Page 75 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

We both break off again, the absurdity of our politeness finally penetrating the tension. A small laugh escapes her, genuine and unguarded in a way I haven't heard since before everything fell apart.

"We're ridiculous," she says, the ice truly beginning to thaw.

"Completely," I agree, risking a step closer. "Look at us, apologizing over each other when we could just agree we both messed up in different ways."

"I did run," she acknowledges. "It's my default setting when threatened emotionally. Cameron trained me well in self-protection."

"And I did hide something important from you," I counter. "We both acted out of fear."

She nods, thoughtful. "Fear of the same thing, really."

"Which is?"

"How much this matters." She meets my eyes directly, vulnerability written across her features. "How much you matter to me."

Our fingers brush, and I feel a spark—static from the dry air maybe, but it jolts me nonetheless. I look down, surprised to find her hand so close to mine, surprised by the contact that happened without either of us consciously initiating it.

"Where do we go from here?" I ask, hardly daring to hope.

"I don't know exactly," she admits. "But I think…I think I'd like to try again. Differently this time."

My heart leaps, but I force myself to remain measured, to not rush forward and potentially overwhelm her. "What would differently look like?"

"Complete honesty, first of all." She glances down at our barely-touching hands. "No secrets, no performance except what's required for the contract."

"Agreed," I say immediately. "What else?"

"Slower." A blush touches her cheeks. "The first time around, we went from fake to physical to emotional so quickly that I never processed what was happening. I'd like us to…date. Actually date, like normal people. Get to know each other again with all cards on the table."

"I'd like that too." I risk turning my hand so our palms meet, a more deliberate connection. "Anything else?"

She takes a deep breath. "I need you to understand that trust won't be rebuilt overnight. There might be moments where insecurity or doubt creeps in, where I need reassurance."

"I understand." I squeeze her hand gently. "I'm in this for the long haul, Lena. Whatever it takes, however long it takes."

"And one more thing." She looks up at me, a new determination in her expression. "I want us to be real. Not just privately, but eventually publicly too. I'm tired of maintaining two separate identities—Instagram Lena and real Lena. If we're doing this, I want to work toward a future where we don't have to pretend."

The significance of this request isn't lost on me. For someone whose career depends on carefully curated authenticity, merging her public and private selves represents a tremendous risk.

"Are you sure?" I ask. "Your career?—"

"My career will adapt," she says with surprising firmness. "Or it won't. But I can't keep compartmentalizing my life, especially not with you."

Emotion swells in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me. "Then yes. To all of it. Honesty, slowness, patience, reality. Whatever you need."

She smiles—not the polished one from the photoshoot, but the real, slightly lopsided one that first made me realize I was in trouble. "Thank you. For the song, for the flowers, for giving me space, for still being here."

"Always," I promise, meaning it more deeply than any word I've ever spoken.

A knock at the door reminds us where we are—in the middle of a workday, contractual obligations still to fulfill. But as we step apart, something fundamental has changed. The distance between us has narrowed, the possibility of a future together no longer seems like an impossible dream.

"We should get back," Lena says, smoothing her dress. "Victoria will send out a search party soon."

"Right." I move toward the door, then pause, turning back to her. "Lena?"

"Yes?"

"Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night? A real date, no cameras, no contract. Just us."

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