Page 71 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Please," he interrupts, "just let me get this out. I've been rehearsing the whole way here, and if I don't say it now, I might lose my nerve."

Despite myself, I nod, curiosity winning over self-preservation.

"The thing is," he continues, "I love you. Not because of the arrangement, not because of the contract, not because I lost some stupid bet. I love the way you argue about ice cream flavors and how you hide behind me when we see geese in the park. I love watching you be completely yourself when there are no cameras around. I love that you pushed me to play music again when I was too afraid to try."

His words land like stones in a still pond, rippling through my carefully constructed defenses. I grip the doorframe, needing physical support.

"I didn't come here expecting you to forgive me right away," he says, seeming to gain confidence as he speaks. "I know trust once broken isn't easily rebuilt. But I want the chance to rebuild it, day by day, for as long as it takes."

"And how exactly do you plan to do that?" I ask, skepticism warring with the part of me that desperately wants to believe him.

This is where Max Donovan, usually so composed, actually blushes. "I, uh, brought more than flowers," he admits, gesturing to a guitar case I hadn't noticed leaning against the wall beside my door. "I wrote you a song."

"A song?" I repeat, genuinely caught off guard.

"Yeah." He reaches for the case, hands visibly shaking. "I know it's cliché, but it's the most honest way I know how to communicate. You asked me to play for you once, and I kept putting it off because I was afraid. I'm done being afraid, Lena."

The sincerity in his voice weakens my resolve further. Despite my better judgment, I step back, opening the door wider. "You might as well come in. I don't think my neighbors need to witness this particular performance."

Relief washes over his face as he picks up the guitar case and steps inside. My apartment, which felt like a protective cocoon moments ago, suddenly seems charged with his presence. I place the flowers in a vase, buying time to compose myself as he stands awkwardly in my living room, looking both out of place and like he belongs all at once.

"Where should I...?" he gestures vaguely with the guitar.

"The couch is fine," I reply, maintaining careful distance as he sits and opens the case.

The guitar that emerges is not the polished acoustic I've seen hanging on his wall, but an older, well-worn instrument with visible nicks and scratches. Something about its imperfect authenticity makes this moment feel even more vulnerable.

"This was my first real guitar," he explains, noticing my gaze. "My dad gave it to me when I was fifteen. It felt right to use it for this."

He positions the instrument on his lap, and I'm struck by how natural he looks with it, how the nervous energy that radiated from him moments ago seems to settle as his fingers find their place on the strings. This is Max in his element, reconnecting with the part of himself he abandoned long before I came into his life.

"Full disclosure," he says with a self-deprecating smile, "I haven't played for an audience in over a year, and I've never played something this personal for anyone. So if my voice cracks or I mess up, just…know that's part of the authenticity."

Despite everything, I find my lips twitching toward a smile. "Noted."

He takes a deep breath, fingers poised over the strings, and then begins to play—a gentle, melodic introduction that fills my apartment with sound more intimate than any recording. When he starts to sing, his voice is hesitant at first, then gradually stronger, revealing a depth and raw quality I hadn't expected.

The lyrics tell our story—meeting at the bar, the arrangement that was supposed to be just business, the gradual blurring of lines between performance and reality. He sings about rainstorms and hallway kisses, about plastic rings and real feelings. About fear and trust and finding authenticity in the most artificial of beginnings.

I'm transfixed, torn between the emotional punch of his words and the realization that Max is genuinely talented—not just bar-band good, but legitimately, remarkably skilled. This isn't just a romantic gesture; it's a window into what he gave up when he walked away from music, what he might be reclaiming now.

And then, just as the song builds toward what is clearly meant to be a powerful bridge, disaster strikes. A string snaps with a discordant twang, the broken end flying up and narrowly missing his eye. Max jerks back in surprise, losing his grip on the guitar, which slides from his lap and hits the edge of my coffee table with a hollow thunk.

"Shit!" he exclaims, lunging to catch the instrument before it can sustain further damage. In the process, he knocks over the vase of flowers he brought, sending water cascading across the table and onto my white rug.

For a suspended moment, we both freeze—him half-crouched with the damaged guitar clutched to his chest, me standing witness to the minor chaos unfolding in my meticulously maintained living room. His face is a study in mortification, eyes wide with horror at how spectacularly his grand gesture has imploded.

And then, despite every instinct for self-preservation, despite the walls I've carefully reconstructed around my heart, I start to laugh.

It begins as a small chuckle but quickly escalates into genuine, uncontrollable laughter—the kind that bends you at the waist and makes your eyes water. The kind I've only ever really experienced with Max.

"I'm so sorry," he sputters, setting down the guitar and frantically grabbing for the box of tissues on my side table, attempting to sop up the spreading water stain. "This was supposed to be romantic and meaningful, not a slapstick comedy routine."

"Only you," I manage between gasps of laughter, "could turn a heartfelt serenade into physical comedy."

His initial mortification gives way to a reluctant smile, then his own chuckle as he surveys the scene. "Not exactly the emotional breakthrough I was hoping for."

I move to help him clean up, grabbing a proper towel from the kitchen. As we kneel together, sopping up water from my rug, the absurdity of the situation strikes me anew. After weeks of pain and careful avoidance, here we are, engaged in the mundane task of cleaning up a spill, the broken-stringed guitar watching over us like a sad, one-eyed witness.

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