Page 84 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

His hands are reverential as they trace the contours of my body, finding the zipper of my dress with practiced ease. "You're beautiful," he says as the fabric falls away, leaving me vulnerable before him. "So beautiful."

I reach for him in turn, unbuttoning his shirt with fingers that tremble slightly despite our familiarity. "So are you," I reply, meaning it completely as I reveal the chest I've laid my head against countless times, the shoulders that have become my favorite resting place.

We take our time, each touch deliberate, each kiss a conversation without words. This isn't the desperate passion of our first night together or the careful rediscovery after our separation. This is something else entirely—a conscious choosing, a mutual surrender, a promise written with hands and lips and bodies entwined.

When he finally enters me, our eyes lock in the candlelight, the connection so intense it almost hurts. "I love you," I whisper again, the words falling from my lips like prayer.

"I love you," he echoes, his movement within me gentle at first, then building as we find the rhythm that belongs only to us.

We move together with the synchronicity of those who have learned each other's bodies well, anticipating responses, discovering new ways to bring pleasure. But beneath the physical connection lies something deeper, more profound—the knowledge that this isn't just about desire or comfort or momentary release, but about choosing each other, completely and without reservation.

When release claims me, it's with his name on my lips and tears gathering in my eyes—not from sadness but from the overwhelming intensity of being truly seen, truly known, truly loved. He follows moments later, his face buried against my neck, my name a benediction in his ear.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder. The candles burn lower, casting dancing shadows across the ceiling as our breathing gradually slows, our heartbeats returning to normal.

"What happens after tomorrow?" he asks finally, his voice rumbling beneath my ear. "After your post goes live?"

"I don't know exactly," I admit. "Questions, probably. Some support, some criticism. Maybe some brand partners reconsidering their associations."

"Are you worried?"

I consider this, searching for the anxiety that would have consumed me three months ago at the thought of potential professional consequences. Surprisingly, it's muted, distant compared to the certainty I feel about us.

"Not as much as I thought I would be," I reply honestly. "My most recent authentic content has actually performed better than my more polished posts. I think my audience might be ready for something real."

"And if they're not?"

"Then I'll adapt. Find new directions, new partnerships. Maybe finally start that marine biology degree," I add with a small laugh.

He shifts to look at me, his expression serious despite my attempt at humor. "I don't want you to risk your career for me, Lena."

"I'm not." I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertip. "I'm aligning my career with my values. With the person I want to be—someone who doesn't maintain completely separate public and private identities, someone who isn't afraid to acknowledge imperfection or messiness or real emotions."

His expression softens. "Well, when you put it that way..."

"Besides," I add, "Victoria actually thinks it could be good for the Luminous Beauty campaign. 'Real love, real beauty' takes on new meaning when the couple has an authentic love story behind the marketing."

"Always the strategist," he teases gently.

"Old habits," I acknowledge with a smile. "But now they're in service of something genuine."

He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Whatever happens, we'll handle it together."

"Together," I echo, the word that has become our touchstone. "No more compartmentalization. No more separate realities."

"Just us," he agrees. "The real thing."

As we drift toward sleep, wrapped in each other's arms, I feel a sense of rightness, of completion that has nothing to do with perfectly composed photos or engagement metrics or brand partnerships. For the first time in my adult life, I'm making choices based not on how they'll be perceived but on what feels authentically right for me—for us.

Tomorrow, our story will become public in a new way, the boundaries between performance and reality shifting once again. But tonight, in this moment, there is only truth between us—the kind that can't be filtered or edited or packaged for consumption, the kind that exists purely for its own sake.

And that, I realize as sleep claims me, is the most authentic content of all.

TWENTY-SIX

Max

Lena Carter hasthree million followers and a carefully curated aesthetic for every aspect of her online presence. Yet here she is, asleep in the passenger seat of my ten-year-old Subaru, mouth slightly open, a small snore escaping with each breath. Her hair, usually styled to perfection, is piled in a messy bun with strands escaping to frame her face. She's wearing leggings with a coffee stain on the knee and my old band hoodie that she's officially claimed as her own. She looks nothing like the polished influencer whose face graces Luminous Beauty advertisements in Times Square. She looks real and rumpled and completely unguarded. She looks perfect. I turn down the radio, hoping to let her sleep a bit longer as I navigate the winding roads toward our destination—a cabin in the Catskills borrowed from a bartender friend for the weekend. Our first real getaway since Lena's post about our relationship went viral two weeks ago, upending both our lives in ways neither of us fully anticipated.

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