Page 83 of The #FakeBoyfriend Bet

"You've got me intrigued," he admits, settling beside me. "And slightly worried I should have dressed up more." He gestures to his standard jeans and button-down combination—the casual uniform I've come to associate with the real Max, not the polished version who appears at Luminous Beauty events.

"You're perfect," I tell him, meaning it completely. "Exactly as you are."

Something in my tone must communicate the significance of the moment because his expression softens, playfulness giving way to attentiveness. "Lena, what's going on?"

I take a deep breath, suddenly nervous despite all my planning. "I wanted to create a special night because I have something important to tell you."

"Okay..." His brow furrows slightly with concern.

"It's nothing bad," I assure him quickly. "Just important."

His hand finds mine, warm and solid, the calluses from guitar strings familiar against my palm. "I'm listening."

I've rehearsed this speech in my head a dozen times, but now, faced with the reality of his presence, the carefully crafted words evaporate. What remains is simpler, truer.

"I've been thinking a lot about us," I begin, "about how we started versus where we are now. About what's real versus what's performance."

He nods, encouraging me to continue.

"When we first met, everything in my life was about presentation—curating the perfect image, telling the right story, maintaining control of the narrative. Even when I thought I was being authentic, it was calculated authenticity designed for maximum engagement."

"And now?" he prompts gently when I pause.

"Now I find myself craving the real, the unfiltered, the moments that exist just for us with no thought of how they might be perceived." I shift slightly to face him more directly. "You've changed how I see things, Max. How I see myself."

His thumb traces patterns on my palm, a small, intimate gesture of support that gives me courage to continue.

"I told you I loved you once before, that night in your apartment. But even then, I was holding something back—some last piece of myself, some final armor against potential hurt." I meet his eyes directly. "I don't want to hold back anymore. I love you, Max Donovan. Completely, without reservation or calculation or fear. I love your crooked smile and your terrible puns and the way you remember how everyone takes their coffee. I love how you see me—not Lena Carter, Influencer, but just…me."

The words hang between us, raw and honest and terrifying in their vulnerability. Max's expression shifts through surprise to something deeper, more powerful. His free hand rises to cup my cheek, his touch gentle as if I'm something precious.

"I love you too," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "Not the version for public consumption or the carefully edited highlights, but all of you—the messy parts, the control-freak tendencies, the fearful moments, the genuine laughter. Everything."

Despite having heard these words from him before, something about this exchange feels different—more deliberate, more permanent. A conscious choice rather than an admission.

"I've decided to tell my followers the truth," I say, covering his hand with mine where it rests against my face. "About us, about how we started, about how it became real. Not every detail—some things are just for us—but enough to bridge the gap between my public and private selves."

Surprise flickers across his features. "That's a big step. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure about you," I reply simply. "The rest is just details."

His smile breaks like sunrise, slow and then all at once, illuminating his entire face. "You continue to amaze me, Lena Carter."

"In good ways, I hope."

"The best ways." He leans forward, pressing his forehead against mine. "I love you. The real you, the only you that matters."

The simplicity of the declaration undoes me completely. I close the remaining distance between us, my lips finding his in a kiss that feels both familiar and brand new—the first kiss of the rest of our story, unbound by contracts or pretense or fear.

His arms encircle me, drawing me closer as the kiss deepens from gentle to urgent. My hands find their way beneath his shirt, seeking the warmth of skin I've memorized over months of togetherness yet somehow never tire of exploring.

"Are we...?" he murmurs against my mouth, a question that doesn't need completion.

"Yes," I whisper back. "Definitely yes."

We've been intimate before—the night in his apartment during the rainstorm, stolen moments between photoshoots, careful explorations during our reconciliation. But something about tonight feels different, weighted with the significance of our mutual declarations, our commitment to something beyond the arrangement that brought us together.

He stands, lifting me with him, our bodies pressed together as we navigate the familiar path to my bedroom. The candles I've placed here too cast golden light across the space, transforming my usually pristine room into somewhere softer, more intimate.

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