Max woke up determined to be normal.
This was, in retrospect, a deeply optimistic decision.
By nine-thirty, he had already failed.
He told himself it was coincidence that he ended up wherever Catherine was. The break room, for example—he did want coffee, even though the caffeine had long since stopped working. The printing area—his documents genuinely needed reprinting, despite the fact that they had printed perfectly an hour earlier. The hallway—well. People walked in hallways. That was simply how buildings worked.
Adrian, unfortunately, had eyes.
He watched Max hover at a distance that was neither professional nor accidental, his movements sharp with a kind of restless intent that didn't know where to land.
"You know," Adrian said mildly, leaning against a counter like a man observing a nature documentary, "normal friends don't trail their crushes across four floors."
Max jerked, nearly sloshing coffee onto his sleeve. "I'm not stalking her."
Adrian hummed. "You followed her into a meeting she wasn't even leading."
"I was checking on something."
"Yes," Adrian said. "Your dignity."
Max groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. He had never been like this. He had never had to try. Women had always come easily—interest, attraction, attention, all of it flowing toward him without effort or consequence.
But Catherine—
Catherine stood like a locked door with no visible handle, and the fact that she didn't care whether he opened it was undoing him in ways he did not have language for.
"Be normal," he muttered to himself under his breath.
"I am being normal."
Adrian patted his shoulder with the solemnity of a priest delivering last rites. "Buddy," he said gently, "you are the furthest thing from normal right now."
That night, they met at the bar they'd unofficially claimed as neutral territory—a dim Brooklyn place with low lights, soft rock humming through speakers, and pool tables scarred by years of bad decisions. The air smelled like old wood and familiarity.
Celine arrived first and immediately seized control of the evening like a conductor lifting her baton.
"Max," she said brightly, dragging him by the arm toward the pool table, "you're playing first."
He blinked. "Why?"
"So Catherine can see if you'll survive tonight's test."
"What test?"
But Catherine was already there, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.
Not cold.
Not warm.
Just watching.
Her expression was unreadable, which somehow made it worse. Max lined up his shot, hyper-aware of the way her gaze followed him—not appraising, not dismissive, just present.
He missed.
Badly.
Celine howled with laughter. "FAIL."
Catherine lifted her glass, hiding her mouth behind it—but Max caught it. A flicker. The slightest curve of her lips before she schooled her face back into neutrality.
His heart did something reckless.
He nearly dropped the cue.
Later, when Catherine finally joined them at the table, chaos arrived without warning.
A dart from another group flew off-course, spinning wildly through the air—aimed straight for her wrist.
Max moved before he could think.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him, hard enough that her chest collided with his. Her breath caught. His heart slammed violently against his ribs.
The dart hit the floor with a useless clatter.
Celine gasped.
Catherine stared up at him, eyes wide. "I... didn't even see that."
"You don't have to," Max said quietly.
He was still holding her hand. Too long.
The world narrowed to the space between them—the warmth of her palm, the steady pressure of his grip, the certainty of being caught before falling.
Catherine swallowed.
And in that instant, something inside her fractured.
Because she felt safe.
Not alert. Not defensive. Not prepared.
Safe.
And she hadn't felt that way since she was seventeen.
Fear rushed in immediately, sharp and instinctive. She gently pulled her hand free.
"Thanks," she said softly.
No sarcasm.
No edge.
No armor.
Just softness.
Max heard it.
Felt it.
It nearly knocked him over.
When Catherine slipped away toward the bar to get another drink, Celine was at Max's side in seconds.
"You're done for," she said cheerfully.
Max didn't look at her. He was still staring at the doorway Catherine had disappeared through. "Yeah."
"You noticed she softened, right?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
"Just for a second."
"Yeah."
Celine grinned, satisfied. "Congratulations," she said. "You passed today's test."
Max flushed, heart still racing, already knowing the truth he wasn't ready to admit—
There would be no going back to normal.
Not for him.
And not for Catherine, either.
── .✦
Catherine shuts the door behind her and doesn't move.
The apartment is dark, quiet in the way that presses in on you when you're trying not to feel. Her pulse is still wrong—too fast, too loud. Her hand still remembers the weight of his fingers around her wrist, firm without pain, protective without asking permission. Her chest still remembers the closeness. The solid certainty of being pulled somewhere safe.
That was soft, she thinks.
The word alone makes her stomach twist.
Softness is danger.
Softness is memory.
Softness is the exact thing she promised herself she would never feel again.
She drops her keys on the counter harder than necessary and goes straight to the bathroom, flicking on the light like she can burn the feeling away. She splashes cold water onto her face once. Twice. A third time, until the chill seeps into her skin.
"You need to stop," she tells her reflection. "Right now."
Her reflection doesn't listen.
Her eyes are too bright. Her mouth still faintly curved, as if it hasn't gotten the memo that joy is forbidden territory. She grips the edge of the sink and leans closer, searching her own face like it might confess something she's missed.
"Maybe you're tired," she mutters. "Maybe you're hormonal. Maybe you're just—stupid."
The word tastes bitter. Familiar.
But the truth doesn't care what she calls it. It lands anyway, sharp and undeniable:
She doesn't let people touch her.
Not casually.
Not accidentally.
Not ever.
Yet she let Max pull her close.
And worse—
she let herself lean into it.
The memory hits her full force now. The way her body reacted before her mind could intervene. The way safety rushed in without permission, unearned and terrifying. The way her shoulders had dropped, just for a second, like they remembered something she'd trained them to forget.
Her breath stutters.
She groans and presses both palms over her face, dragging them down slowly, as if she can physically pull herself back together.
"Love," she says softly, like she's testing a lie she already knows the ending to.
Love was never kind.
Love never stayed.
Love was the sound of her parents arguing behind closed doors, voices sharp with disappointment and blame. Love was watching two people who once chose each other slowly turn into strangers, then enemies, then ghosts who shared a house.
Love was her mother crying in the kitchen. Love was her father saying;This is what happens when you believe too much.
They called it incompatibility.
She called it love failing.
And then there was the boy. The first one.
The one who told her it was fate—who said they were written, inevitable, meant. He took her trust like it was destiny doing the work for him. Took her softness, her belief, her willingness to lean in. Took her heart gently, almost reverently—and then gone.
Two losses, wrapped in the same word.
Love tortures, she thinks.
Slowly. Quietly. Like it wants you to believe it's harmless first.
Love makes you hope.
Hope makes you reckless.
Reckless makes you lose things you can't afford to lose.
She stares at her reflection, eyes sharp, jaw locked.
Love breaks people.
Love dismantles homes.
Love convinces you to give pieces away and calls it bravery.
And when it's done, it leaves you standing alone, wondering how you mistook damage for devotion.
She exhales, shaky but controlled.
She has already lost enough.
Lost the illusion that staying meant safety.
Lost the version of herself who thought being chosen meant being protected.
"I don't believe in love," she says aloud now, firmer, like a vow she's making to herself.
"Not for me. Not in my life."
"No," she whispers. "No. No. No."
Love is a story that other people survive.
A luxury for people who don't need armor.
A myth that ends in blame and broken homes.
She points at her reflection, decisive.
"Reset," she tells herself. "Hard reset. Full shutdown."
Her voice steadies, even if her chest doesn't.
"Catherine 2.0," she adds quietly.
"Emotionally unavailable edition."
She straightens.
Because if love doesn't exist in her life—then it can't take anything else from her.
She exhales, long and controlled, the way she learned to do when panic tried to take the wheel.
Friends. Only friends.
She repeats it like a mantra. Like a lock clicking into place.
Friends mean distance.
Friends mean safety.
Friends mean nothing to lose.
The ache in her chest resists, flares once in protest, then dulls reluctantly.
Good, she thinks. Pain, I can manage.
She turns off the bathroom light and stands in the dark again, arms wrapped around herself—not for comfort, she insists, but containment.
Tomorrow, she'll be sharper. Colder. Smarter.
She'll put space where warmth tried to grow.
She'll make boundaries so clean they cut.
She'll treat Max like what he is—
A risk.
A complication.
A mistake she is absolutely not going to make.
Catherine closes her eyes and breathes until the room stops spinning.
Her terrible strategy settles into place, neat and convincing:
She will be distant.
She will be careful.
She will not let herself feel safe again.
And if that means hurting him a little—
She swallows hard.
—so be it.
Because Catherine knows one thing for certain:
If she lets this continue, it won't just hurt.
It will break her.
────୨ৎ────
Max is losing his mind. Again.
Adrian drives because Max absolutely cannot be trusted with machinery right now.
The city blurs past the windows in streaks of amber and red, and Max sits slumped in the passenger seat like a man recovering from impact. He hasn't spoken in ten minutes. Not a single word. Just staring straight ahead, jaw tight, hands folded together as if that might keep his thoughts from spilling out all over the dashboard.
Adrian glances over once. Then again.
"You're thinking so hard," Adrian finally says, "I can smell the smoke."
Max exhales and sinks lower into the seat.
"She thanked me."
Adrian snorts. "Congrats? People do that. Waiters do that. Dogs do that."
"Not like that," Max says immediately. His voice cracks just enough to annoy him. "She was... soft."
"Oh," Adrian says, turning the radio down with exaggerated care. "Ohhh. Soft. The rare and mythical Catherine Soft Moment. Did the sky open? Did angels descend? Was there a unicorn?"
"Adrian."
"What?" Adrian grins. "I just want the full documentation."
Max drags a hand down his face. "I think I'm in trouble."
That gets Adrian's attention. The grin shifts—subtle, curious.
"That kind of trouble?" he asks.
Max doesn't answer right away. He stares at his own reflection in the windshield, distorted and unfamiliar. Then he covers his face with both hands.
"I do really like her."
The car swerves slightly as Adrian explodes into laughter, slamming one hand against the steering wheel.
"I KNEW IT," Adrian crows. "I TOLD YOU. From day one. The penthouse. The first time she looked at you like she wanted to file your existence under Ignore Forever."
"Shut up," Max mutters, muffled by his palms. "I'm serious."
"Oh, I know," Adrian says gleefully. "That's why it's hilarious."
Max drops his hands, eyes dark. "I can't mess this up. She actually lets me in a little. She trusts me. Somehow." His voice lowers. "And if I screw this up—"
"You will screw it up," Adrian says cheerfully. "You have absolutely no idea how to handle someone who doesn't fall at your feet."
Max glares. "Thanks."
"Buddy," Adrian adds, softer now, "I love you. But you're a golden retriever with the dating instincts of a Greek tragedy."
Max sinks lower in his seat.
The laughter fades as the silence stretches again, heavier this time. Max's mind replays it all without mercy—the way Catherine blinked in surprise when he pulled her back, the way her breath hitched, the way she didn't pull away immediately. The way she said thank you like it meant something.
Not obligation.
Not politeness.
Trust.
That's the part that terrifies him.
Because Max has done desire. He's done charm. He's done attention and intensity and short-lived fires that burn bright and disappear without consequence.
This is different.
This feels... quiet. Earned. Fragile.
The car pulls up in front of his building. Adrian kills the engine but doesn't get out.
"You okay?" Adrian asks, finally.
Max shakes his head once. Honest. Small.
"No."
Adrian studies him, then nods. "Yeah. Thought so."
And later — Max alone with the damage.
Max's apartment is too clean. Too quiet. The kind of silence that gives thoughts room to stretch and sharpen.
He drops his keys onto the counter and stands there, unmoving, jacket still on, shoes still on, as if he doesn't fully enter the space, the night might not catch up to him.
It does anyway.
Her face comes back uninvited. The slight furrow in her brow. The controlled calm. The way her hand felt in his—warm, steady, real.
He sinks onto the edge of the couch and stares at the floor.
This is bad, he thinks.
Not in the dramatic way. Not in the this will ruin my reputation way.
In the irreversible way.
Because the truth settles in with quiet finality:
He can't undo this.
He can't pretend he didn't feel it. Can't flirt it away. Can't outthink it. He's tried distraction before—hell, it's his specialty—but Catherine has slipped past all of that. She didn't ask for his attention. She didn't want anything from him.
And somehow, that's what made him give her everything.
He laughs once, breathless and disbelieving.
"Idiot," he mutters to the empty room.
He's built empires. Negotiated hostile takeovers. Walked away from women who cried in penthouses without looking back.
And now—
Now he's sitting on his couch, heart lodged painfully high in his chest, undone by a woman who probably went home and decided she needed to feel less.
The thought hurts more than he expects.
Because he knows that look. He's seen it before, just never on someone he cares about.
The look of retreat.
The look of armor sliding back into place.
Max leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight.
He doesn't want to chase her.
He doesn't want to scare her.
He doesn't want to be the reason she hardens.
But he also knows this—bone-deep, terrifyingly clear:
Whatever happened tonight changed something.
In her.
In him.
And even if she decides to pull away tomorrow—
even if she resets, freezes him out, redraws every line—
He won't.
Because Max has crossed a line he didn't even know existed.
He closes his eyes.
Too late to go back.
────୨ৎ────
The Strategy — Adrian's Worst Idea Yet
The elevator ride up feels too long and too small.
Max slumps against the mirrored wall, jacket still on, tie loosened, the faint echo of the bar clinging to him like a ghost. Adrian stands beside him, energized in the way only someone not emotionally compromised can be.
"Okay," Adrian says brightly. "You need a plan."
Max exhales through his nose. "A plan for what, exactly? Humiliating myself faster?"
"To make her realize you're not just some guy," Adrian replies. "You're the guy."
Max drags a hand through his hair. "She already thinks I'm an idiot."
Adrian snaps his fingers. "Exactly. Perfect foundation."
Max turns slowly. "That doesn't sound reassuring."
Adrian grins. "We use jealousy."
The word hits like a slap. "No," Max says immediately.
"Yes."
"No."
"Oh, absolutely yes."
Max straightens. "Catherine doesn't do jealousy."
Adrian scoffs. "Everyone does jealousy."
"Not her," Max insists. "She doesn't react. She files things away. She builds walls. She pretends nothing touches her."
Adrian nods thoughtfully. "Which is why we press the big red button."
Max groans. "Adrian—"
"We get you talking to another girl. Casually. Publicly. Catherine feels a flicker of jealousy, panic sets in, boom—emotional breakthrough."
"She won't panic," Max says. "She'll just... retreat."
Adrian sighs, resting his head briefly against the elevator wall. "Max. Sweetheart. Even robots glitch."
The doors slide open.
Ten minutes of arguing later—ten minutes of Max insisting this is a terrible idea and Adrian insisting terrible ideas are historically his best work—Max reluctantly caves.
It feels wrong in his bones.
Which should have been his first clue.
And the next Saturday night — the strategy explodes.
The day arrives like a trap.
Their usual bar hums with familiar noise—warm lights, clinking glasses, the low rhythm of music curling through brick walls. Comforting. Predictable.
Dangerous.
Celine is already there when Max walks in, oversized blazer slipping off one shoulder, eyes bright with chaos. Catherine stands beside her, deadly calm in a black crop top and dark straight-leg jeans, hair loose, expression unreadable.
Max forgets how lungs work.
Adrian elbows him sharply. "Remember the plan."
Right.
The plan.
Max swallows and turns toward the bar, striking up a conversation with a blonde standing nearby. She smiles easily. Laughs at the right moments. Touches his arm once—light, practiced.
Celine watches with open amusement.
Catherine watches with nothing.
Not jealousy.
Not irritation.
Not even curiosity.
Just... mild boredom.
Max keeps glancing over, waiting for something—anything—a tightened jaw, a glance too long, a flicker of discomfort.
Nothing.
Catherine sips her drink slowly, eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed. When Max laughs a little too loudly at the blonde's joke, Catherine turns to Celine, voice calm.
"So," she says, "what do you want to order next?"
Max stares.
Nothing twists.
Nothing cracks.
His stomach drops.
This isn't indifference performed.
This is real.
Eventually, Catherine approaches them, polite as ever. Too polite.
"Max," she says lightly, "your friend seems really sweet. You should go for it."
The words land clean.
Efficient.
Devastating.
"I—what?" Max blinks.
Catherine smiles—a small, controlled curve of her lips. "Don't worry about us. We're just here to have fun. You don't have to look after us all the time."
He feels it then—the precise ache between his ribs, sharp and unexpected.
Celine bites her lip, trying not to laugh.
Adrian looks like he's watching a live execution.
"Yeah," Catherine adds gently, "we're friends, right? Friends support each other."
Friends.
The word sinks deep and stays there.
Max opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His throat tightens, betraying him.
He nods stiffly. "Yeah."
Her smile doesn't reach her eyes.
Not because she's hurting.
Because she's protecting herself.
She's drawing a line so clean and reasonable that he can't argue without proving her right.
And suddenly, Max understands the full scale of Adrian's mistake.
Jealousy didn't awaken her feelings.
It confirmed her fear.
As Catherine turns away—wall back in place, warmth carefully packed away—Max realizes with brutal clarity:
He didn't push her closer.
He pushed her back.
And this time, the distance feels real.
Unmistakable.
And entirely his fault.
ᯓ★
Celine doesn't wait long.
The second Catherine disappears toward the restroom, Celine grabs Max's sleeve and steers him a few steps away, her grip firm but not unkind. Her voice drops—not sharp, not teasing. Serious, which somehow lands harder.
"You idiot," she whispers.
Max's shoulders sag instantly, like she's confirmed something he already feared.
"She didn't care," he mutters. "Not even a little."
Celine exhales through her nose. "She cared before."
Max looks up, eyes raw. "Then why does she look at me like I'm... nothing?"
"Because," Celine says carefully, choosing every word, "you made her feel something before."
Max's breath catches.
"And Catherine doesn't do feelings," Celine continues. "She panics. She shuts down. She resets."
"Reset?" he echoes weakly.
"Hard reset," Celine confirms. "Full system wipe. And now she's decided you're officially—" she winces, "—friend-zoned. Not because she doesn't like you. Because she does."
His face crumples.
"For your own good," Celine adds gently. "And for her sanity."
Max drags both hands down his face.
"Great," he mutters. "Perfect. Fantastic. I followed a strategy designed by a sociopath."
Adrian chooses that moment to clap Max on the back.
"Hey," he says brightly, "look on the bright side."
Max shoots him a look. "There is no bright side."
"Oh, there is," Adrian insists. "Now we know making her jealous doesn't work."
Max groans aloud.
"And," Adrian continues, relentless, "that you completely suck at pretending to flirt with other people."
Max glares. "Thank you."
Adrian grins. "Anytime."
Celine sighs, softer now. "Just... don't push. She doesn't freeze people out for fun, Max. She freezes when she's scared."
That lands. Hard.
Catherine comes back a minute later, wiping her hands on a napkin.
She smiles.
It's perfect.
Too perfect.
Polite. Composed. Carefully neutral—like a mask polished until it reflects nothing back.
"Ready to play billiards?" she asks easily.
Max's chest tightens.
She sounds like nothing happened between them.
Like he never pulled her close.
Like she never leaned in.
Like she never softened.
She's back to the Catherine from the first week.
The Catherine who didn't linger.
The Catherine who didn't look twice.
The Catherine who could walk away without a backward glance.
Max swallows hard.
"Yeah," he says quietly.
"Let's play."
Damage Control, Frostbite, and a Warning
Max spends the rest of the week with a knot lodged permanently beneath his ribs.
He doesn't know what he did wrong.
Or what line he crossed.
Or why Catherine had looked like she was about to reach for him—
and then bolted like the room was on fire.
Axel Maximilian Luca did not chase people.
People chased him.
And yet—
Here he is.
Trailing her through hallways.
Timing his coffee breaks to hers.
Lingering near the elevators.
Not aggressively.
Not creepily.
Just... orbiting.
────୨ৎ────
"Morning," he tries one day, soft.
"Morning," she replies flatly, not breaking stride.
"You didn't reply in the group chat last night."
"I was asleep."
"It was eight."
"So?"
She keeps walking.
He frowns.
She isn't avoiding him exactly. She still shows up. Still jokes with Celine. Still sends dry, sarcastic comments when Adrian is being insufferable.
She's just... different.
Lik something inside her shut behind a door he didn't know existed.
Every time he tries to catch her alone, she slips away.
Every time he tries to make her laugh, she smirks instead.
Every time he stands too close, she steps back—subtle, precise, unmistakable.
He tries harder.
He holds doors.
Bring her coffee.
Asks how her day is going.
She accepts everything.
Politely.
Neutrally.
Like a colleague.
It makes him feel sick.
Undo it, he thinks.
Undo whatever this is.
But he has no idea what he's undoing.
And that terrifies him more than anything ever has.
Catherine is becoming friendlier... but colder
Catherine doesn't run from Max. Running would imply fear.
Instead, she does what she learned to do growing up in a house full of slammed doors and disappearing affection.
She adapts.
She becomes easier.
Kinder.
More agreeable.
She laughs louder in the group chat.
Agrees to more hangouts.
Even bumps her shoulder into his one night when he tells a particularly terrible joke.
But underneath—
Underneath, she's marble again.
Max feels it.
Everyone does.
She's warm on the surface.
Winter beneath.
When Max laughs, she no longer smiles without thinking—she chooses to.
When their hands brush, she withdraws immediately.
When he looks at her with those too-honest eyes, she looks away.
It kills him.
But Catherine doesn't see cruelty in what she's doing.
She sees survival.
Because feelings make you abandon.
Feelings make you foolish.
Feelings make you lose things you can't replace.
Better to be friendly—but unreachable.
Better to be warm—but untouchable.
Better to freeze in a way no one notices.
And if it hurts Max a little—
She tells herself that's better than letting it destroy her.
────୨ৎ────
Celine had been watching for ten days.
Ten days of Catherine becoming polite ice—smiling without warmth, laughing without weight.
Ten days of Max unraveling in slow motion, his charm fraying at the edges.
Ten days of the two of them orbiting each other like frightened planets, close enough to feel the pull, too terrified to collide.
She'd had enough.
She cornered Max on Saturday afternoon in her penthouse, the city stretched wide beyond the glass walls. Catherine was in the shower, music muffled behind the bathroom door, steam fogging the hallway mirror.
"You need a new strategy," Celine said flatly.
Max looked up from the couch, startled. "Excuse me?"
Celine folded her arms. "I know what you did."
"I didn't do anything!"
"Exactly," she snapped. "You did nothing. And she panicked."
The words hit him harder than shouting would have.
Celine sighed, her tone shifting—not softer, but sharper in its honesty.
"Catherine has a heart that resets itself. You get too close—she freezes. She feels something—she shuts down. She learned a long time ago that feelings don't end in comfort. They end in loss."
Max swallowed. He'd sensed pieces of this—felt it in her flinches, her careful distance—but hearing it spoken aloud made it real in a way he couldn't ignore.
Celine stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"You keep pretending nothing changed between you two. But something did. She let herself feel. And that scared her more than you know."
His chest tightened. "What happens if I screw this up?"
Celine didn't hesitate.
"She resets her heart," she said quietly.
"And once Catherine resets for real... she locks it."
Forever.
Max felt the room tilt.
He didn't know all of Catherine's history—the boy she loved and lost in the name of fate, the parents who taught her love was something that broke houses apart—but he knew enough to understand what that lock meant.
Celine placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.
"You have one window," she whispered. "One chance to show her you're safe. One chance before she builds the walls she spent years perfecting."
Something inside Max went still. Focused. Terrified.
"What do I do?" he asked.
Celine smiled faintly, pity threading her expression.
"You'll figure it out. But it won't be jealousy games. It won't be hot-and-cold bullshit. And it definitely won't be chasing her like a puppy."
Her voice softened. "Be steady. Be safe. Be human."
She met his gaze, unflinching.
"And Max—if you want her, fight smart. She's worth the work."
The bathroom door opened then.
Catherine emerged, towel twisted into her hair, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, eyes a little tired from lifting too many weights and carrying too many thoughts.
She smiled at them.
Warm.
Distant.
Max's heart flipped painfully in his chest.
Celine exhaled under her breath.
"Too late," she muttered. "He's already gone."
ᯓ★
Max had never been steady in his life.
He was impulse and adrenaline.
Fast cars. Fast smiles. Faster exits.
A man the world leaned toward.
Until Catherine.
For her, he slowed down.
On Monday morning, Catherine walked into the office expecting chaos—teasing, hovering, a flirty comment designed to knock her off balance.
Instead, Max leaned against the reception desk, coffee in hand. His own coffee. No offering. No performance.
He smiled when he saw her.
Not the devastating one.
Not the charming one.
Just... warm.
"Morning, Boston."
Her step faltered.
The nickname wasn't new. The tone was.
Soft. Grounded. Non-invasive.
"Morning," she replied cautiously.
He didn't follow her to the elevator. Didn't tease. Didn't touch her shoulder as he passed.
He let her go.
At lunch, Celine dragged her to their usual café—and there he was again.
Already seated.
Already calm.
"Hope you don't mind," Max said easily. "Adrian bailed. Thought I'd crash your table."
Catherine blinked.
Normally, he would've slid into her space, complimented her jacket, thrown a grin sharp enough to cut glass.
This Max sat across from her. Gave her room. Asked simply:
"How's your day going?"
She studied him. Suspicious.
"Fine."
"Anything stressful?"
"Not really."
"That's good."
He smiled and took a sip of his drink, leaving the silence unfilled.
Celine watched him as if she were witnessing a rare behavioral experiment.
Impressed. Alarmed. Possibly terrified.
Catherine felt something unfamiliar stir in her chest.
Not panic.
Disorientation.
When they left the café, Max didn't walk beside her.
Didn't chase.
"See you tonight?" he asked.
"Tonight?"
"Pool. Arcade. Whatever you two want. I'm free."
He wasn't assuming.
He wasn't pressing.
He was asking.
She nodded before she could stop herself.
And as she walked away, she felt his gaze—not hungry, not possessive.
Just... present.
That scared her more than anything else could have.
ᯓ★
It started too small to name.
Max didn't flirt.
Didn't push.
He picked songs for the jukebox.
Handed her cue chalk when hers ran out.
Laughed—really laughed—when she beat him at pool twice in a row.
"Guess I deserved that," he said, shaking his head.
"You did," she replied, smirk breaking through.
He nudged her elbow lightly and walked away.
No tension.
No claiming.
It disarmed her.
It was harder to build walls when no one was trying to tear them down.
She found herself watching him when he wasn't looking.
How he listened when Celine talked.
How he focused, tongue pressed against his cheek, when lining up a shot.
One night, outside the bar, he walked near them—not close—and asked casually:
"Want me to walk you home?"
She froze.
He saw it instantly.
"Sorry," he said quickly. "That came out wrong. Habit. You two are together. You don't need me."
Celine snorted. "We definitely don't. But points for manners."
Catherine stared at him.
He wasn't flirting.
He wasn't protecting.
He wasn't assuming.
He was offering.
Her chest tightened.
"Goodnight, Max," she said, voice softer than intended.
"Night."
The word followed her all the way home.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't reset immediately.
She just... held the feeling.
Terrified of what it meant.
────୨ৎ────
It happened on a Thursday morning—an ordinary one, which somehow made it worse.
Celine was buried in a meeting.
Max was out on a site visit with Adrian.
The office hummed with its usual rhythm, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead.
Catherine was halfway through a blueberry muffin in the breakroom when her phone vibrated against the counter.
She glanced down absently.
And then everything inside her went cold.
Boston
The contact name she had deleted years ago, burned into her memory so deeply it didn't matter that the number was gone. Her fingers locked around the paper cup in her hand, squeezing until the lid buckled and hot coffee sloshed dangerously close to the edge.
Her heart didn't race.
It stopped.
He had left.
He had gone to Boston.
He had "started over."
A new city. A new life. A carefully edited version of himself that didn't include her, her mother or her father—only the aftermath he left behind. The debts. The explanations. The damage.
She let the phone ring.
Her breath stayed shallow. Controlled.
Then the text appeared.
We need to talk.
Her lungs seized.
The smell of burnt coffee flooded her senses, sharp and acrid, and suddenly Manhattan dissolved.
She was fifteen again.
Standing in the narrow hallway of her childhood home while her father's voice thundered through the walls and her mother cried in the kitchen.
She was folding clothes into boxes that didn't belong to her.
She was listening to the front door slam so hard the frame rattled.
She was staring out the window at night, waiting for headlights that never came back.
Her hands began to shake.
She stood abruptly, chair scraping too loud against the floor, needing air—needing distance from the walls closing in.
She turned into the hallway—
And nearly collided with Max.
He had returned early.
He stepped aside automatically, hands lifting in reflex. "Hey—sorry—didn't mean to block—"
She nodded stiffly, trying to slip past him like nothing was wrong.
But Max had learned her tells.
The tight jaw.
The way she wouldn't meet his eyes.
The rigid set of her shoulders, like she was bracing for impact.
"Catherine."
She froze.
"You okay?"
The question was simple. Gentle. Not prying.
And it undid her.
Her throat closed. Her chest constricted so sharply it hurt. She opened her mouth and nothing came out.
Max stepped closer—not enough to corner her, not enough to trap—but enough that she could feel him there. Solid. Present.
"Talk to me," he said softly.
Something inside her cracked.
Not open.
Just fractured.
"I can't," she whispered.
He nodded once, immediately. No pressure. No disappointment.
"Okay," he said. "You don't have to. But you're not alone."
The warmth of that sentence terrified her more than anger ever could.
She took a step back, rebuilding her distance brick by brick.
"I'm fine, Max."
Her voice was steadier now. Colder.
Then she walked away.
Not because she didn't want him.
Not because he wasn't safe.
But because Boston was a wound that reopened with a single touch.
And she could not—would not—let Max see the blood.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Behind her, Max watched her go, a hollow ache settling deep in his gut.
Something had shifted.
Something big.
Something painful.
And though he had no idea how to fix it, one truth rooted itself firmly in his chest:
He wasn't going anywhere.
ᯓ★
Celine didn't need an explanation.
She only needed one look.
The stiff way Catherine held herself.
The way she kept adjusting her jacket, even though it wasn't crooked.
The tremor in her fingers as she unlocked her desk.
Celine dropped her smoothie onto the desk with a dull thud.
"Okay," she said flatly. "What happened?"
"Nothing."
The word came out too sharp. Too fast.
Celine sat anyway. Folded her arms. Stared.
Catherine exhaled.
"You're staring."
"That's because you're lying," Celine replied. "Badly."
Catherine looked away.
Celine leaned forward, voice gentler now.
"Is it your dad?"
Catherine froze.
That was all the answer Celine needed.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Do you want me to beat him up?"
"Celine."
"Hypothetically. With words. Or a brick."
That earned the smallest crack of a smile—thin, fragile. It vanished almost immediately.
"I need to go to Boston," Catherine said.
Celine's expression fell. She knew what Boston did to her. Knew how many ghosts Catherine kept locked behind her ribs.
"You want me to come with you?"
Catherine swallowed.
"I think... I need to do this alone."
Celine didn't like it.
But she nodded.
"Text me. And if he upsets you, I'm driving there."
Catherine squeezed her hand.
Then she left.
────୨ৎ────
The house is exactly how Catherine remembers it.
Cold.
Stale.
Heavy with the kind of silence that presses into your bones.
Nothing here has ever felt like home—only like a place people endure until they can leave.
Her uncle's car sits in the driveway.
Her aunt's coat hangs on the rack, still damp from the rain.
And in the kitchen, her father stands with a woman who is far too young to look comfortable in this house.
Catherine stops.
The woman's lipstick is too bright. Her laugh dies too quickly when she notices Catherine. There's a glass of wine in her hand—expensive, Catherine notes distantly, because she has learned to count money automatically.
Her father doesn't flinch.
He sighs instead, rubbing his forehead like Catherine is the problem.
"So," he says, irritated, "you weren't supposed to see this."
The words hit her harder than if he'd apologized.
Her aunt enters from the hallway, eyes swollen, dignity shattered but carefully held together. Her uncle follows, jaw tight, fury contained because that's what this family does—contain, endure, protect the wrong person.
Everyone knew.
Everyone but Catherine.
The realization lands slowly, brutally:
They kept it from her because she had enough on her plate.
Because she was already paying.
Because Catherine had always been the cleanup crew.
Her father steps toward her. "Don't make a scene."
She laughs—a short, disbelieving sound that surprises even her.
"A scene?" she says. "You're cheating in your own kitchen."
"Watch your tone," he snaps.
Something snaps back inside her.
"You let me send money," she says. "You let me pay off your credit cards. Your loans. Your 'business investments' that magically disappeared." Her voice shakes now. "Do you know how many nights I skipped sleep because you called, crying about collectors?"
Her aunt's face crumples.
Her father stiffens.
"That was family responsibility," he says sharply. "I raised you."
"You raised me?" Catherine steps forward. "You left. And then you came back only when the bills did."
The words spill now, years of receipts finally tallied.
"You were always in debt. Always. Gambling debts. Business debts. Personal loans you couldn't explain. And every time, you had a story. A reason. A promise."
Her father's voice rises. "I was trying to build something!"
"You were running," she snaps. "From consequences. From us."
The younger woman shifts uncomfortably, realizing too late that she isn't special—just new.
"And this?" Catherine gestures sharply. "This isn't the first time. Is she the third? The fourth?" Her laugh turns brittle. "You collect women like credit cards. Max them out. Leave the balance for someone else."
Her father's face darkens.
"I paid for your education," he fires back.
No, he didn't.
"You wouldn't have anything without me."
No, we would have something.
"You don't get to buy my silence," Catherine says. "Or my loyalty."
He slaps her.
The sound splits the room.
Her cheek burns, but the pain barely registers compared to the clarity flooding her chest.
Her father moves again, grabs her wrist—too tight, fingers digging in like ownership.
"You think you're better than me now?" he snarls. "You think leaving makes you clean?"
Her uncle shouts. Her aunt cries out. The younger woman backs away, horrified.
Catherine wrenches her hand free.
"No," she says, voice suddenly calm. Deadly. "I think love is the lie you sell to excuse destruction."
That lands.
Her father stares at her like she's a stranger.
She feels it then—fully, finally:
Love in this family meant debt.
Love meant bruises, secrets, silence.
Love meant paying for someone else's mistakes until you disappeared inside them.
She looks around the kitchen at the wreckage—at the people who stayed, who enabled, who called it sacrifice.
"This family breaks everyone it touches," she says quietly.
She grabs her bag.
No one stops her.
No one ever does.
Outside, the air is cold and clean and unforgiving.
Catherine stands on the front steps, breathing hard, hands shaking—not from fear, but from release.
And somewhere in Manhattan, without knowing any of this yet, Max is learning how to be steady.
She doesn't know if she'll ever let him see this part of her.
But she knows one thing with absolute certainty:
She will never confuse love with damage again.
Even if it means being alone.
ᯓ★
It's midnight in Boston, and Catherine sits rigid on the bench, the iron cold seeping through her coat, the wind biting at skin already raw.
Her cheek still throbs.
Her wrist has begun to swell, purple blooming beneath pale skin.
Her throat feels locked, like if she opens it too wide, something irreversible will spill out.
She does not cry.
She refuses.
Crying feels like surrender.
Crying feels like giving him—her father—something else to take.
But the shaking won't stop.
Her phone rests heavy in her palm, screen glowing faintly against the dark.
Max's name stares back at her like an accusation.
Not flashy.
Not dramatic.
Just there.
Max:
Hey.
Adrian said you're out of town.
Everything okay?
She had ignored it at first.
Stared at it like it was written in another language.
Then—
Max:
Catherine, please.
Just tell me you're safe.
Her grip tightens until her fingers ache.
And then—
Max:
If you need someone... I'm here.
I won't push.
Just let me know you're alright.
That's when the tear comes.
Not dramatic.
Not sobbing.
Just one hot, humiliating tear sliding down her cheek, carried sideways by the wind.
Because he isn't asking for explanations.
He isn't demanding access.
He isn't turning concern into control.
He's just... worried.
And that is somehow worse.
She should close the phone.
She should lock this away like everything else.
Instead, her thumbs move.
I'm in Boston.
Her breath shakes.
She hesitates say too much, say nothing, say something safe—
But safety feels far away tonight.
Can I talk to you?
Three seconds.
That's all she allows herself before fear claws up her spine.
Her thumb hovers over delete.
Her chest tightens.
She freezes.
For the first time in years—
not anger.
not defiance.
Something softer creeps in.
Hope.
It terrifies her.
Her phone vibrates before she can erase it.
Incoming call: Axel Maximilian
Her heart slams violently against her ribs.
She wasn't expecting this.
Not instantly.
Not without hesitation.
She wipes her face with the sleeve of her coat, inhales sharply, and answers.
"Hello?"
Her voice breaks on the first syllable.
Max hears it.
He goes very, very quiet.
Not the teasing silence.
Not the thoughtful one.
The kind that means something inside him just locked into place.
"Catherine," he says, low and steady and absolutely not calm.
"Tell me where you are."
"I'm fine," she tries.
"Don't," he says gently—but sharp. "Don't do that."
The wind howls through the park, rattling bare branches overhead. The cold creeps into her bones.
"I just needed air," she whispers.
"What happened?"
His voice tightens, like something is being crushed behind his ribs.
"Did someone hurt you?"
She doesn't answer.
The silence is louder than words.
His inhale is audible—controlled, but only barely.
"Catherine," he says softly, and the nickname lands differently now,
"I need you to tell me. Please."
Her jaw trembles.
Her throat constricts.
And before she can stop herself, the truth slips out—quiet, stripped bare.
"My father hit me."
There is a pause.
Not disbelief.
Not confusion.
Just... absence.
Max stops breathing.
Then—
"Where are you?"
His voice shifts—dead calm, terrifyingly focused.
"Right now."
She gives him the cross streets.
Cambridge.
A small park near the river.
The same bench she's sat on since she was fifteen—after every fight, every heartbreak, every night she needed to disappear without actually leaving.
She hears movement on the line—doors opening, footsteps, voices muffled and urgent.
"Listen to me," Max says, walking fast. "You're not staying outside. I want you in a hotel. I'll book it. You'll check in. You'll text me the room number."
"No—Max—"
"I'm not asking," he says. Firm. Protective. Unyielding.
"I don't want to drag you into this," she says, voice cracking.
"You already did," he replies softly.
"The second you called me."
She doesn't argue.
She can't.
── .✦
Max ends the call only long enough to grab his coat.
Adrian, half-asleep and barefoot in Max's penthouse, watches him storm past like a man possessed.
"Dude—what happened?"
"I need a helicopter," Max snaps. "Now."
Adrian blinks. "For what? Are we invading Canada?"
"Boston."
Max's voice is clipped. Lethal.
"Catherine's hurt."
Adrian sobers instantly.
"How bad?"
Max doesn't answer.
That tells Adrian everything.
"Okay," Adrian mutters, already dialing. "Hangar'll have one ready in twenty. Pilot's on standby."
Max stops moving.
Swallows hard.
"Keep Celine away from Boston."
Adrian looks up sharply. "She'll commit murder if she finds out."
"That's exactly why."
Adrian exhales. "She'll know."
Max nods once.
"She always does."
And somewhere in a quiet Boston hotel room, Catherine will soon sit on the edge of a bed she didn't pay for, wrapped in borrowed warmth—
Not knowing yet that the man crossing state lines for her isn't doing it out of obligation.
But because he's already chosen her.
Whether she lets him stay or not.
Elsewhere..
Adrian makes exactly one mistake.
He texts Celine:
Adrian:
Max's in Boston. Catherine's hurt.
That's it.
That's all it takes.
Celine reads the message once.
Twice.
Then her phone is ringing.
"WHAT," she says flatly, the second Adrian answers.
"She—her dad—" Adrian starts.
"Did he touch her."
Adrian exhales. "Yes."
There's a pause.
A dangerous one.
"I'm booking a flight," Celine says calmly. Too calmly.
"Celine—"
"No," she cuts in. "I am not discussing this. I am informing you."
"She asked to go alone," Adrian tries.
"Catherine always says that," Celine snaps. "And she's always wrong."
Adrian winces. "Max's with her."
"That is the only reason I haven't committed a felony yet."
Another pause.
Then, quieter—sharp with something protective and furious:
"If that man laid a hand on her, I swear to God—"
"Celine," Adrian says carefully, "Max told me to keep you away from Boston."
She laughs.
A humorless sound.
"Tell Max," she says sweetly, "that he has exactly twelve hours before I show up and ruin everyone's life."
She hangs up.
Already pulling up flight schedules.
Already planning violence.
────୨ৎ────
The knock is gentle.
Not urgent.
Not loud.
Three soft taps against the hotel door.
Catherine freezes, heart thudding painfully against her ribs. She stands slowly, every movement careful, and peers through the peephole.
Max.
Wet hair due to the rain. Coat half-buttoned, tie loosened like he forgot halfway through being composed. His jaw is tight—too tight—and his eyes lift instantly when the door opens, scanning her face, her posture, her hands, as if memorizing proof that she's still standing.
For a second, neither of them speaks.
Then Max exhales.
"You're real," he murmurs, almost like a prayer.
She steps aside to let him in.
The door closes softly behind him. The room smells faintly of clean linen and cold air. Water drifts past the window, the city muted and distant, like the world has agreed to give them this small pocket of quiet.
Max doesn't touch her.
He stays near the door, hands loose at his sides, giving her space like it's something sacred.
"You okay?" he asks again, gentler now that he can see her.
She nods out of habit.
He doesn't believe her.
"Can I... look?" he asks, careful.
She hesitates, then lifts her wrist.
The bruise is worse in this light—purple and blue, fingerprints unmistakable.
Something dark flashes across Max's face. Not anger exactly. Something colder. Controlled. He shuts his eyes briefly, as if locking something dangerous back behind his ribs.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I didn't mean to—"
"No," he cuts in, soft but absolute. "Don't apologize. Not for this."
He steps closer, slow enough that she could stop him.
She doesn't.
He crouches slightly so he's level with her, not looming, not towering.
"Did he hit your head?" he asks.
"No."
"Dizzy?"
"No."
"Okay."
He nods once, steadying himself.
"You don't owe me explanations," he says. "Not tonight. Not ever. I'm here because you asked to talk."
Her shoulders sag at that—just a little—but it's enough to give her away.
She sinks onto the edge of the bed.
Max stays standing until she looks up.
"Can you... stay?" she whispers. "Just... sit?"
He nods and pulls the chair closer—not the bed, not too near. Just enough.
The restraint matters. It undoes her more than anything else could.
"I thought ignoring him would make things better," she whispers, staring at the floor. "I thought if I didn't provoke anything... if I stayed quiet..."
Her throat tightens.
"He grabbed me. I pulled away. And he—"
Her voice breaks.
She stops.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy.
Max's chest feels like it's collapsing in on itself. He wants to rip time apart, to stand between her and every version of pain she's ever known.
"Catherine," he says carefully, "look at me."
She doesn't.
So he softens further.
"...Please."
She turns.
And when their eyes meet, Max sees everything—fear sharpened by exhaustion, shame that never belonged to her, anger she swallowed whole, grief she never trusted anyone enough to release.
Her lip trembles.
Something inside him breaks.
He steps closer.
Then closer still.
When he's close enough for her to feel his warmth, he opens his arms.
Not a demand.
Not an expectation.
An invitation.
Emmeline Catherine—who does not cry, who does not lean, who survives alone—stares at him like she doesn't know the language he's speaking.
"I don't want to fall apart," she whispers.
Max's voice is barely breath.
"Then lean on me while you do."
She exhales—and it's like a dam finally shatters.
She steps into him.
He catches her instantly.
Her head buries into his chest, hands fisting in his coat. The first sob rips out of her like it's been waiting years for permission.
Max wraps her up—one arm firm around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head, his cheek resting against her hair.
She cries silently at first.
Then harder.
Then like she's drowning.
"I've got you," he murmurs, over and over.
"I'm here."
"You're safe."
"You're safe, Catherine."
He doesn't let go.
Minutes blur into something softer, slower. Her sobs are quiet, turning into small tremors against his chest.
When she finally pulls back, her eyes are glassy, her cheeks wet, her voice wrecked.
"Sorry," she whispers.
Max lifts her chin gently.
"Don't ever apologize," he says. "Not to me."
Something shifts between them—subtle, electric, irreversible.
They both feel it.
Max doesn't ask if he should stay.
He simply does.
After Catherine settles beneath the blankets, still pale, still shaking, he sits in the armchair beside the bed, loosening his tie, folding his coat over the back like he's preparing for a long watch.
"You don't have to—" she murmurs.
"I know," he says gently. "You shouldn't be alone tonight."
The steadiness in his voice makes her chest ache.
"...Don't you have work?" she whispers.
"Yes," Max replies. "And Adrian will survive without me."
She gives a weak huff that almost resembles a laugh.
Max leans back, eyes closing, exhaustion finally dragging him under.
And Catherine watches him.
His guard is finally down.
His expression is soft.
His breathing slow.
She's never seen him this human.
Never seen him this vulnerable.
And it hits her, hard:
He came for her. Not for anyone else. Not for any reason except her.
Her throat tightens-but she forces herself to lie down.
The last thing she sees before sleep pulls her under is Max's silhouette, sitting vigil beside her bed like a knight who refuses to leave his post.
Just her.
Sleep takes her before she can think herself out of it.
Morning comes pale and quiet.
Catherine wakes slowly, body sore, heart heavy.
Then she sees him.
Still there.
Slumped awkwardly in the chair, shirt rumpled, tie loose, coat half-draped over him. Exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
He stayed.
Her heart does something dangerous.
She whispers, barely audible, "Why...?"
Max stirs, blinking awake. Relief floods his expression when he sees her sitting up.
"Morning," he says softly. "You okay?"
She tries to answer. Fails.
"I'm fine," she whispers.
She isn't.
He knows it.
But he doesn't push.
"Breakfast?" he asks gently. "Room service?"
It's ordinary. Small. Safe.
She nods.
As Max picks up the phone, Catherine watches him with a feeling she doesn't have a name for yet.
She only knows one thing.
This is how it starts.
And neither of them is walking away unscathed.
This is the moment everything changes.
ᯓ★
Two hours later, Logan Airport gains a problem.
Celine moves through the terminal like a storm given a human shape—black coat, sunglasses, jaw set so tight it could cut glass. She doesn't check her phone until she's in the car, and when she does, she finds three missed calls from Max.
She ignores all of them.
Because if she talks to him now, she will detour to a courthouse instead of a hotel.
She pulls up outside Catherine's hotel just after ten.
Doesn't knock.
She slams.
Catherine opens the door, hair still damp from the shower, sweater borrowed from Max draped over her shoulders.
Celine takes one look at her face—
The faint discoloration along her cheek.
The stiffness in her posture.
The way she instinctively leans back, bracing.
And something inside Celine snaps.
"Oh," she says softly.
Then she pulls Catherine into her arms so fast it steals the breath from both of them.
"Hey—" Catherine starts.
"Nope," Celine cuts in, holding her tighter. "You don't get to be strong right now."
Catherine's hands curl into the back of Celine's coat.
Just for a second.
That's all it takes.
Celine feels it.
She closes her eyes.
And there's a fatal mistake.
Max steps out of the bathroom at exactly the wrong moment.
He freezes when he sees Celine.
"Celine—"
She turns slowly.
The look on her face is calm.
That's when Max knows he's in danger.
"Why," she says evenly, "did I hear about Boston from Adrian instead of you?"
Max opens his mouth.
She raises a hand.
"Careful," she warns. "Choose your next sentence like you want to stay alive."
He exhales. "I didn't want to escalate things."
Celine laughs.
Once.
Sharp.
"You don't get to decide that."
She turns back to Catherine, softening instantly.
"Did he touch you?"
Catherine hesitates.
Max starts to intervene—
Celine doesn't even look at him.
"Axel Maximilian" she says flatly, "if you interrupt her one more time, I will remove you from this room."
Max shuts up.
Catherine nods. Barely.
Celine closes her eyes.
Then opens them.
And violence—not physical, but absolute—settles into her bones.
The movement is sharp. Decisive. Dangerous.
"Where are you going?" Catherine asks quietly.
Celine doesn't slow. "To see your father."
The air in the room tightens.
"No."
One word. Soft—but final.
Celine stops mid-step.
Max looks up instantly.
Catherine pushes herself upright, pulse racing. Her cheek still aches. Her wrist still burns. But her voice is steady.
"Please," she says. "Don't."
Celine turns slowly. "Catherine—"
"I know," Catherine cuts in, breath shallow but controlled. "I know what he did. I know what he deserves."
She swallows.
"But I don't want my healing to start with violence. Not even yours."
The words hang there.
Celine studies her—really studies her—for cracks, for fear, for weakness.
She finds none.
Only exhaustion.
Only resolve.
Only someone who has survived enough.
Celine exhales sharply through her nose, then drops the coat back onto the chair.
"Fine," she says tightly. "But this does not mean he gets away with it."
Catherine nods. "I know."
Max releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
Celine turns to him.
"And you," she says flatly, "owe me a distraction budget."
Max blinks. "A what?"
"A Catherine laughs again budget."
He doesn't hesitate.
"Whatever you want," he says. "Name it."
Celine smiles.
Oh no.
#Operation: Make Catherine Laugh Again
An hour later, Catherine is sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed, staring at her own reflection like it has personally betrayed her.
Celine stands in front of her with a makeup brush in hand.
"This," Celine announces, "is a recovery activity."
"I don't wear makeup," Catherine says warily.
"You do today."
Max sits in the armchair, coffee in hand, watching with deep suspicion.
"Why does that brush look... aggressive?" he asks.
Celine doesn't look at him. "Because healing is violent."
Catherine huffs despite herself.
Celine pounces on the sound.
"There. That. That was almost a laugh."
She leans in, brushing concealer gently over Catherine's cheek—not hiding the bruise completely, but softening it.
"This isn't about covering," Celine says quietly. "It's about control. You decide what the world sees."
Catherine's throat tightens.
Then Celine switches tactics entirely.
Bright blush. Excessive highlight. Winged liner that absolutely does not match Catherine's usual aesthetic.
"What are you doing?" Catherine asks, alarm creeping in.
"Giving you a personality crisis," Celine replies calmly.
Max snorts.
Catherine looks up.
Her reflection stares back—still her, but exaggerated. Softer. Brighter. Almost... ridiculous.
She lets out a startled laugh.
It slips out before she can stop it.
Celine freezes.
Max freezes.
Catherine covers her mouth.
"Oh my God," she whispers. "I sound insane."
Celine grins like she just won a war.
"There she is."
Celine steps back, hands on hips.
"Okay," she declares. "New agenda."
Max straightens. "I'm listening."
"We are not sitting in this hotel spiraling."
"Agreed."
"We are not talking about fathers, trauma, or debt for at least twelve hours."
Max nods. "Deal."
Celine snaps her fingers. "We are doing Boston. One day. No ghosts."
Catherine blinks. "Boston is ghosts."
"Not the fun parts," Celine counters. "We do cafés. Bookstores. Waterfront. Tourist nonsense."
She turns to Max.
"And this," she adds sweetly, "is sponsored by Axel Maximilian."
Max doesn't even flinch.
"Absolutely," he says. "Car's downstairs.
Catherine stares at him.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," he says simply.
Celine claps once. "See? Trauma response, but make it rich."
Catherine laughs again.
This time, it doesn't hurt.
Max watches her—really watches her—and something settles in his chest.
She's still bruised.
Still fragile.
Still scared.
But she's laughing.
And for today?
That's enough.
Celine grabs Catherine's hand, tugging her toward the door.
"Come on," she says. "Let's make new memories in a city that doesn't get to own you anymore."
Catherine hesitates only a second.
Then she goes.
And Boston—cold, cruel, heavy with history—loses its grip on her, just a little more.
They start with coffee.
Not because anyone planned it that way, but because Celine declares—loudly, on the sidewalk outside the hotel—that no emotional recovery can occur without caffeine.
"This city runs on spite and espresso," she announces. "We respect the culture."
Max flags down a car.
"Where to?" the driver asks.
Celine doesn't miss a beat. "Somewhere pretentious but comforting."
Max smiles. "I know exactly the place."
Catherine arches a brow. "Of course you do."
He glances at her, mock-offended. "I am a man of depth."
"You ordered a helicopter at midnight," she says dryly. "Depth is questionable."
Celine laughs so hard she snorts.
Max grins, unapologetic. "And yet, here we are."
Coffee, cinnamon, and something like normal. The café smells like cinnamon and old books.
Catherine relaxes the second they step inside—shoulders loosening, breath evening out.
Max notices immediately.
He doesn't say anything.
Just files it away.
Celine orders aggressively.
"I'll take the largest latte you have," she says, "and whatever pastry looks emotionally supportive."
The barista blinks. "The almond croissant?"
"Yes," Celine says solemnly. "That one."
Catherine smiles—small, but real.
Max orders last. When Catherine starts to speak, he cuts in gently.
"She likes oat milk. One sugar. And if you have blueberry muffins—"
Catherine turns to him, startled. "How do you know that?"
He shrugs. "You always leave the blueberry ones untouched unless there's no chocolate left."
She stares at him.
Something warm and unsettling curls in her chest.
"That's... observant."
"Occupational hazard," he says lightly.
She doesn't ask what occupation involves memorizing her coffee habits.
She doesn't want the answer.
𝜗ৎ
And, they walk.
Past brick buildings and narrow streets, past places Catherine remembers and places she doesn't.
Celine talks nonstop—about nothing and everything. Gossip. Fashion crimes. A woman at the gym who tried to deadlift in heels.
It's deliberate.
Catherine knows it.
She lets herself be carried by it anyway.
Max walks beside her—not close enough to crowd, not far enough to feel distant.
At one point, Catherine slows, staring at a cross street.
Max feels it before she says anything.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
She nods. "Yeah. Just... memory ambush."
He doesn't push.
He only says, "Want to go another way?"
She exhales. "Yes. Please."
He turns them without hesitation.
It's a small thing.
It feels like everything.
They end up in a secondhand bookstore near the river.
Catherine disappears immediately.
Max finds her crouched on the floor, flipping through a battered paperback.
"You're sitting on dust older than my trust issues," he remarks.
She looks up, deadpan. "Then don't sit."
He sits anyway.
Celine watches them from the aisle, suspiciously emotional.
"What are you reading?" Max asks.
Catherine tilts the book so he can see.
A romance novel.
He blinks. "You read these?"
She stiffens.
Then shrugs. "I like stories where love is fictional."
The words land heavier than she intends.
Max doesn't joke this time.
He studies her profile—the guarded mouth, the carefully neutral eyes.
"You don't think it's real?" he asks.
She closes the book.
"No," she says simply. "I think it's temporary. And temporary things hurt the most."
He wants to argue.
He doesn't.
Instead, he says, "Still... good writing."
She glances at him.
Almost smiles.
𝜗ৎ
They eat chowder by the harbor, wrapped in coats, wind tangling Catherine's hair.
Celine steals fries from both of them.
"I'm the emotional support friend," she says. "I deserve carbohydrates."
Catherine laughs.
Really laughs.
Max watches it like it's oxygen.
At one point, Catherine's hand goes numb from the cold.
Without a word, Max offers her his gloves.
She hesitates.
Then takes them.
Their fingers brush.
It's brief.
Accidental.
Electric.
She pulls back first.
But she keeps the gloves on.
It happens at sunset.
The sky goes pink and gold over the water, the city quieting like it's holding its breath.
Celine wanders ahead, giving them space without announcing it.
Catherine leans against the railing.
"This used to be my favorite place," she says softly.
Max joins her.
"Used to?"
"Before I learned how to associate happiness with loss."
He turns to her.
She doesn't look away this time.
"I'm scared," she admits. "All the time. That if I let myself want something... it'll be taken. Or ruined. Or I'll be blamed for it."
His voice is gentle. "You won't be."
She shakes her head. "You don't know that."
"I know you," he says.
The word know hangs between them—intimate, dangerous.
For a second—just one—she leans closer.
Her shoulder almost touches his arm.
He doesn't move.
Doesn't breathe.
She could do it.
She could let this be something.
Her chest tightens.
She steps back.
"Thank you," she says quickly. "For today."
It's not rejection.
It's fear.
And Max understands.
"Anytime," he replies. "As many days as you need."
She looks at him like that promise might undo her.
𝜗ৎ
They return to the hotel as night settles in.
Catherine is tired—but lighter.
Celine hugs her fiercely in the elevator.
"You laughed," she whispers. "I saw it."
Catherine nods. "I did."
Max lingers at her door.
"Get some rest," he says. "Tomorrow can wait."
She hesitates.
"Max?"
"Yes?"
"Today helped."
His smile is soft. Unassuming.
"I'm glad."
She closes the door with her heart pounding.
Not broken.
Not healed.
But—maybe—less alone.
And Max stands there for a long moment after, staring at the door like it's holding something precious.
Because it is.
ᯓ★
It happens after Catherine goes to shower.
Steam fogs the bathroom door. The sound of running water fills the hotel room like white noise—privacy Catherine desperately needs.
Max stands near the window, hands in his pockets, watching Boston glow faintly below. He looks... altered. Like something fundamental has shifted and hasn't settled yet.
Celine sees it.
She closes the door behind her with deliberate softness.
"Okay," she says. "We need to talk."
Max turns, immediately guarded. "Is she okay?"
"She's showering," Celine replies. "Which means she's functioning. Which means you did something right."
He exhales, relieved.
Celine doesn't smile.
She steps closer, folding her arms. "Now the part you're not ready for."
Max straightens slightly. "What part?"
"The part where this stops being a rescue mission and starts being a relationship."
He frowns. "I'm not—"
"Max," she cuts in. "Don't insult me. Or yourself."
Silence stretches.
Celine's voice softens—but sharpens, too. "You crossed state lines. You sat up all night. You didn't touch her when you wanted to. You didn't leave when you could have. That's not flirting. That's not attraction."
She looks him dead in the eye.
"That's attachment."
Max swallows.
"She's fragile right now," he says carefully. "I know that."
"Yes," Celine agrees. "And you're dangerous."
He stiffens. "I would never hurt her."
"I know," she says quietly. "That's the problem."
He looks confused.
Celine steps closer. "You don't hurt people like Catherine by leaving. You hurt them by staying just enough that they start to hope—and then realizing you're human too."
Max's jaw tightens. "I'm not going to disappear."
"I know," she says again. "And that terrifies me for her."
She exhales, rubbing her temple. "She's rebuilding herself with duct tape and sarcasm. You make her want to stop bracing for impact. That's... not small."
He looks down. "I didn't plan this."
"No one ever does," Celine replies. "But intent doesn't matter. Impact does."
She pauses.
Then—softer, almost kind—"If you stay in her life like this, Max, you don't get to be careless. Not with words. Not with distance. Not with other women. Not with disappearing when things get complicated."
His voice is low. "I won't."
Celine searches his face, like she's weighing something heavy.
"Good," she says finally. "Because if you break her—"
She doesn't finish the sentence.
She doesn't need to.
Max nods once.
"I'm in," he says quietly. "Whatever that means."
Celine studies him for a long beat.
Then she sighs. "God help us all."
────୨ৎ────
The helicopter ride back is quieter.
Catherine sits by the window, watching the city fall away beneath them. Her cheek is healing. Her wrist still aches. But something in her posture has changed.
She's not folded inward anymore.
Max sits across from her—not touching. Just present.
Every once in a while, she glances at him.
Every time, he's already looking away.
Not avoidance.
Restraint.
Manhattan rises beneath them like a promise and a threat.
When they land, the air feels sharper. Louder. Realer.
Catherine exhales slowly. "It feels strange to be back."
Max nods. "Different strange or bad strange?"
She considers it. "Different."
They ride in silence for a few blocks.
Then Catherine speaks again.
"Thank you," she says. "For not asking me to explain everything."
He turns to her. "You don't owe anyone your pain."
Something in her expression wavers.
At the curb outside her building, Max steps out first.
He hesitates—then opens the door for her.
She pauses before stepping out.
"Max?"
"Yes?"
She searches for the right words. Fails. Chooses honesty instead.
"Things feel... shifted."
He nods. "Yeah."
"Are you okay with that?"
A small smile tugs at his mouth. "I think I'd be lying if I said no."
She studies him—this man who didn't chase, didn't claim, didn't leave.
"Me too," she admits.
The admission sits between them—fragile, unguarded.
He doesn't touch her.
He only says, "Get some rest. I'll check in tomorrow."
She nods.
And when she walks toward her building, she doesn't feel watched.
She feels... accompanied.
After
That night, Catherine lies in her own bed, staring at the ceiling.
The city hums outside.
Her phone buzzes.
A single message.
Max:
Home safe?
She types back before fear can intervene.
Catherine:
Yes. Thank you for today.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Max:
Anytime. Sleep well, Catherine.
She presses the phone to her chest.
Her reset is broken.
Not shattered.
But cracked—just enough to let light in.
And somewhere across the city, Max stares at his ceiling too, realizing the same thing:
Nothing is casual anymore.
And neither of them knows how to go back.
Not perfect.
Not defined.
But held together, for now, by loyalty, fear, affection, protectiveness... and the fragile beginning of something warmer.