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"I thought we were watching the documentary," I murmur as her lips trail along my jaw.

"Multitasking," she replies, her smile mischievous against my skin. "Besides, we know how it ends. Circle of life, fragile ecosystems, humans are destroying everything."

"So bleak," I laugh, my hands sliding beneath her borrowed t-shirt to find warm skin.

"I prefer to focus on more immediate concerns." She grinds down slightly, making her intentions unmistakable. "Like the fact that we have this whole apartment to ourselves and no campaign photographers documenting our every move."

The reminder of our strange dual existence—the public performance and private reality—sends a surge of possessiveness through me. Here, now, she's just Lena and I'm just Max. No audience, no expectations, no carefully choreographed moments for maximum engagement.

"No photographers," I agree, pulling her closer. "Just us."

Her smile turns softer, more vulnerable. "Just us."

There's something different about tonight—a new layer of intimacy that transcends the physical. As we undress each other with unhurried movements, as we make our way from the couch to my bedroom leaving a trail of discarded clothing, there's a deliberate quality to each touch, each kiss. Not the desperate passion of our early encounters, but something deeper, more mindful.

When I lay her on my bed, when I take my time exploring her body with lips and hands, it feels like worship. She responds in kind, her touch reverent as she maps the contours of my shoulders, my chest, the sensitive spot at the base of my spine that makes me shiver.

"I love your hands," she murmurs as my fingers trace patterns along her inner thigh. "Musician's hands. I knew from the first time I saw you at the bar, the way you mixed drinks, that your hands would feel like this."

"Like what?" I ask, watching her eyes flutter closed as I touch her more intimately.

"Perfect," she breathes, arching into the contact. "Like they were made for me."

The simple declaration undoes me. I capture her mouth in a kiss that tries to convey everything I'm feeling—desire, yes, but also tenderness, gratitude, and the emotion I haven't yet named aloud though it's been growing for weeks.

When I finally enter her, when our bodies join with practiced ease that somehow still feels new and extraordinary, her eyes meet mine with such open vulnerability that it steals my breath. This isn't performance. This isn't pretense. This is as real as anything I've ever experienced.

"Stay with me," she whispers, echoing the words I spoke to her at the cabin. "I want to see you."

The request lays me bare, exposing not just my body but everything I am, everything I feel. I hold her gaze as we move together, as pleasure builds between us, as the connection deepens beyond the physical into something that touches my long-dormant soul.

When release claims her, it's with my name on her lips and tears glistening in her eyes—not from sadness but from the overwhelming intimacy of the moment. I follow soon after, unable to maintain control in the face of such complete vulnerability, such perfect trust.

Afterward, as our breathing slows and our heartbeats gradually return to normal, she curls against my side, her head fitting perfectly in the hollow of my shoulder. My fingers trace lazy patterns along her arm, neither of us speaking for long minutes.

"I never expected this," she says finally, her voice soft in the dim room. "When I walked into your bar that night with my ridiculous fake relationship proposal. I never thought..."

"That it would become real?" I finish when she trails off.

"That I would become real," she corrects gently. "With you. That I would stop performing, stop calculating, just…be."

The confession lances through me, beautiful and painful in equal measure. The guilt I've been fighting resurfaces with renewed force. I need to tell her about the bet. Now. Before this goes any further. Before I hurt her more.

"Lena," I begin, my voice rougher than intended. "There's something I need to tell you. About the beginning, when we first met?—"

"I was so guarded," she continues, apparently not registering my attempt to confess. "So convinced that everyone wanted something from me, that every interaction was transactional."

I swallow hard. "Wasn't our arrangement exactly that? Transactional?"

"On the surface." She props herself up on one elbow to look at me, her expression earnest. "But even then, there was something different about you. You saw through the performance. You made me laugh—really laugh, not my camera-ready laugh."

The knife of guilt twists deeper. "Lena?—"

"I'm trying to tell you that I'm falling in love with you, Max," she says quietly, the words hanging in the air between us. "Probably have been since that first night in the rain. And it terrifies me, but also…I've never felt more real than I do with you."

All my prepared confessions evaporate. How can I tell her now, after this declaration? How can I risk destroying the trust she's just laid bare?

"You don't have to say it back," she adds quickly, misinterpreting my silence. "I know it's complicated, with the contract and the public aspect of everything. I just…wanted you to know."