Page 72 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"For what it's worth," I say as the laughter subsides, leaving a strange, lighter feeling in its wake, "what I heard before the string sabotaged you was beautiful."

He looks up, hope flickering in his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I sit back on my heels, studying him. "I didn't know you could sing like that."

"There's a lot we still don't know about each other," he says quietly. "I want the chance to find out everything. To start over, the right way this time. No bets, no contracts, no performance."

The naked sincerity in his voice penetrates the armor I've been rebuilding since that night at the Luminous Beauty launch. "Max, I want to believe you. But trust once broken?—"

"Is hard to rebuild," he finishes. "I know. I'm not asking you to trust me completely right away. I'm asking for the opportunity to earn that trust back, day by day."

He sits back against the couch, hands damp from the cleanup, looking simultaneously defeated and determined.

"The song," he continues, "was supposed to end with a promise. That I'll never hide anything from you again. That I'll show up, even when it's hard. That I'll be worthy of your trust, even if it takes months or years to fully rebuild it."

His words hang in the air between us, sincere and unguarded in a way that makes my heart constrict painfully. How easy it would be to fall back into his arms, to accept his apology and move forward. But the wound is still too fresh, the memory of that text message revealing the bet still too vivid.

"I appreciate the gesture," I say carefully. "Really, I do. The flowers, the song…it means something to me that you'd put yourself out there like that."

His face falls slightly, recognizing the "but" that's coming.

"But I need time, Max. I can't just switch my feelings on and off. When I saw that text about the bet, it confirmed every fear I've ever had about being seen as a challenge, a game, content for someone else's entertainment."

"It wasn't like that," he protests gently. "The bet was stupid and immature, but it never defined how I felt about you."

"Maybe not." I wrap my arms around myself. "But it was there, this thing you kept hidden from me while telling me you loved the real me. Do you understand how that felt? To believe I was finally being authentic with someone, only to discover there was this secret hanging over everything?"

He nods slowly, pain evident in his expression. "I do understand. Now. And I'll spend however long it takes proving that it was the only thing I ever kept from you, and that I never will again."

The determination in his voice weakens my resolve further. Still, I hold my ground. "I need time," I repeat. "Space to think without the Luminous Beauty contract hanging over us, without the public performance we're still committed to."

"Okay," he agrees, though the word clearly costs him. "Time and space. I can give you that."

He stands, gathering his damaged guitar carefully. The soggy tissues and towel have done little to save my rug, but somehow I can't bring myself to care about the water stain spreading across the pristine white fibers.

"For what it's worth," he says, pausing at the door, "that song was the first thing I've written in over a year. Being with you made music possible again. Whether or not you give me another chance, I'll always be grateful for that."

The simple statement lands with more impact than any grand declaration could have. I watch him, this man who broke through my carefully constructed walls only to fracture the trust we'd built, now standing vulnerable and honest in my doorway.

"I'll think about what you said," I offer, the closest thing to hope I can give him right now. "That's all I can promise."

He nods, accepting this small concession with visible gratitude. "That's all I'm asking for. The chance to be heard."

After he leaves, I stand in my silent apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his visit—flowers in a vase that somehow survived the spill, a damp rug, the lingering echo of his music. My phone buzzes with a text from Tori, checking in as she has religiously since the night everything fell apart.

You okay?

It’s like somehow she sesnes that something has changed.

I stare at the screen, unsure how to articulate the confusion of emotions swirling inside me. Am I okay? My carefully reconstructed defenses have been breached again, but instead of panic, I feel something else—something tentatively like hope.

He wrote me a song. Then broke a guitar string and spilled water all over my rug.

Her response is immediate:

Romantic disaster. Very on-brand for him. Did it work?

I gaze at the flowers—not perfect roses but something more thoughtfully selected, more genuinely Max. Did it work? Not entirely. The hurt is still there, the broken trust still raw. But something has shifted, a crack in the wall I've been building between us.

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