnerability of being truly seen—not the filtered, curated version I present to the world, but all of me, imperfections and all.

Max's hands explore me with patient thoroughness, as if memorizing every curve, every freckle, every place that makes my breath catch. I do the same, mapping the constellation of scars and moles across his shoulders, the ticklish spot just below his ribs, the sensitive hollow of his throat.

When he finally lowers his body to mine on the plush rug before the fire, the connection feels profound in a way our previous encounters haven't. Those were born of tension finally breaking, of desire too strong to deny. This is different—deliberate, mindful, a conscious choice to be completely present with each other.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, hovering above me, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "The real you. This you."

The words touch something deep inside me, a wound slowly healing. After years of being valued primarily for the image I project, being desired for my authentic self is both terrifying and liberating.

I guide him to me, gasping as our bodies join, the physical connection an echo of the emotional intimacy we've been building all evening. He moves with exquisite care, his gaze never leaving mine, creating a feedback loop of pleasure and connection that transcends the merely physical.

"Stay with me," he murmurs as my eyes start to flutter closed from the intensity. "I want to see you. All of you."

It's the most vulnerable request anyone has ever made of me—not just to share my body but to remain present, exposed, real. I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze as waves of sensation build, as the careful rhythm of our bodies increases.

When release finally comes, it's with his name on my lips and tears in my eyes—not from sadness but from the overwhelming intimacy of being truly known, truly accepted. He follows moments later, his forehead pressed to mine, our breath mingling in the small space between us.

Afterward, wrapped in a soft blanket he pulls from the couch, we lie tangled together before the dying fire. My head rests on his chest, his heartbeat a steady rhythm beneath my ear, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder.

"What are you thinking?" he asks after a comfortable silence.

"That I can't remember the last time I did something without considering how it would look online," I admit. "Without mentally composing a caption or thinking about the best angle."

"And now?"

"Now I'm just…here. With you." I tilt my face up to his. "It's nice. Liberating."

His smile is soft in the firelight. "That's how it should be."

"I know. I've just forgotten, somewhere along the way." I trace patterns on his chest, following the contours of muscle beneath smooth skin. "Everything became content—every meal, every outfit, every relationship. Even the authentic moments were carefully curated for maximum engagement."

"And now?" he prompts again.

"Now I have this." I gesture between us. "Something that's just ours. Something real amid all the performance."

He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "That's all I've wanted from the beginning. The real Lena."

"Even with all her neuroses and geese phobias?"

"Especially those parts." His laugh rumbles through his chest beneath my ear. "They're my favorites."

We stay like that, talking softly as the fire burns down to embers, sharing secrets and dreams and fears that won't appear in any Instagram post or brand campaign. I tell him about the anxiety that sometimes keeps me awake at night, wondering if my entire career is built on shifting digital sand. He confesses his recurring dream of playing music again, how he still composes melodies in his head but rarely commits them to paper.

"Play for me sometime?" I ask, the request slipping out naturally.

He tenses slightly, then relaxes. "Maybe. Someday."

It's not a no, which feels like progress.

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