Page 74 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "That's…descriptively accurate."

An awkward silence falls between us. This is ridiculous—two months ago, conversation flowed effortlessly; now we can barely manage small talk. I take a deep breath, deciding to cut through the pretense.

"How are you, Lena? Really."

She seems startled by the direct question, her practiced expression faltering. "I'm…managing. It's been a complicated few weeks."

"For me too." I take a careful step forward, not wanting to crowd her but desperate to bridge the chasm between us. "I've been thinking a lot about what happened, about the bet, about how I handled everything."

"Max—"

"Please," I interrupt gently. "Let me say this. I've had more time to reflect, and I understand better now why the bet hurt you so deeply. It wasn't just about trust—it was about being seen as a challenge rather than a person. After everything with Cameron, after building your career in an industry that constantly commodifies you…I represented something different. Until I didn't."

Her eyes widen slightly, surprised by my insight.

"The bet was stupid and immature," I continue, "but worse than making it was hiding it from you while we grew closer. While I fell in love with you. I told myself I was protecting you, but really, I was protecting myself from potential rejection. From losing you."

"Which happened anyway," she says softly.

"Yes." I acknowledge the painful irony with a nod. "My fear of losing you became a self-fulfilling prophecy."

She wraps her arms around herself, a defensive posture I've come to recognize. "I appreciate your understanding of why it hurt so much. But understanding doesn't automatically fix the trust issue."

"I know." I stay where I am, respecting her space while maintaining eye contact. "Trust is rebuilt through consistent actions over time, not just apologies. That's why I've been giving you the space you asked for, why I haven't pushed beyond that one visit to your apartment. I want to prove I can respect your boundaries."

Something shifts in her expression—a softening around the eyes, a slight relaxation of her shoulders. "I've been doing a lot of thinking too," she admits. "About trust, about forgiveness, about…us."

The word "us" sends hope surging through me, but I temper it, not wanting to assume too much. "What conclusions have you reached?"

She hesitates, seemingly choosing her words with care. "I realized that I've been using the bet as a reason to protect myself from something that scared me even before I knew about it."

"What's that?"

"How real this became." She gestures between us. "What started as a business arrangement turned into the most authentic relationship I've ever had. And that terrified me, Max. The vulnerability of being truly seen, truly known…it's scarier than any public scrutiny I've faced."

Her honesty disarms me completely. "It scared me too," I confess. "Still does."

"When I found out about the bet, it gave me a concrete reason to run away." She takes a small step forward, narrowing the physical gap between us. "A justification for the walls I wanted to rebuild anyway."

"And now?" I hardly dare to breathe, afraid to disrupt this moment of genuine connection.

"Now I'm trying to figure out if protecting myself from potential hurt is worth giving up something that made me happier than I've been in years." Her voice wavers slightly, the first crack in her composed façade. "I miss you, Max. The real you, not the contractually obligated fiancé standing beside me in photoshoots."

The admission sends a wave of emotion through me so powerful I have to physically restrain myself from closing the distance between us. "I miss you too. Every day. Every minute."

"I'm sorry," she says suddenly. "For running away instead of?—"

"I'm sorry," I say simultaneously, "for not being completely honest from the?—"

We both stop, startled by the overlap, then share a hesitant smile at the timing.

"You go first," I offer.

"No, you," she counters.

"I insist?—"

"Really, I was just going to?—"

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