Chapter 7
SEVEN
Lena
I wake with the first gray light of dawn, momentarily disoriented by unfamiliar surroundings. Then awareness floods in—Max's arm draped heavily across my waist, his steady breathing warm against my neck, the scent of him on the sheets wrapped around my naked body. Last night's rain has stopped, leaving behind a quiet so complete I can hear my own heartbeat accelerating with panic. What have I done?
Carefully, I lift his arm and slide away, watching his face for any sign of waking. He stirs slightly, mumbling something incoherent before burrowing deeper into his pillow. The vulnerability in his sleeping face makes my chest ache with an emotion I refuse to name.
I stand beside the bed, suddenly aware of my complete nakedness—both physical and emotional. Last night, under the cover of rain and darkness, everything seemed simple. Necessary, even. But in the harsh morning light, complications multiply like rabbits in my mind.
We crossed a line. No, we obliterated it. The carefully constructed boundaries of our fake relationship, already blurring, have dissolved completely. How are we supposed to go back to "professional" after what happened? How am I supposed to look at his hands without remembering how they felt mapping the geography of my body?
My clothes from the gallery opening are still damp, hanging limply in the bathroom. I grab Max's t-shirt from the floor—the one I was wearing before it was enthusiastically removed—and pull it over my head. It smells like him, a fact my traitorous body responds to immediately.
Focus, Lena.
I need to leave before he wakes up. Before we're forced to have the morning-after conversation that will inevitably make things awkward. Before I have to see regret or, worse, tenderness in his eyes.
In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and attempt to wrestle my hair into something less resembling a bird's nest. My reflection stares back at me, stripped of makeup, of filters, of the careful image I maintain online. I look younger. Vulnerable. Terrified.
This isn't me. I don't do vulnerable. I don't wake up in men's apartments wearing their clothes, with my heart hammering anxiously in my chest. I don't have sex that makes me feel like I'm falling apart and being put back together in the same breath.
Except, apparently, I do. At least with Max.
I gather up my ruined dress, stuff it into my purse, and pull on the borrowed sweatpants. They're comically large, but they'll have to do until I get home. As I creep back through the bedroom, my eyes catch on Max's sleeping form. The sheet has slipped down, revealing the strong line of his back, the constellation of freckles across his shoulders that I explored with my fingertips last night.
The memory ambushes me—Max holding me against the wall, his mouth hot on my neck as I whispered things I'd never say in daylight. The careful way he'd asked "Is this okay?" before each new touch. The unexpected gentleness beneath his urgency. The way he'd looked at me afterward, brushing damp hair from my face with a tenderness that terrified me more than anything else.
I force myself to look away, silently retrieving my shoes from beside the bed. One of them makes a soft thud as it falls from my hand, and I freeze, watching Max's face. He doesn't wake, but his hand reaches out across the empty space where I should be, searching.
Something twists painfully in my chest. I should wake him. I should stay for coffee and awkward conversation and whatever comes next. That's what a brave person would do. That's what someone willing to explore whatever this is between us would do.
Instead, I find a notepad on his dresser and pick up a pen. I start to write, Last night was— but stop, staring at the words. Last night was what? Amazing? A mistake? The beginning of something? The end of our arrangement?
I don't know. And not knowing terrifies me.
I tear the sheet off, crumple it, and shove it in my pocket. No note. Just a clean exit. It's safer that way.
In the living room, I spot my phone on the coffee table. Six missed calls from Tori, a flurry of texts about a potential sponsorship that needs immediate attention. The real world, crashing back in.
I take one last look around Max's apartment—the guitars on the wall, the vinyl records arranged by genre then alphabetically, the half-empty mugs of tea we abandoned. For a moment, I let myself imagine a different morning: waking up in his arms, borrowing his t-shirt to make coffee, maybe playing one of his records while we eat breakfast.
The fantasy dissolves as quickly as it forms. That's not who I am, not who we are. We have a contract, an arrangement with a clear end date. Mixing business with pleasure never ends well, and my career can't survive another public relationship disaster.
I slip out the door, closing it softly behind me, and make my escape down three flights of stairs and into the early morning street.
The air is crisp with spring coolness, the sidewalks still damp from last night's rain. I must look ridiculous—a woman clearly in walk-of-shame mode, wearing men's clothes too large for her frame, hair untamed, feet sliding around in heels meant for dry floors and Instagram-worthy poses.
I flag down a passing taxi, giving the driver my address with as much dignity as I can muster. As the car pulls away, I resist the urge to look back at Max's building, to see if maybe he woke up and followed me. He didn't. Of course he didn't. Because this isn't a romantic comedy; it's real life with real consequences.
The taxi driver, mercifully, doesn't attempt conversation. I stare out the window as Brooklyn passes by, morning light beginning to paint the buildings gold. My mind won't stop replaying fragments of last night—the taste of his mouth, the sound of my name on his lips, the way we fit together like we'd been designed as matching pieces.
What was I thinking? This wasn't part of the plan. Sex complicates everything, especially sex that feels like…that. Sex that wasn't just physical release but something deeper, more dangerous.
By the time the taxi pulls up outside my building, I've constructed a mental fortress of rationalizations. It was just sex. A momentary lapse in judgment. The natural result of weeks of pretending to be attracted to each other. It doesn't have to change anything.
I pay the driver and hurry inside, grateful that it's early enough that none of my neighbors are around to witness my disheveled state. My apartment feels sterile and empty after the lived-in warmth of Max's place. Everything here is arranged for optimal photographic potential—neutral furniture that won't clash with sponsored products, strategic pops of color that maintain my aesthetic, nothing out of place.
I peel off Max's clothes, suddenly unable to bear the scent of him surrounding me. The shower is scalding hot, as if I could wash away not just the physical evidence of last night but the emotional residue as well. I scrub until my skin is pink, until I feel like myself again—or at least, the version of myself I present to the world.
Wrapped in a robe, I finally check the flurry of messages from Tori. The Luminous Beauty event is in three days, and they want to feature me and Max prominently since our "relationship journey" has been generating unprecedented engagement. There's talk of a potential ambassadorship if all goes well.
My stomach knots. The irony isn't lost on me—just as our fake relationship becomes more valuable professionally, we've complicated it beyond recognition personally. How am I supposed to stand beside Max at this event, playing the part of the smitten girlfriend, when I can't even face him this morning?
I'm about to call Tori when my phone buzzes with a new message. It's from Max.
I stare at his name on the screen, heart pounding unreasonably. What if he's angry I left? What if he wants to end our arrangement? What if he wants to talk about feelings?
Taking a deep breath, I open the message:
You stole my favorite band shirt. Not cool. I was planning to be buried in that. Now I need a new funeral outfit. Maybe something with sequins?
A startled laugh escapes me. No anger, no pressure for a deep conversation, just…Max being Max. A follow-up text appears:
Also, no goodbye kiss? I'm wounded. At least tell me you left because you're secretly a superhero with a morning crime-fighting schedule, not because you regret last night.
The knot in my chest loosens slightly. This I can handle—humor, lightness, no heavy emotional demands. I type back:
Your shirt is being held hostage. Ransom: one decent cup of coffee and promise of no morning-after awkwardness. And yes, crime fighting. Very important. The city needs me.
His response is immediate:
Hostage situation noted. Will prepare rescue mission involving coffee. As for awkwardness, I'm physically incapable of it. I'm basically a walking GQ photoshoot at all times. Just ask my bathroom mirror—we have long conversations about my natural grace.
Another laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me. How does he do that? Cut through my anxiety with just a few ridiculous words?
I hesitate, then type:
About last night...
The three dots appear immediately, then disappear. Then:
Was exactly what it was. No pressure, no expectations. We're adults. We can handle this.
I stare at the words, relief and something like disappointment warring in my chest. This is what I wanted, isn't it? No complications? Then why does his easy acceptance sting?
The charity gala is Friday. *Still on?
Wouldn't miss it. I've been practicing my 'devoted boyfriend' face in the mirror. It's somewhere between 'puppy seeing owner after five minutes' and 'man watching sports team score important point thing.'
And just like that, we've navigated the morning after without a single sincere conversation about what happened or what it means. It should feel like a victory. Instead, as I set down my phone and begin the process of reconstructing Lena Carter, Influencer Extraordinaire, I'm left wondering why his humor feels like both a lifeline and a shield.
But this is better—safer—than the alternative. We have a contract to fulfill, a narrative to maintain, and a clear expiration date. Last night was a detour, nothing more.
At least, that's what I tell myself as I deliberately hang his t-shirt in my closet instead of adding it to the laundry pile, unable to quite let go of the tangible reminder that for one night, at least, something real happened between us.