Page 92 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"What about what?" she prompts, still laughing from our ridiculous brainstorming.

"What about I write a song about us? Our real story. And perform it publicly, record it, make it the centerpiece of whatever project we develop."

Her laughter fades, replaced by surprise and something softer. "You'd do that? Perform publicly, I mean. In a recorded format that would live forever on the internet?"

I nod, surprising myself with how right it feels. "It's time to stop hiding from the things that scare me, remember? Music was always part of me, even when I wasn't playing. And this—us—it's worth overcoming my fears for."

She reaches across the table, taking both my hands in hers. "I would never ask you to do something that makes you uncomfortable, not even for a creative project."

"You're not asking. I'm offering." I squeeze her fingers gently. "The song I played for you that night in your apartment, the one with the broken string and spilled water? I've been working on it, finishing it. It tells our story better than any scripted video or recreated scene could."

Her eyes shine with unexpected emotion. "I'd love that. But only if you're sure."

"I'm sure about you," I say, echoing her words from earlier. "The rest is just details."

The intensity between us shifts, deepens, as our lighthearted planning session transforms into something more consequential.

"Speaking of details," Lena says, her voice careful but determined. "There's another future plan we should discuss."

"What's that?"

"Living arrangements." She says it casually, though her tight grip on my hands betrays her nervousness. "My lease is up in two months, and your place, while charming, isn't exactly built for two people long-term. I thought maybe we could start looking for something together. Something that's ours from the beginning, not mine or yours."

The proposal shouldn't surprise me—we've spent nearly every night together for months, maintaining two apartments primarily to house our respective belongings rather than out of desire for separate spaces. Still, the formality of the suggestion, the deliberate step toward permanence, momentarily steals my breath.

"Unless it's too soon," she adds quickly, misinterpreting my silence. "There's no rush. We could wait until?—"

"Yes," I interrupt, certainty flooding through me. "Let's find a place together. Something with space for my vinyl collection and your ridiculous number of throw pillows. With good natural light for your content creation and maybe a small area I could set up for recording."

Relief and joy illuminate her face. "Really? You're sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything," I tell her honestly. "Except maybe that I love you."

"I love you too." Her smile is radiant, unfiltered in a way that still feels like a private gift. "So we're doing this? A place together, a creative project about our real relationship, potentially a music release?"

"We're doing all of it." I lift her hands to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "Though maybe we shelve the skywriting and matching tattoos for now."

"Party pooper," she teases, though her eyes remain soft with emotion. "So how do we announce all this? The real way, not the ridiculous brainstorming version."

I consider this, thinking about how far we've come from that first night at The Copper Key. "What if we simply tell the truth? No gimmicks, no elaborate staging. Just us, sitting somewhere meaningful, explaining our journey in our own words. Authentic, like we've been striving for."

"With your song as the backdrop," she adds, warming to the concept. "Simple but meaningful."

"Exactly. And we film it ourselves—no production team, no scripted lines. Just us talking about how the fakest beginning led to the most real relationship either of us has ever had."

She nods, excitement building in her expression. "I love it. It feels right—true to who we are now, respectful of the journey that brought us here."

As we continue refining our plan, mapping out next steps, discussing neighborhoods where we might want to live, I'm struck by the natural ease of our collaboration. What began as a business arrangement has evolved into a partnership in every sense—creative, emotional, practical. We complement each other, challenge each other, make each other better.

The bottle that slipped from my hands at the bar feels symbolic now—the last vestige of nervousness about the future, about commitment, about stepping fully into a life with Lena. In its place is certainty, a grounded confidence that whatever comes next, we'll face it together.

Later, walking hand in hand toward her apartment, I glance down at the woman who changed everything—who marched into my bar with a business proposal and somehow helped me find my way back to music, to authenticity, to myself.

"Thank you," I say suddenly, the words inadequate for what I'm trying to express.

"For what?" she asks, looking up with curious eyes.

"For hiring me to be your fake boyfriend," I reply, smiling at the absurdity of our beginning. "Best job I ever took."

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