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"I want to do better," I tell him, meaning it completely. "I need to do better."

"We both do," he acknowledges. "I could be more understanding about the demands of your career, especially right now when things are changing so rapidly."

"And I could be more present when we're together," I counter. "Actually put the phone away, not just physically but mentally too."

He smiles, brushing a strand of hair from my face with paint-smudged fingers. "Look at us, having a mature relationship conversation surrounded by artistic evidence of our complete lack of hidden talents."

The observation breaks the tension, bringing a smile back to my face. "We should absolutely frame these monstrosities. Perfect evidence of what happens when influencers attempt analog content creation."

"Yours could become your most authentic post yet," he suggests, eyeing my lopsided attempt at the Brooklyn Bridge. "Caption it 'Reality vs. Expectation.'"

"My followers would have a field day," I laugh, settling more comfortably against him. "Though it might actually perform well. People seem to appreciate when I show my imperfections lately."

"Because it's relatable," he points out. "No one's life is perfectly filtered and framed, not even Lena Carter's."

He's right, of course. The posts that have generated the most meaningful engagement recently have been the ones showing real moments—my messy kitchen after attempting a complicated recipe, the sunburn I got during our weekend in the Catskills, the candid shot of Max and me laughing on his couch, completely unposed and imperfect.

"Speaking of imperfections," I say, leaning forward to examine his canvas again, "I think your blob-people are actually growing on me. There's something strangely charming about them."

"Unintentional abstract expressionism," he declares with mock seriousness. "Very avant-garde."

We fall into comfortable silence, his arm around my shoulders, my head resting against him.

It’s the most natural, authentic thing in the world, and I fall asleep against him that way.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Max

The bottle slipsfrom my hand just as I'm completing a particularly flashy pour, sending expensive bourbon splashing across the bar and onto the shirt of a customer who definitely won't be tipping now. It's the third fumble of my shift, unusual for someone who's spent years perfecting the theatrical aspects of bartending. Ryan raises an eyebrow as I mop up the mess, offering apologetic drinks to the splattered patron. He knows why I'm distracted—the same reason I've checked my watch seventeen times in the past hour. Tonight, Lena and I are having The Talk. Not the relationship-ending variety, but the future-planning kind that simultaneously thrills and terrifies me. The kind that involves discussions of living arrangements and career trajectories and whether a bartender-turned-reluctant-musician and a social media influencer-turned-authenticity-advocate can build something lasting from the strangest of beginnings.

"You're going to get us both fired if you keep hydroplaning customers," Ryan mutters as he slides past me with a tray of clean glasses. "Just call her and move the meeting up if you're this nervous."

"It's not a meeting," I correct him, wiping sticky residue from the bar top. "And I'm not nervous. Just…anticipatory."

"Right." He rolls his eyes with the practiced exasperation of someone who's witnessed every phase of my relationship with Lena. "That's why you're sweating through your shirt and checking your watch like it might suddenly sprout legs and run away."

"It's hot in here," I protest weakly, though the bar's temperature hasn't changed in the three years I've worked here.

Ryan leans against the counter, studying me with unexpected seriousness. "You're really all in with her, aren't you? Like, building-a-future, matching-rocking-chairs all in."

The question should terrify me. Six months ago, it would have. But now I find myself nodding without hesitation. "Yeah. I am."

"Huh." He seems to consider this information. "Never thought I'd see the day. Max 'Commitment Issues' Donovan, ready to settle down with an Instagram celebrity."

"She's more than that," I say automatically, the defense of Lena's complexity now second nature.

"I know." His tone softens, surprising me. "She's good for you. You're different since she came along. Better."

The unexpected sincerity catches me off guard. "Better how?"

He gestures vaguely toward the corner of the bar where my guitar case leans against the wall. "You're playing again. Writing music, booking small gigs. You smile more. You've stopped running from the things that scare you."

His assessment is uncomfortably accurate. In the months since Lena and I found our way to a real relationship, I've gradually reconnected with music—first privately, then in small open mic nights, recently even booking paid gigs at local venues. After years of creative silence, songs flow again, many inspired by the woman who crashed into my life with a fake relationship proposal and somehow made everything more authentic in the process.

"She makes me want to be brave," I admit, the truth of it settling in my chest like a physical weight. "To stop hiding from the things that matter."

Ryan pretends to gag. "Save the poetics for your girlfriend. I'm just saying I approve, that's all."