Page 78 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"Devastatingly attractive with frozen dessert in my underwear?" he suggests, his own lips twitching despite his predicament.

"Exactly that."

Our eyes meet, and suddenly he's laughing too, the kind of full-bodied laughter that doubles you over and makes your eyes water. In that moment, with sticky hands and ruined desserts and his jeans sporting an enormous red stain, I feel a wave of affection so powerful it nearly takes my breath away.

"This is definitely not going on Instagram," I say when we've finally composed ourselves.

"Thank god for small mercies." He looks down at his stained pants. "Though it could be a compelling ad for laundry detergent."

"Always the entrepreneur." I stand, linking my arm through his. "Come on, let's find a bathroom so you can clean up before dinner."

As we walk down the street, arm in arm despite his sticky condition, I'm struck by how comfortable this feels—this unplanned, imperfect moment. Six months ago, I would have been mortified by such a public mishap. Now, it feels like just another story for us to share, another memory unconcerned with how it might be perceived.

In the small Italian restaurant later, Max now wearing slightly damp but less vividly stained jeans, we sit across from each other in a corner booth, the warm glow of candles between us.

"Sorry for ruining the Italian ice portion of our Italian-themed evening," he says, breaking a piece of garlic bread in half and offering me the larger portion.

"You didn't ruin anything." I accept the bread, our fingers brushing in the exchange. "It was perfect, cherry disaster and all."

"Even disasters can be perfect with the right company," he observes, eyes warm as they meet mine.

"Speaking of disasters," I say, "how are we handling tomorrow's Luminous Beauty event? Victoria mentioned photographers from three major fashion publications will be there."

"The usual, I suppose." He takes a sip of wine. "Adoring fiancé, appropriate PDA, charming anecdotes about our relationship."

"It's getting easier," I note. "The back and forth between public and private. Though sometimes I wonder if we should just tell Victoria that we want out.”

"Wouldn’t that violate the contract?"

“Undoubtedly.” I twist my engagement ring—the expensive borrowed one I wear for events, not the plastic one I keep in my jewelry box. “They would be furious.”

"Which would be…bad?"

I consider this, tracing patterns in the condensation on my water glass. "Maybe not. I've been thinking a lot about authenticity lately—not just with you, but professionally too. About bringing more of the real me to my content."

His eyebrows rise with interest. "That's a big shift."

"Terrifying," I admit. "But also exciting. I posted a completely unfiltered photo last week—just me, first thing in the morning, bed head and all."

"I saw it. You looked beautiful."

"The engagement was the highest I've had in months," I tell him, still surprised by this fact. "Turns out people might actually want the real thing, not just the carefully curated version."

"People are drawn to authenticity," Max says, reaching across the table to take my hand. "I certainly was."

The simple statement warms me from the inside out. "We'll figure it out," I say, squeezing his fingers. "The public/private balance. The professional implications. All of it."

"Together," he adds, the word both a statement and a question.

"Together," I confirm, certainty settling in my chest like a physical weight. "Real or not real, public or private—as long as we're honest with each other, the rest is just details."

As our food arrives, as our conversation shifts to lighter topics, as we share bites from each other's plates and debate the merits of various pasta shapes, I'm struck by the simplicity of what we've found. Not the glamorous, filtered relationship I once thought I wanted, but something messier, more complicated, and infinitely more satisfying.

Later, as we walk hand in hand back to my apartment, sticky residue still faintly present on his jeans, I realize I haven't thought about documenting a single moment of our evening. Haven't composed a caption or considered a filter or worried about how we might appear to others.

Instead, I've just lived it. Felt it. Been present for every laugh, every touch, every imperfect, wonderful second.

And somehow, despite my professional instincts, that feels like the most valuable content of all.

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