Page 60 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

The irony isn't lost on either of us. "So your carefully curated authenticity is outperforming your carefully curated perfection?"

"The algorithm works in mysterious ways." She raises her glass in mock toast. "Though to be fair, some of those 'authentic moments' actually are authentic. Like that photo you took of me laughing at the park last week. I didn't even edit that one."

"Revolutionary," I tease, settling beside her with my own plate. "Next you'll be posting without filters."

"Baby steps, Donovan." She nudges my shoulder with hers. "Rome wasn't unfiltered in a day."

We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the easy domesticity of the moment striking me anew. When this all began, I couldn't have imagined Lena Carter—poised, perfect, Instagram royalty—sitting cross-legged on my couch in sweatpants, eating pad thai straight from the container, completely at ease.

"I saw the guitar was out," she says casually, though I catch the hopeful undertone. "Were you playing?"

"Attempting to." I focus on my food, suddenly self-conscious. "Just noodling around."

"That's progress, right? From not touching it at all?"

I glance up, finding her watching me with genuine interest, no pressure or judgment. "Maybe. There's a melody I can't get out of my head."

"Will you play it for me sometime?" she asks, the echo of her request at the cabin hanging between us.

"It's not ready," I hedge. "But…maybe. When it is."

She beams, clearly counting this as a win. "I'll hold you to that."

After dinner, we settle deeper into the couch, her legs draped over mine as we half-watch a documentary about deep-sea creatures. Lena's fascinated, occasionally sharing marine biology facts that surprise me.

"You really did want to study dolphins," I observe during a segment about whale communication.

"Told you." She takes a sip of wine, eyes still on the screen. "Little Lena had very specific career goals before Instagram corrupted her soul."

"I don't think your soul is corrupted," I say, more seriously than intended. "Just…compartmentalized."

She turns to me, expression thoughtful. "That's a diplomatic way of saying I lead a double life."

"Don't we all?" I trace patterns on her ankle, exposed where her sweatpants have ridden up. "Public self, private self. Yours just has higher production values."

"True." She tilts her head, studying me. "But the gap is getting smaller, I think. Since you."

The simple acknowledgment sends warmth spreading through my chest, followed immediately by the cold prickle of guilt. Here she is, opening up, being more authentic, while I'm hiding something fundamental about how our relationship began.

"You've changed how I see things," she continues, unaware of my internal conflict. "Made me remember there's value in moments that aren't curated for public consumption."

"Like deep-sea documentary date night?" I gesture to our thoroughly unglamorous setup.

"Exactly like that." She shifts, sitting up to face me more directly. "Do you know how revolutionary it is for me to be somewhere and not immediately assess the lighting for a potential photo op? To just…exist? To be present without performing?"

The earnestness in her eyes makes my guilt spike higher. Tell her, a voice urges in my head. Tell her now.

"I'm glad," I say instead, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "You deserve to exist without an audience sometimes."

"That's just it." She leans into my touch, her expression softening. "You make me feel like I'm enough, even when no one's watching. Even when there's nothing to gain."

The words are like a knife to my conscience. If she knew about the bet—about what I potentially had to gain when this all started—would she still feel that way?

"About that," I begin, heart hammering. "Lena, there's something I should?—"

She cuts me off with a kiss, soft and sweet and full of emotion that makes the words die in my throat. "Thank you," she murmurs against my lips. "For seeing me. The real me."

The moment to confess slips away as her kisses grow more insistent, her body shifting until she's straddling me on the couch. My hands find her waist automatically, guilt temporarily submerged beneath a wave of desire that never seems to diminish no matter how many times we're together.

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