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"This isn't working," I admit, lowering my phone in frustration.

"You think?" He rolls his shoulders, working out the stiffness. "I told you I'm not photogenic."

"Everyone is photogenic with the right approach." I bite my lip, thinking. "Maybe we're trying too hard. Let's actually have the picnic first, get comfortable with each other."

He looks relieved. "Finally, a plan I can get behind."

I pour us each a glass of champagne—real drinks, not props this time—and hand him one of the artfully arranged charcuterie boxes.

"So," I say, taking a sip, "tell me something about Max Donovan that would never make it into an Instagram caption."

He considers this, popping an olive into his mouth. "I sleep with socks on."

"Horrifying." I laugh. "Even in summer?"

"Year-round. Cold feet." He shrugs. "Your turn."

"Hmm." I think about what parts of myself never make it online. "I still sleep with my childhood teddy bear sometimes. His name is Mr. Sprinkles."

"Mr. Sprinkles?" His eyes crinkle with amusement. "That's adorable."

"He was covered in rainbow sprinkle patterns. I was four and not very creative with names."

"Better than my childhood stuffed animal. I had a dog named Dog."

The conversation flows easier than I expected, shifting from childhood memories to favorite books to terrible first date stories. I find myself genuinely laughing at his dry observations, and slowly, the tension in his posture melts away. He stretches out his legs, gesturing with animated hands as he tells me about a disastrous concert where the power went out mid-song.

"You never mentioned you were a musician," I say, intrigued.

A shadow crosses his face. "Former musician. I don't play much anymore."

"Why not?"

"Creative differences with myself." He deflects with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Your champagne's getting warm."

I recognize a closed door when I see one and don't press further. Instead, I lift my phone casually. "Mind if I take a few shots now? Just keep talking."

He nods, reaching for a strawberry, and I snap a photo—his profile against the setting sun, hand extended, shoulders finally relaxed. The result is surprising in its authenticity.

"That's good," I murmur, encouraged. "Keep being yourself."

"As opposed to being...?"

"Instagram Boyfriend Version 3.0."

He snorts, nearly choking on his strawberry, and I capture the genuine laugh that follows. Each photo gets better as he forgets about the camera, returning to the easy charm that first caught my attention at the bar.

"Tell me about the worst date you've ever been on," I prompt, angling for more natural expressions.

"That's easy. Art gallery opening, 2019. The artist's medium was taxidermied animals dressed as celebrities."

"No." I lower my phone, horrified and fascinated.

"Yes. Marilyn Monroe squirrel. Elvis chipmunk. Madonna raccoon."

"Please tell me you're making this up."

"I wish I were." He shudders dramatically. "I still have nightmares about Beyoncé beaver."