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Chapter Text

October 11, 2013

The first time Max found herself on the roof was on the same date that she'd made the choice. On the same date that she'd stood on that cliff, rain and wind whipping around her, and faced the choice of sacrificing either Chloe or all of Arcadia Bay. But that was in another timeline. In this timeline, cruelly enough, today was the day of Chloe's funeral. The black dress Max had worn still clung to her frame, though she'd discarded the formal shoes somewhere in her dorm room after watching them sink into the mud beside Chloe's grave.

Max couldn't sleep – hadn't really slept since making the choice that saved thousands but cost her everything. The guilt and grief wrapped around her like a physical weight. Four days ago, on this very same date, in another timeline, she had watched a storm threaten to destroy everything she knew. Four days ago, in this timeline, she had watched her best friend die on a dirty bathroom floor. Again.

Four days since Chloe's death. Four days since Nathan's arrest. Four days since Jefferson's crimes came to light. And about five hours since a funeral that made it all feel horrifically final.

Max hadn't planned to go to the roof. Her feet just carried her there, past the broken lock, into the cold October air. The dim emergency lights mounted on the roof cast just enough illumination to make out shapes in the darkness, leaving deep shadows at the edges of the roof. To her surprise, she wasn't alone. Victoria Chase was there, sitting on the edge, cigarette between her fingers. She too was still wearing her funeral clothes.

Max's heart stopped for a moment remembering another day, another timeline, another girl on the very same roof. Kate's face, rain-soaked and desperate. The sickening sound of her body hitting the ground. Without thinking, Max took quick steps forward towards the girl sitting on the edge.

"What are you doing here?" Victoria's voice lacked its usual bite. She sounded tired, hollow. She must have heard Max's hurried movement because she added, "Relax, Caulfield. I'm not going to jump."

Max stopped at that and forced herself to breathe. Of course Victoria had guessed her thoughts – they were still raw from Kate's suicide, even if Max was the only person who remembered that.

"What are you doing here?" Victoria repeated.

"Couldn't sleep," Max replied. "I can go."

Victoria took a long drag from her cigarette, and Max noticed she was sitting with both legs firmly on the roof side of the ledge. Not like Kate had been. "Whatever. Free country. Free roof." The words came out loose and slightly slurred – Victoria had been drinking.

Max didn't say anything. She sat down on the edge too, leaving plenty of space between them. The stars were bright over Arcadia Bay, the town peaceful and whole, unknowing how close it had come to destruction. The weight of that knowledge pressed on Max's chest.

"He was my best friend," Victoria said suddenly. "Nathan. He was... fuck, he was like my brother. And now he's killed someone and I had to go to a funeral today and pretend I wasn't friends with the murderer."

Max stayed quiet, jaw clenching. She had seen Nathan's descent in multiple timelines now, had witnessed his spiral into violence and paranoia. But she couldn't tell Victoria that. She couldn't tell Victoria that because of him, because of what he did, she had almost killed everyone in this town. Max wondered if she still could do that. If she still had her powers. If she lifted her hand, could she just go back and try again? Could she still save Chloe instead of—

"I'm sorry," Victoria said, swaying slightly where she sat, "about Chloe Price. I'm sorry that Nathan did that."

"Yeah." Max wrapped her arms around herself.

They sat in silence until Victoria's third cigarette burned out. Without another word, she pushed herself up and disappeared back into the building, leaving Max alone with the stars.

Chapter Text

October 15, 2013

Like every night since the 11th, Max found herself climbing the stairs to the roof. And just like every night since, Victoria was already there, perched in her usual spot, her figure barely touched by the dim glow from the wall-mounted emergency lights

"What, did our little heart-to-hearts the last few nights make you think we're friends now? We're not. So you don't have to keep coming up here, stalker," Victoria said without turning around as Max stepped onto the roof. Her voice was clearer tonight – no alcohol this time, for the first time in four days. "I told you I'm not going to jump," Victoria added.

"I'm not here for you. I'm here for me," Max replied simply, honestly, sitting down beside her.

Victoria glanced at her for a moment, cigarette dangling between her fingers. "You look like shit. More than usual. You should sleep more."

"So should you," Max shot back without any bite, noting how even Victoria's designer concealer failed to hide the dark circles beneath her eyes.

Victoria turned away. "Mind your own fucking business."

"Same old Victoria," she murmured to herself.

"What was that?" Victoria's voice had that dangerous edge to it – the one that usually preceded her cruelest comments.

"Nothing."

"No, you clearly have something to say. So say it." Victoria turned to face her fully now, eyes glinting with her trademark defensive anger.

Max met her gaze, too exhausted to maintain any pretense. "You're right. I should sleep more. But I can't. Not since everything happened," she said flatly. "I keep having nightmares. Like Chloe bleeding out on the bathroom floor while your beloved Nathan just freaks out and runs away." Max looked away, back toward the stars. "That's all. Nothing deep. Nothing worth fighting about with you."

The words hung in the cold night air between them. Victoria stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. After a long moment, she scoffed, then took a drag of her cigarette. "Whatever. Join the fucking club."

Max looked at her then, really looked at her for the first time that night. Victoria's hand was shaking as she brought the cigarette to her lips. Her shoulders were tight, hunched against more than just the cold. So, Victoria was having nightmares too. Some bitter part of Max thought good, thought about all the times Victoria had tormented Kate, how she'd been cruel to everyone just because she could. She thought about how Victoria's best friend had murdered Chloe, how he'd murdered Rachel, how he'd been helping him drug and kidnap girls, and how Victoria had been so stupidly blind to all of it, to what Nathan was becoming, had become.

But then Victoria's hand trembled so badly she almost dropped her cigarette, and something in Max's chest twisted uncomfortably. She remembered another timeline, another Victoria – terrified and tied up in the Dark Room. That Victoria hadn't deserved what happened to her, that Victoria had just started to apologize, to change, to become better, to make up for all the shit she'd done. That Victoria had just started to let Max see through her armor, she'd just started to open up.

That Victoria and this Victoria were both broken people. Max herself was broken too, fractured into so many pieces across so many timelines, she wasn't sure which version of herself was real anymore.

"What do you see?" Max found herself asking. "In your nightmares?"

Victoria's head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing with suspicion. But whatever cutting remark she'd been about to make died on her lips when she met Max's gaze. Maybe she saw something there – maybe some echo of the same haunted look Max saw in her mirror every morning.

"Nathan," Victoria finally said. "Jefferson."

Max's stomach lurched at the name. She could still hear his voice sometimes, soft and measured, critiquing her photos while she sat in his class trying not to throw up. Could still remember the cold clinical way he'd spoken to her in that bunker, like she was just another subject, just another photo waiting to happen. The memory of his hands adjusting her position while she lay helpless made her skin crawl.

"I loved his work," Max said. "He is the reason I'm here. He was why I applied to Blackwell."

Victoria took a long drag from her cigarette, studying Max with an odd expression. "Huh. Would've thought you came back for Price," she said, exhaling smoke into the night air. "Everyone says you grew up here in Arcadia Bay. That you two were joined at the hip as kids."

Max let out a long breath, looking down at her hands. For the first time, she thought about what people must have been saying about her and Chloe. The tragic reunion of childhood friends, cut short in a bathroom of all places. They had no idea how many times she'd lived that reunion now – in how many different ways she'd found and lost Chloe again and again.

"I didn't come back here for Chloe," Max said finally. "I should have. But I didn't really think about her much until... well... until I saw her again in that bathroom. I came for the photography program."

"Photography," Victoria echoed with a bitter laugh. She flicked her cigarette butt off the roof, watching the ember trace an arc through the darkness. "Funny how that worked out for all of us."

Neither of them spoke after that. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of dark rooms and bathrooms. Eventually, Victoria stood up, brushing off her designer jeans with shaking hands.

"I'm guessing you'll be up here tomorrow too?"

"Free country, free roof."

Victoria hummed in acknowledgement before her footsteps faded down the stairs. Max watched the last ember of the cigarette disappear into the darkness below.

Chapter Text

October 22, 2013

Like clockwork each night, Max found herself climbing the stairs to the roof. Victoria had beaten her here the past two nights, leaving only cigarette butts by the time Max arrived. Tonight, she was still there, a sharp silhouette against the glow of Blackwell's courtyard lights below.

"You're here again," Max observed, her voice barely carrying over the autumn wind.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to endure you and your hipster thrift-store aesthetic tonight." Victoria didn't look at her, but she shifted slightly, making room on the concrete ledge. "Can't sleep?"

"Nightmares," Max admitted, settling into the offered space.

"Price?"

"Jefferson." Always him, but twisted together with storms and fractured time and choices that never happened – or happened too many times to count. "You?"

Victoria's fingers tightened around her pack of cigarettes. She hesitated, the silence stretching. Then: "Rachel Amber."

Max hummed, her fingernails scratching at the rough concrete of the ledge where she sat, anchoring herself in the present as memories threatened to surface. The wind had picked up, carrying with it the sharp scent of dying leaves and woodsmoke. And Victoria's expensive perfume.

"I never met Rachel," Max said quietly. "But I heard that Chloe and her were really close." She swallowed hard, remembering Chloe's face when she talked about Rachel, the way her voice would crack around the name like thin ice. How absolutely devastated she had been when they'd found her body wrapped in that horrible plastic sheet.

Victoria's hands trembled slightly as she pulled out a cigarette. The flame from her lighter cast momentary shadows across her face, illuminating the tension in her jaw, the darkness under her eyes. She took a long drag, the ember glowing bright against the ink-black sky.

"I hated her," Victoria confessed, the words rushing out like she'd been holding them back for too long. "All of the teachers loved her. He loved her." She let out a hollow laugh that sounded more like breaking glass. "I wanted her gone. I wanted it to be me who was that close to him." Her voice dropped to barely a whisper then. "But if there'd been no Rachel... would it have been me? Buried in the junkyard?"

Max's throat constricted as unwanted memories surfaced: Victoria in Jefferson's bunker, bound and unconscious, the camera's flash reflecting off tear tracks on her cheeks. The putrid smell of the decomposing body in the junkyard dirt. For a sickening moment, Max's mind replaced Rachel's face with Victoria's, and she had to grip the concrete ledge harder to stay present. "But it wasn't you," she said instead, forcing steadiness into her voice. "We stopped him. He can't hurt anyone else."

Victoria laughed bitterly, smoke escaping her lips in sharp bursts. "Please. We didn't stop him. Nathan did. And only because he got caught killing—" She cut herself off and pressed fingers against her tired eyes. "Sorry, I shouldn't talk about that like—"

"It's okay," Max said simply, surprising herself with how much she meant it. "We can't pretend it didn't happen. It did." In every timeline, in every version of events she'd lived through, it had always happened, one way or another.

Victoria offered her the cigarette then, an olive branch of tobacco wrapped in paper. Max hesitated, then took it. She'd never smoked before – before the rewind, anyway – but right now she needed something to do with her hands, something to ground her in this single, linear moment.

"You're doing it wrong," Victoria said, some of her old sharpness returning. "Here."

She showed Max how to hold the cigarette properly, how to inhale without coughing. Above them, clouds scudded across the moon, and somewhere in the distance, a car alarm wailed like a banshee. But here on the roof, in this small pocket of shared understanding, the silence felt almost like freedom.

Chapter Text

October 25, 2013

Max had lost track of time. The autumn rain caught Max halfway between the library and the dorms. She'd seen the clouds gathering but had hoped to make it to the building before they broke. No such luck. So, by the time she pushed through the heavy door to the roof, her hoodie was soaked through. Water dripped from her bangs into her eyes, and she blinked it away, tasting rain on her lips.

Victoria was already in her usual spot, a dark silhouette against the grey sky. She sat perfectly dry under a sleek black umbrella. The expensive fabric shed water in elegant rivulets, creating a perfect cylinder of shelter around her.

"You look like a drowned rat, Caulfield," Victoria said, her voice carrying that familiar note of judgment. But there was something else there too – maybe amusement, maybe pity, maybe both. She shifted slightly, lifting the umbrella in silent invitation. "God, you're so pathetically unprepared. Don't you check the weather app like a normal person?"

"Thanks," Max said quietly, stepping under the umbrella. The space beneath was small – expensive taste apparently didn't guarantee practicality – but she managed to settle onto the ledge while keeping a careful distance from Victoria. She tried to smooth back her dripping hair, painfully conscious of how she must look: the wet hoodie, the messy hair, the general dishevelment that seemed to follow her these days. Victoria, of course, looked perfect – not a hair out of place, her cashmere sweater pristinely dry.

"Taylor asked me today why I keep disappearing at night," Victoria said suddenly, her voice barely carrying over the steady drum of rain against the umbrella. Her fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against the handle. "She thinks I'm sneaking off campus to party. Trying to..." She paused, her lip curling slightly. "Process my grief in a healthy way, she said." The laugh that followed was sharp, but brittle enough to shatter at a touch. "Though I guess chain-smoking on a roof every night isn't exactly the picture of mental health either."

"Kate's worried about me too," Max said. "She keeps leaving little notes on my desk about 'reaching out' and 'not isolating yourself.' Which is..." She shook her head, droplets of water falling from her hair. "God, after everything she went through at that party, everything with that video…" Literally killing herself, Max didn't say. Instead: "She's still trying to take care of everyone else."

Victoria went very still beside her, the umbrella dipping slightly before she caught herself. "The video's gone," she said after a long moment, her voice so carefully controlled it almost sounded casual. Almost. "It disappeared completely after everything happened with Nathan and—" She stopped, swallowed. "I don't know. It must’ve been the police, scrubbing it off the internet. It's completely impossible to find now."

Every word was measured, deliberate. Max studied Victoria's profile in the dim glow of the roof's emergency lights. She could see the tension in her jaw, the careful way she avoided Max's gaze. Max already knew Victoria had leaked the video, she found out some timelines ago. And now she knew exactly who had, most likely, spent hours methodically removing every trace of it from the internet. She could almost picture Victoria sitting alone in her room, frantically working to undo at least one of the many wrongs she'd been part of.

"Yeah," Max said. "That's good."

Something in Victoria's shoulders eased at Max's response, like a string being cut. Without a word, she pulled out her cigarettes, managing to light one with practiced grace despite the wind and the umbrella. She took a long drag, the ember glowing bright against the darkness, before offering it to Max – still not quite looking at her, but not quite avoiding her either.

They passed the cigarette between them in silence, watching the rain turn to silver threads in the emergency lights. The storm grew fiercer, wind whipping water sideways until it found its way under their shared shelter, soaking their clothes. Neither suggested moving.

Chapter Text

October 28, 2013

Max was still trying to steady her breathing, still trying to shake off the images that had overwhelmed her in class. The new photography teacher, Mr. Carson, had been showing examples of black and white portraiture – simple, innocent photos – but something about the angles, the composition…

The stark overhead lighting in the classroom had transformed into the clinical brightness of Jefferson's Dark Room. The gentle click of the projector advancing slides became the sharp snap of his camera. Black and white portraits of famous subjects morphed into photos of unconscious girls.

Her hands were shaking as she hugged her knees to her chest. In this timeline, she'd never been in that bunker. In this timeline, she'd never felt that helplessness, that violation. But her body remembered – every timeline, every version of that horror. The way the needle went into her neck and everything faded away. The way Jefferson would adjust her head ‘just so’, speaking about light and shadow and purity while she fought against the drugs in her system. The way he'd praise her while he—

"Didn't expect anyone else to be up here during class hours," Victoria's voice cut through the memory like a knife. "Skipping already, Caulfield?"

Max was sat on the ground of the roof, her back against the ledge, and she didn't respond. She didn't think she could. But she could hear Victoria's heels clicking against the concrete as she paced in front of her, maintaining her distance.

"You know," Victoria said after a while, her voice deliberately light, "You're supposed to be the quiet weirdo who sits in the back of class and daydreams about a boy noticing her or whatever. The whole 'dramatic exit' thing really doesn't suit you."

Max let out a shaky breath. "Sorry if I distracted you from the lesson."

"Please." Victoria scoffed. The sound of her lighter clicking echoed across the roof. "Like I was paying attention to whatever ancient photographers Mr. Carson was droning on about." She took a long drag of her cigarette, exhaling the smoke with practiced elegance. "Though you did give Taylor something to gossip about for the next week, so thanks for that. 'Maxine Caulfield's Mental Breakdown: Part Two.' I'm sure she's thrilled."

Max flinched slightly at the words, and something in Victoria's expression shifted, almost imperceptibly.

The silence stretched between them, Victoria's heels clicking against the concrete. Finally, with what seemed like deliberate casualness, she moved to sit on the ledge near where Max sat on the ground.

"Here," she said, extending the cigarette down toward Max without quite looking at her. "You're almost making me feel bad."

Max accepted the cigarette, grateful for something to do with her trembling hands. They passed it back and forth in tense silence.

"Why did you follow me up here?" Max finally asked.

Victoria's laugh was sharp, defensive. "Don't flatter yourself, Caulfield. I just needed a smoke." But her fingers tapped restlessly against her thigh, betraying her tension. She was quiet for so long that Max thought she wouldn't say more.

When Victoria finally spoke again, her voice was different – almost casual, as if discussing something trivial. "The idea of jumping wasn't that unappealing those first few nights. But..." She paused. "I couldn't. Not with you here all the time."

Max felt like she'd been punched in the stomach. The words took a moment to fully register – Victoria Chase had just admitted she'd considered... And suddenly Max understood with painful clarity why Victoria had been so drunk those first few nights, why she'd been so defensive about Max, supposedly, coming up here so she wouldn't jump. Max found herself staring up at Victoria, trying to process not just the admission itself but the fact that Victoria had chosen to share it with her of all people.

Victoria kept her eyes fixed stubbornly on the horizon, her jaw tight, but Max could see a slight tremor in her hands as she took another drag of the cigarette. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the weight of what had just been said.

"The angles," Max managed. "The way those shots were framed... for a second, I was back there. I was in that bunker—" She stopped abruptly, remembering she can't talk about certain things because they didn't happen to her. At least not in this timeline.

Victoria's posture stiffened, her fingers curling around the edge of the roof. Several moments passed before she spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper: "Yeah. Sometimes the smallest things can... trigger it."

Max studied Victoria's profile, wondering exactly what it was that haunted her so badly. Was it Nathan? The knowledge of what her best friend had done, what he'd been capable of? Or was it Jefferson – the betrayal of finding out the man she'd idolized had been a predator all along? Perhaps even Rachel Amber? Could it be that her guilt went deeper than Max initially thought? Or maybe it was something else entirely, something Victoria had never told her about.

"How do you handle it?" Max asked finally.

"Usually? I don't handle it." Victoria let out a hollow laugh and took another drag from the cigarette. "But this helps. Being up here. Away from... everything."

Max nodded mutely. Then, they just sat in silence, the space between them filled with a shared… something.

The bell rang in the distance, the sound making Victoria straighten immediately, her walls visibly rebuilding themselves. She stood with practiced grace, brushing off her designer skirt with precise, almost mechanical movements. Her fingers kept smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her clothes, a gesture Max was beginning to recognize as a nervous habit rather than vanity.

"Try not to make a habit of this, Caulfield," she said, but her voice lacked its usual bite. "I'd hate for you to steal my reputation as Blackwell's most dramatic student. God knows I worked hard for that title."

Max managed a small smile, recognizing the deflection for what it was. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Victoria hesitated for a moment, shifting her weight slightly – a rare display of uncertainty from someone who usually calculated every movement. She opened her mouth like she wanted to say something else, then seemed to think better of it. Instead, she just dropped her half-finished cigarette and crushed it under her expensive heel. Then she was gone.

Max stayed on the roof a while longer, realizing that somehow, without either of them acknowledging it, Victoria Chase had become someone who could actually make her feel better.

Chapter Text

October 31, 2013

"No Halloween parties tonight?" Max asked, finding Victoria already in their usual spot.

"Didn't feel like partying." Victoria was wearing a thick sweater against the autumn chill, but Max noticed her dramatically smoky eyes and dark lipstick – clearly she'd gotten ready for the party before changing her mind. "Nathan was there when we started planning it. He started the whole thing, actually. It just doesn't feel…" she trailed off.

Max moved closer, settling beside Victoria. Her expensive perfume mingled with the crisp autumn breeze, achingly familiar now. Victoria pulled out a cigarette and flicked her lighter. The ember glowed orange as she took a long drag, and the sweet scent of her perfume mixed with cigarette smoke in a way that had become its own kind of familiar too.

From somewhere below, the distant thump of bass started to leak out from one of the dorm rooms – probably some makeshift party for those who hadn't scored an invite to the main Vortex Club event. Even from here, Max could hear their laughter, their attempts at salvaging Halloween. She felt a surge of anger. Twenty four days. It had only been twenty four days since her best friend had died and people were already dancing and drinking like nothing had happened. Like Chloe Price hadn't lived and breathed and died here.

But even as the bitterness rose in her throat, another thought crept in – unbidden and unwanted, but undeniably Chloe. She could almost hear that familiar voice, see that crooked grin: ‘Really, Max? You're gonna spend Halloween moping around like some sad ghost? Hella lame.’ Chloe would have crashed that party, spiked the punch, maybe pulled some elaborate prank that would have the whole school talking for weeks. She would have grabbed Max's hand and dragged her into the middle of it all, refusing to let her hide in the shadows.

Max felt tears prick at her eyes, but for the first time in weeks, they were accompanied by the ghost of a smile.

"Chloe and I used to go trick-or-treating together," Max shared. "We'd always coordinate our costumes. Pirates one year, superheroes the next… The last Halloween before I moved to Seattle, we dressed as punk rockers. She kept the look." She smiled faintly at the memory. "This is the first Halloween I've been back in Arcadia Bay, and she's..." Max stopped, the words sticking in her throat like ash. "Well. I guess I won't be trick-or-treating any time soon."

Victoria went still for a moment, her exhale of smoke slightly uneven. "You're too old for that now, anyway," she said dismissively.

Max just hummed in agreement.

After a long pause, Victoria spoke again, her voice clipped but unable to completely mask the regret underneath. "I should have noticed something was wrong with Nathan. The signs were there."

Max just shrugged listlessly, her eyes fixed on some distant point. "If anyone could have stopped it, it was me. I was in that bathroom. I had the power to change things and I chose not to."

"He had a gun. He would've shot you too."

"Would that have been so bad?" Max's question wasn't rhetorical.

Victoria looked at her with an expression Max couldn't read. She lifted her cigarette to her lips again, let the smoke curl out slowly. "You know what's funny? I used to love Halloween," Victoria said. "Putting on a costume and getting to be someone else for a night. Acting. Pretending." She let out a short, harsh laugh. "Now I'm pretending every single day." She took another drag. "Though maybe that's not so different from before. I've always been playing a part. Always pretending."

"You don't have to pretend. Not here," Max said quietly.

Victoria flicked her cigarette ash with more force than necessary. "Jesus, Caulfield. Should I go get my sleeping bag? We can braid each other's hair and talk about boys."

"Your hair's too short for braiding."

Max glanced over with a hint of a smile and Victoria responded with an exaggerated eye roll, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward for just a moment. The almost-smile faded quickly though and Victoria looked down at her cigarette, watching the ember burn. Maybe it was the late hour, or the weight of everything else, but it seemed like suddenly the pretense felt too heavy to maintain.

Victoria looked at her then, really looked at her, with an expression caught between confusion and contempt – though Max wasn't sure if that contempt was meant for her or for Victoria herself. "Why do you come here every night? Why do you talk to me? I’ve always been such a bitch to you. And Nathan was my friend and he— Why are you so nice to me?" The question came out sharp, almost accusatory, like she was trying to catch Max in some kind of trap.

Max shifted uncomfortably under Victoria's intense stare, feeling exposed as those sharp, green eyes seemed to peer right through her. Max opened her mouth, closed it, then stared down at her hands. Why did she come here? Each night Max's feet carried her to this spot like a compass finding true north, and each time she told herself it would be the last. But trying to puzzle out her own motivations felt like grasping at smoke. The only clear thing was how the knot in her chest loosened a fraction whenever she was up here, how the endless loop of memories grew quieter in Victoria's presence.

"Maybe I just need someone who understands what it's like to lose a best friend," she said finally, voice low. "I'm not nice. I'm just selfish." The words came out flat, matter-of-fact, a convenient truth to hide the more complicated one beneath.

Victoria mulled this over, absently twisting the gold bracelet around her wrist. "You can be both," she said finally, letting go of the bracelet and taking a long drag of her cigarette. She exhaled a stream of smoke that curled lazily into the night air, watching it dissolve into nothingness before turning slightly toward Max, her expression softening almost imperceptibly. Her voice dropped to something quieter but still carefully controlled. "But in your case... I think you're just mostly nice."

Max didn't respond, just reached for Victoria's cigarette with slightly trembling fingers. As Victoria passed it over, their fingers brushed – a whisper of contact that lingered a moment longer than necessary.

"You don't have to pretend either, you know," Victoria said, trying for her usual sharp tone but failing. "Not here." The last words came out almost defiant, like she was daring Max to make something of it.

Max took a long drag from the cigarette, letting the silence stretch. Then, barely nodding, she shifted slightly closer to Victoria.

Chapter Text

November 3, 2013

The rain caught them by surprise this time, transforming from a gentle mist to a sudden downpour. Max instinctively tensed, expecting Victoria to immediately retreat inside. But she made no move to go or to even shield herself. There was no sleek black umbrella tonight or sardonic comments about checking weather apps. Just rain soaking through Victoria's sweater, turning the pale gray fabric nearly black, but she didn't seem to notice or care.

In the dim light of the security lamps, Max found herself transfixed. Victoria's short blond hair had darkened with the rain, droplets catching on the ends before falling. Water traced paths down her cheekbones, but her makeup stayed perfect – probably some obscenely expensive waterproof brand. There was something haunting about her right now. Like a figure from a black-and-white photograph – stark and timeless against the rain. Her hair, her face, her silhouette against the grey sky... this was the kind of moment that photographers spent their careers waiting to capture. Max's fingers itched for her camera for the first time in almost a month.

"You'd make such an amazing photograph right now," Max said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Victoria turned to her. "What, the great Victoria Chase looking like a drowned rat?" Her voice was almost amused. "Is it because I made fun of you last time?"

"No," Max said softly, still studying Victoria's profile. "You look... I don't know. There's something striking about you right now. Like even the rain knows better than to mess with you." She watched a droplet trace its way down from Victoria's cheek to her neck. "The way the water catches the light makes me think about contrast, about capturing strength in vulnerability..." Max trailed off, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry. I guess I still see everything like it's waiting to be photographed. Even if I can't..."

"Can't actually take the photo?" Victoria finished. The rain drummed steadily around them while Victoria's fingers tapped an unsteady rhythm against her thigh. "My camera's been in the back of my closet since everything happened," she admitted. "I tried to pick it up last week but my hands started shaking so badly I had to..." She flexed her fingers as if remembering. "I couldn't even hold it steady enough to put it back properly."

"Mine's under my bed," Max confessed. "Wrapped in a sweater so I don't have to see it when I'm looking for things. Because every time I do, all I can think about is—" The words caught in her throat.

"Him," Victoria finished for her again, and something in her voice made Max's chest ache. "The way he'd lean over our shoulders in class, pointing out the perfect angle, the ideal composition." She pressed her fingers against her temples like she was trying to physically hold back the memories. "I spent so much time trying to impress him. Staying late after class, setting up shots exactly how he taught us. Getting everything perfect, down to the millimeter… God, I wanted his approval so badly."

Victoria's hands were trembling slightly and Max had to fight back the sudden, desperate urge to reach for them, to still their tremors with her own. "I used to dream about learning from him," Max said instead. "I used to imagine myself becoming the kind of artist he..." She broke off, a sound escaping her that started as a laugh and ended somewhere closer to a sob. "I was so naive."

"We all were."

The rain fell steadily around them, soaking through Max's hoodie until she could feel it against her skin. She tried to suppress a shiver, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. Even Victoria, who usually complained if her clothes got so much as wrinkled, sat perfectly still despite the way her sweater clung to her shoulders, her slight shivers betrayed only by the occasional chattering of her teeth that she couldn't quite control.

"I miss it though," Victoria said suddenly, her voice taking on a different quality – something almost wistful. "Photography. That moment when everything just... clicks." Her hands moved through the rain as she spoke, graceful despite their slight tremor. "When the light hits exactly right, and time seems to stop, and you know in your bones that this is the shot you've been waiting for."

Max felt something loosen in her chest at Victoria's words. "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. I used to love finding these small, forgotten moments. Like the way rust creates these abstract patterns on old cars, or how plants push through cracks in concrete." She said, remembering. "Everyone else would walk right past, but through the viewfinder, they became something else. Something special. Beautiful."

"Of course that's what you saw." Victoria's voice held no judgment. "While I was arranging everything into perfect order, you were finding beauty in chaos."

"Maybe that's why we balanced each other out in class," Max said quietly. "Totally different perspectives."

Victoria hummed softly in agreement, then fell silent. She pulled her soaked sweater away from her skin with two fingers, examining the damage. "This cost one thousand dollars."

Max blinked. "Seriously?"

"Cashmere. From Paris." Victoria's voice held no real concern. She let go of the sweater, letting it cling to her frame as her gaze drifted to the middle distance. The rain had softened to a gentle patter around them, barely audible now over the sound of water dripping from the eaves. Seconds stretched into minutes as they sat there, each lost in their own thoughts, until Victoria's voice cut through the quiet, uncertain in a way Max had rarely heard before. "Do you think it will pass? This feeling. This... fear. Do you think we'll ever love photography again?"

Max looked down at her hands, remembering how they used to feel wrapped around her camera. She thought about the roll of film still in there, undeveloped. About the way she still caught herself composing shots in her mind, even now. Even here.

"I think so," she said finally. "Eventually."

Victoria nodded once, water sliding from her chin. Neither of them moved to go inside.

Chapter Text

November 5, 2013

Max found Victoria on the roof, pacing back and forth near their usual spot. Even in obvious distress, Victoria moved with that inherent grace she never quite lost. But her designer boots clicked against the concrete with more force than usual, and the cigarette between her fingers trembled slightly before she crushed it out with unnecessary violence.

Before Max could speak, Victoria's voice cut through the evening air: "Parents." The word came out clipped, tight with tension. Max could see now that Victoria's eyes were red-rimmed, though she'd clearly tried to hide it with makeup. "They're not happy with my grades."

"That's bullshit," Max burst out without thinking, her voice carrying an edge of anger that surprised them both. She rarely raised her voice, but something about seeing Victoria like this broke through her usual reserve. "Your grades are incredible – you're top of our class in every subject. Teachers use your essays as examples. You got the highest score on the calculus midterm while dealing with..." She gestured helplessly, unable to fully articulate the weight of it. "With trauma that would have broken most people."

Victoria's hands shook so badly as she tried to light another cigarette that the flame wouldn't catch. Her perfectly manicured nails clicked against the lighter with increasing frustration until Max walked over and gently took them from her trembling fingers. Victoria let her hands fall to her sides, surrendering the lighter and cigarette without protest, defeated.

"Try telling them that," Victoria said. "They think I'm just making excuses. Using Jefferson and Nathan as a convenient crutch." Her laugh was hollow. "Because apparently finding out your best friend is a murderer who helped a serial predator drug girls is something you should just..." She shrugged, incredulous. "Something you should just get over. Like it's just a hangover or an argument with a friend, or..." She stopped, pressing her fingers against her eyes, careful not to smudge her makeup even now. "God forbid a Chase show any human weakness," Victoria added, attempting her usual sarcasm but her voice was too raw to pull it off. "God forbid their perfect daughter need time to process the fact that she spent years trusting a monster. God forbid she…" Her words died in her throat.

Victoria's face crumpled, the perfect mask finally shattering completely. She sank down to sit on the concrete, designer clothes be damned. Max immediately settled beside her, hand hovering uncertainly between them before letting it fall back to her side. She'd never seen Victoria like this before, wasn't sure if comfort would be welcomed or rejected. After a moment's hesitation, Max shuffled closer until their shoulders met, the gentle pressure a wordless offering of support that Victoria could easily move away from if she wanted – but she didn't. In fact, she leaned into the contact.

After a long pause, when Victoria finally spoke again, her voice was small. "I'm so tired. I'm so tired of trying to be perfect."

"Then stop," Max said softly. "Just be Victoria. That's enough."

"It's not enough," Victoria whispered, her voice catching. "It never is. Not for them, not for—" She gestured vaguely at the world beyond the roof's edge. "Everything I do, every achievement, every perfect score, perfect outfit, perfect fucking performance... it just raises the bar. Makes the next expectation even higher." Her shoulders tensed against Max's. "And now I can't even manage that anymore. I can barely sleep without—" She stopped abruptly, jaw clenching.

Max was quiet for a moment, thinking about all the times she'd seen Victoria in class, makeup flawless. About the way she still commanded every room she walked into. About how she'd maintained her role as the Vortex Club's leader, rebuilding it from the ground up after everything that happened.

“You know what I see?" Max said finally, her voice gentle but firm. "I see someone who gets up every single morning and faces that devastating betrayal, but does it with her head held high. Who shows up to every class and manages to turn in work that makes the rest of us look like amateurs. I see someone that organizes all these amazing events that bring people together, even after everything that happened." She turned slightly, looking at Victoria. "That's not just enough, Victoria. That's fucking incredible."

Victoria made a sound, something between a laugh and a sob. "Since when does Maxine Caulfield swear?"

"Since you needed to hear it," Max replied, bumping their shoulders together. "And I'll keep doing it until you believe me."

Victoria scoffed. But, for the first time that evening, she smiled. The smile was small, and it wavered, but it reached her eyes. "That could take a while, Caulfield."

"Good thing I'm not going anywhere."

Victoria turned to look at Max then, her eyes roaming Max's face with careful attention, as if looking for the catch, the hidden agenda. But Max supposed she hadn't found it because Victoria let out a long breath, not quite a sigh, and tilted her head back to study the stars above, her shoulder remaining pressed against Max's in quiet acknowledgment.

Chapter Text

November 6, 2013

Mrs. Grant's class had just let out, and Max found herself walking alongside Warren as they made their way through the crowded hallway. She wasn't entirely following his excited rambling about physics, but his enthusiasm was infectious. They stopped at Max's locker, Warren leaning against the metal beside her as she exchanged her textbooks. He barely paused for breath as he gestured animatedly, clearly in his element.

"So then if you consider quantum chromodynamics, specifically how quarks exhibit asymptotic freedom at high energies but become more strongly bound at lower—" Warren's enthusiastic explanation was cut short by the sharp clicks of three pairs of heels against linoleum. Max didn't need to turn around to know who they were – or, at least, who one of them was. She recognized the perfume immediately.

"Look what we have here," Victoria's voice dripped acid. "Blackwell's most pathetic excuse for a photographer and her pet science nerd. How adorable."

Max turned slowly, confusion flickering across her features. It wasn't that she expected Victoria to suddenly be nice to her in public – their nighttime conversations hadn't changed the fact that Victoria still rolled her eyes at Max's answers in class or whispered cutting remarks about her clothes. Max had accepted that this was just how things would be. But ever since their rooftop meetings began, Victoria had stopped singling her out for direct confrontation. The casual cruelty had become more distant, less personal. This sudden shift back to targeted hostility felt... strange. Especially today – just last night Victoria had opened up about her parents and their unfair expectations.

Victoria stood flanked by Taylor and Courtney, all designer clothes and perfect makeup, looking exactly like the queen bee Max had first met months ago.

"Oh my god, that sweater," Taylor's nose wrinkled in exaggerated disgust. "Did you actually get that from a Goodwill? It looks like something not even my grandmother would donate."

"Maybe if she spent her scholarship money on actual clothes instead of that ancient camera…" Courtney added with a sharp laugh.

"I heard she has to work part-time at a diner just to afford her film," Taylor continued, voice dripping with mock pity. "Like, how sad is that?"

"It's not just her tragic fashion choices," Victoria's voice could cut glass. "Have you seen her in class? Hiding in the back corner, too scared to even speak up?" Her lips curled into a cruel smile. "Half the professors probably don't even know you exist, Caulfield. You're so forgettable. Though maybe that's for the best – when you do try to participate, it's just so painful to watch. Can barely make out what you're saying through all the stammering." Victoria's laugh was surgical, precise. Taylor and Courtney's giggles followed on cue, perfect backing vocals to Victoria's solo. "Face it, you're just taking up space that could've gone to someone who actually deserved to be here."

Max crossed her arms across her chest, jaw clenched, Victoria's words hitting deeper than they should have. They settled somewhere beneath her ribs, in that same raw space where she kept their roof conversations. The insults weren't new – she'd heard variations of them since her first day at Blackwell – but there was something almost desperate in Victoria's viciousness now. When Max caught her eye, searching for some trace of the person who'd shared cigarettes and confessions in the dark, Victoria looked away so quickly it was almost like a flinch. The gesture was telling – Victoria Chase never backed down from anything and certainly not from some simple eye contact. Max felt her initial hurt crystallize into something sharper, more precise. Not quite anger, but a cold sort of clarity mixed with irritation.

"God, yes," Courtney jumped in eagerly. "Remember when she tried to answer Mr. Stephens' question last week? I've seen fish out of water more eloquent."

"Max is actually extremely intelligent and talented," Warren suddenly stepped forward, anger clear in his voice. "Unlike some people who have to buy their way into everything. She deserves to be here. More than any of you."

Max wanted to tell him to stop, his defense would only make it worse. But she didn't have time – Victoria jumped right back in with another mean remark.

"Oh, look who's playing white knight," Victoria's lip curled in practiced disgust. "Seriously, Caulfield? You're so desperate for attention you're throwing yourself at the first boy who looks your way?" She gestured dismissively at Warren. "Though I guess beggars can't be choosers."

"It's kind of sweet, in a pathetic way," Taylor added. "Following him around like a lost puppy, pretending to care about his science geek rambling."

"Back off," Warren's voice was sharp. "Just because you're jealous that she—"

"Oh my god," Victoria cut him off with a laugh. "Jealous? You think we're jealous? Of her?" She turned to Taylor and Courtney, who giggled like well-trained pets.

Annoyance and indignation twisted in Max's chest as she watched her. Despite what it might have seemed to anyone else, Max could now tell that Victoria wasn't performing for her followers right now; she was performing for herself. Victoria had shared her nightmares, had opened up about photography, had told her about her parents, sometimes she even displayed empathy. And if she wanted to pretend none of that happened, whatever. Max wouldn't examine too closely why that stung. But this? Attacking Max just to… what? To convince herself she hadn't voluntarily done all that?

"Victoria," Max spoke for the first time. Her voice was quiet but firm. She met Victoria's gaze steadily and suddenly saw it – the mask slipping, revealing something that Max couldn't quite name. "Stop. Just… don't," she said simply.

"Don't what?" Taylor jumped in before Victoria could respond. "Don't point out how painfully obvious your crush on Warren is? God, it's like watching a car crash in slow motion."

"More like a bicycle crash," Courtney added. "She can't afford a car."

"Whatever," Victoria spat, but that something was still in her eyes. "You two deserve each other. Come on, girls." She turned on her heel, Taylor and Courtney falling into step behind her immediately.

"God, what a bitch," Warren muttered once they were gone. "All of them. I don't know how you put up with it, Max."

Max watched Victoria's retreating form with a frown. "Yeah, she is a bitch."

"Right? Victoria just totally went off on you for no reason! And she was way meaner than usual – did you see her face? It seemed like she was actually enjoying it. I wanted to..."

But Max wasn't really listening anymore. She watched Victoria's retreating form, her anger dissolving into something messier, harder to name. For all of Victoria's theatrical cruelty, what stuck with Max were the tells. The slight tremor in her hands when she'd swept them through her perfectly styled hair, the edge of desperation beneath each venomous word, the way she wouldn't meet her eyes. It almost seemed like it had been somewhat difficult for her to do all that. And if it was, why force it at all? Why hurt Max? After everything— Max swallowed against an unexpected ache in her throat. She had no right to feel betrayed – they weren't friends, not really. They were just two people who'd accidentally seen too much of each other. Still, something about watching Victoria work so hard to tear her down left a bitter taste in her mouth.

"—are you even listening to me?" Warren's voice cut through her thoughts.

"Sorry," Max said, offering him an apologetic smile. "Just... thinking."

"About what an awful person Victoria Chase is? And her equally awful friends?"

“Yes," she said. "So what were you saying about that quantum thing?"

Chapter Text

November 11, 2013

A full month (and four days) had passed since Max had to choose between Arcadia Bay and Chloe. A full month had passed since Chloe's funeral.

Max woke with a strangled gasp. In her nightmare, time kept rewinding, forcing Max to watch Chloe's death play out over and over – The crack of the gunshot. The way Chloe's blue eyes widened in that final moment of understanding. The horrible dance of her body as it fell. The pool of blood spreading across white tile. Max pressed her palms against her eyes until she saw stars, but the images remained, burned into her mind like overexposed film.

It had been five nights since she'd last gone up to the roof. Since that one-sided confrontation with Victoria in the hallway. Something about that whole scene still churned in her gut. But in the panic of her nightmare, none of that mattered. She needed air. Trembling, she stumbled out of bed, barely remembering to grab her hoodie before fleeing her room into the darkness of the hallway.

When Max pushed open the heavy door to the roof, she found Victoria already there, a half-smoked cigarette trailing smoke as she paced. Her boots clicked against concrete in an uneven rhythm, betraying an agitation that her carefully maintained posture couldn't quite hide.

"You're here," Victoria said, coming to an abrupt halt. The words came out somewhere between accusation and relief, like she couldn't quite decide which emotion to commit to.

Max didn't say anything. She sat perched on the edge of the rooftop, fingers digging into the rough concrete until the bite of it grounded her in reality. Her body was still pulsing with adrenaline from the nightmare, skin prickling with a cold that went deeper than the autumn air.

"Caulfield," Victoria's voice was softer than usual. She took a hesitant step closer, cigarette forgotten between her fingers and dropped to the ground. "Are you—" She stopped, seeming to realize how hollow the question would sound. Instead, she moved to sit beside Max, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. "Bad night?"

Max couldn't find her voice, each attempted word catching like broken glass in her throat. Her lungs felt too small, like they couldn't quite remember how to pull in enough air. She was acutely aware of Victoria's presence beside her – close enough that Max could feel the warmth radiating from her. It was grounding and unsettling all at once, like most things about Victoria these days. Five nights of avoiding this roof, of avoiding her, and yet here Max was, falling back into this strange orbit.

After a long moment where only their breathing filled the silence, Victoria spoke. Her voice was quiet, almost gentle – so different from her hallway performance days ago. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Max's immediate instinct was to shake her head, to retreat back into the solace of her own mind. The memory of Victoria's cruelty in the hallway still stung. For a moment, Max wanted to hurt her back, to throw Victoria's duplicity in her face. To demand why she should trust someone who could switch so easily between late-night confessions and daylight bullying.

But looking at Victoria now – wrapped in a black silk robe over matching pajamas, makeup scrubbed clean, something raw and almost pleading in her expression – Max felt the anger drain away. This was Victoria Chase, after all. She needed her walls and masks like armor, she probably always would. And somehow, despite everything, this rooftop had become their sanctuary from those pretenses. Plus, Max actually did want to talk about her nightmare. Needed to.

The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "I kept seeing it," she rasped, the admission grating against the rawness of her throat. "Over and over. Like it's on loop, like time keeps—" She broke off abruptly, clamping down on the sudden urge to confess the truth of her powers. "I kept seeing her die."

The words hung heavy in the silence that followed, a weight that pressed down on Max's chest until she could barely breathe. She stared down at the surface of the roof, tracing the grooves in the concrete with her eyes as she fought to maintain her composure. The patterns blurred as tears threatened to fall.

Then Victoria shifted beside her, the silk of her robe whispering against the concrete. Max felt more than saw her hand move – noticed the slight tremor in her fingers as they hovered uncertainly in the space between them, as if Victoria was fighting some internal battle of her own. When her hand finally settled over Max's, the touch was so gentle it made Max's throat tight. Victoria's fingers were warm despite the autumn chill, and they curled around Max's with a tenderness that felt almost like an apology.

"Tell me about her," Victoria's voice was barely above a whisper, all pretense stripped away until only honesty remained. She squeezed Max's hand softly, encouraging. "The real her. Not the rumors or what people say." Another gentle squeeze, and something in Max's chest cracked open at the careful way Victoria added: "Tell me about Chloe."

Max found herself staring at their joined hands, Victoria's question stirring memories she both craved and feared to touch. The contrast was stark – Victoria's perfectly manicured fingers and her own bitten nails, like some strange metaphor.

"Chloe was... she was a force of nature," Max began softly, each word carrying the weight of memory. "Being around her made you feel like anything was possible – like all the rules were just waiting to be broken." A bittersweet smile tugged at her lips as she squeezed Victoria's hand, anchoring herself in the present. Victoria's thumb traced absently over Max's knuckles. "She dyed her hair electric blue. Had these wild tattoos. Called everyone who pissed her off 'basic bitches' and..." Max let out a quiet laugh that was half sob, the irony of the moment not lost on her. "God, she would've hated you. Called you every name in the book. Probably would've slashed your tires."

Victoria's laugh held an edge of something almost like regret. "Oh, she did hate me. She was older but we crossed paths more than a few times, and I..." She paused, her fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around Max's. "Let's just say I’m pretty sure she keyed my car once, though I could never prove it."

"I didn't know you'd met." Max let that sink in, the knowledge settling heavy in her chest. Of course they had – after Max had abandoned her for Seattle and before Chloe got expelled from Blackwell, they'd walked the same halls, breathed the same air. She could almost see it: a younger Victoria, already wearing superiority like armor, crossing paths with Chloe as she blazed her way toward expulsion. Another piece of Chloe's life Max hadn't been there to witness, another reminder of all she'd missed. Another ghost of a timeline she could never get back.

"Yeah. She was always with Rachel and, well..." Victoria's voice tightened slightly around Rachel's name. "Rachel was always around. Hard to miss them. They practically owned this town for a while." Her free hand reached for a cigarette she didn't have, a nervous gesture that betrayed her discomfort. "They'd strut through the halls like they were untouchable. Rachel would flash that perfect smile of hers, and Chloe would just..." She caught herself, remembering who she was talking to. Her voice softened, carefully diplomatic. "She certainly seemed like a... force of nature. Like you said."

The words carried echoes of, perhaps, old confrontations – sharp words exchanged in crowded hallways, rebellious laughter drowning out Victoria's carefully crafted authority. But it seemed like Victoria swallowed whatever bitter memories threatened to surface.

"You didn't like her," Max said, not quite a question. Victoria's thumb was now tracing absent patterns against Max's palm – delicate, unconscious movements that felt impossibly gentle coming from someone Max had only ever known to wound with precision.

Victoria was quiet for a moment, then gave a slight shrug that rustled her silk robe. "I don't like most people. It wasn't personal."

"I think if you'd got to know her – really know her – you'd have liked her. Or at the very least..." Max paused, choosing her next words carefully. "Or at the very least you'd have envied her ability to just... be herself. No masks. No pretending. For her, Halloween was only one night a year."

If Victoria was surprised by that pointed reference to their Halloween night conversation or the accusation that she would have envied someone, she didn't show it. Instead, her thumb continued its gentle exploration of Max's palm. "Sometimes I envy yours," Victoria admitted softly in a surprising show of vulnerability that Max wasn't expecting. The words hung in the night air. Max felt a strange doubling of memory – Victoria saying this same thing in another timeline, in another reality she'd erased. It wasn't any less shocking to hear now.

Max didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything at all. They sat in silence for a long time. When Victoria spoke again, her voice was barely a whisper. "You really loved her."

It wasn't a question, but Max answered anyway. "Yes." The word caught in her throat, carrying the weight of all her maybes, all her might-have-beens.

Victoria's hand tightened around hers, warm and steady. She didn't offer empty condolences or try to fill the silence with hollow comfort. They stayed that way until Max’s memories of her nightmare started to fade, watching the stars wheel overhead in a sky that had never known the storm she'd erased by letting Chloe die.

Eventually, the weight of exhaustion began to pull at them both. They made their way down from the roof in comfortable silence, their footsteps echoing softly in the empty stairwell. The hallway was dark and still when they reached their floor, the space between their facing doors somehow both vast and intimate in the pre-dawn quiet.

Victoria's hand lingered on her doorknob, her shoulders tense. When she turned, the careful mask she usually wore was nowhere to be found.

"About the other day," she began, voice barely above a whisper. "In the hallway, I..." The words seemed to catch in her throat. Victoria Chase, usually so good with her words, now struggled to shape an apology.

Max studied her in the dim light. Victoria looked younger somehow, more real – her silk robe catching the faint light, her face bare of makeup, her usual sharp edges softened by shadows and something that might have been regret.

"It's okay," Max said quietly, though they both knew it wasn't, not really. "I understand."

"Do you?" Her fingers played with her gold bracelet – a nervous gesture Max was beginning to recognize. "Because I'm—" She cut herself off, jaw tight.

Max offered a tired smile. "You're Victoria Chase. And I am me. Right?"

Something flickered across Victoria's face – pain, maybe, or recognition. "That's not—"

"Goodnight, Victoria," Max interrupted gently, turning toward her own door. She paused with her hand on the handle, adding softly: "Thank you. For listening. For asking about her."

When Max glanced back, Victoria was watching her with an expression so unguarded it made her chest ache. For a moment, it seemed like Victoria might say something else. Instead, she gave a small nod, composure settling back over her features like a familiar coat.

"Goodnight," Victoria whispered, disappearing into her room.

Max stood there for a moment longer, listening to the soft click of Victoria's door, wondering how many versions of Victoria Chase existed in the spaces between midnight and morning, between cruelty and kindness, between what was and what could be. Then she slipped into her own room.

Chapter Text

November 12, 2013

Max sat alone in their usual spot on the roof. She felt... better, somehow. Last night's nightmare had been hellish – Chloe's death playing on cruel repeat, each gunshot echoing through her skull, each splash of red against white tile burning into her retinas. But after coming to the roof yesterday, something had shifted. Getting back into bed, she'd actually managed to sleep. Real sleep, not the restless half-consciousness she'd grown used to, where dreams and memories bled together until she couldn't tell which timeline she was in anymore. The good sleep helped her immensely. Today she'd lost her breath to the memory of the nightmare only about four times. Which may have sounded like a lot, but it felt like progress compared to the constant flood of flashbacks she'd been drowning in the past month. It was slow progress, but progress nonetheless.

She wondered how much her roof companion played into that. It shouldn't make sense that Victoria Chase, of all people, could help anchor her through the worst of her grief. But the evidence was right there. Max wasn't particularly tormented by memories tonight, didn't feel that desperate need to escape her room, and yet she'd still made her way to the roof. Maybe because after five nights of staying away – nights filled with restless tossing and unsettling dreams – last night's awkward reconciliation had cracked something open. Victoria's almost apology had been bad, but embarrassingly enough, it had been enough for Max. At least for now. They weren't friends, but whatever this fragile thing between them was… it really helped.

But Victoria was late tonight and Max felt the absence like a physical thing, a space beside her that should be filled with cigarette smoke and expensive perfume.

It was just like Victoria, really – to hold Max's hand, to stand vulnerable in the hallway with an apology caught in her throat, all to then disappear the next day. Max could see the pattern forming: a moment of genuine connection followed by distance, like Victoria was caught in some kind of emotional tide. When she'd broken down about her parents, she'd let Max see past her walls, only to build them twice as high the next day with that staged hallway performance. Max was starting to understand it though – how Victoria retreated from her own vulnerability like it burned her. At least today in class, Victoria hadn't launched any verbal attacks, hadn't even looked in Max's direction. The silence felt deliberate and Max supposed that was its own kind of progress.

Max wasn't disappointed that Victoria hadn't come tonight. Really. That would imply she'd had expectations and expecting anything from her felt dangerous. But somewhere between cold rain and shared cigarettes, Max had found herself looking forward to these rooftop meetings. Not just for the comfort of having another sleepless soul nearby, though that was the main incentive, but also for the quiet revelations: how Victoria's laugh softened when she forgot to maintain her image, how her eyes lit up when she talked about clothes or photography, how she'd sometimes finish Max's thoughts before Max could voice them, how understanding and surprisingly gentle she could be. Each small discovery felt like finding a piece to a puzzle she hadn't known she was solving.

After another ten minutes of waiting, Max finally accepted that Victoria wasn't coming tonight. The realization settled in her chest like a stone, heavier than it had any right to be. With a small sigh, she pushed herself off the ledge and lay back on the concrete of the roof. The surface was cold beneath her back, seeping through her hoodie, but she welcomed the chill. She let her eyes drift upward, losing herself in the vast expanse of stars above Arcadia Bay.

The town was small enough, isolated enough, that the stars were remarkably bright here. Away from the city lights that had dimmed Seattle's sky, they shone with an almost painful clarity. Max traced familiar patterns with her eyes, remembering warm summer nights spent in her backyard with her dad. She could almost hear his voice now, gentle and patient, his hand guiding hers as they mapped the heavens together. Back then, the stars had seemed like magic. Now they felt more like memories.

She found Ursa Major easily, the Big Dipper spilling its stars across the northern sky. From there, her eyes traced the familiar path to Ursa Minor, the Little Bear forever circling its larger companion. There was something achingly beautiful about their story – a mother and child transformed by jealous gods, cursed to walk the heavens for eternity but never truly separated.

The familiar shape of Cygnus soared overhead, wings spread in eternal flight, the great swan diving through the river of the Milky Way. The myth of Zeus taking the form of a swan to pursue his latest love seemed almost silly now, but there was something undeniably majestic about those stellar wings stretched across the darkness.

To the east, Orion was emerging above the treeline, right on schedule for the approaching winter. The hunter stood proud, his belt a perfect line of three bright stars that made him impossible to miss. His faithful dogs, Canis Major and Minor, followed at his heels as they had for trillions of years.

Max smiled softly to herself, remembering her dad's warm voice guiding her through each constellation's story.

The sound of the door opening broke through her reverie. Max awkwardly craned her neck backward, finding herself looking at an upside-down Victoria, dramatically illuminated by the wall-mounted emergency lights. Max couldn't help grinning at how Victoria looked from this angle – her carefully styled pixie cut somehow maintaining its perfect sweep even while inverted, the sharp lines of her jaw softened by the strange perspective. It was almost fascinating how even upside-down, even from this stupid angle, Victoria still managed to look ridiculously pretty. Beautiful. Stunning, even— Max blinked, the thoughts catching her off guard, making her pause.

"Caulfield?" Victoria's voice carried a note of concern that she didn't quite manage to hide. "Are you okay?"

"Um – yes, I'm okay," Max said, watching as relief flickered across Victoria's features before being quickly masked. "I just thought you weren't coming tonight."

There was a pause, the sound of Victoria's expensive boots shifting uncertainly on the concrete. Then: "Some of us actually do our homework before midnight." Another pause, shorter this time, before she added with a mix of mockery and genuine curiosity that only Victoria could manage: "And what, my not showing up means you just... lie down on the filthy ground? Is this what you always do when I'm not here?"

"No, first time," Max said casually, returning her attention to the stars above as if Victoria's presence or absence was inconsequential. She heard Victoria fidget in the silence that followed, boots scuffing against concrete with uncharacteristic hesitance.

"What are you even doing?" Victoria asked, trying to sound dismissive but not quite managing it.

"Looking at the stars. Cassiopeia looks beautiful tonight." Max traced the familiar W-shape with her finger. "My dad taught me all the constellations when I was little."

Another pause stretched between them, longer this time. Then came the soft rustle of fabric, and to Max's surprise, Victoria carefully lowered herself to lie on the roof beside her. There was something almost vulnerable in the gesture – Victoria Chase, Queen of Blackwell, willingly lying on dirty concrete in what was undoubtedly some designer outfit that cost more than Max's entire wardrobe.

Then, Victoria shifted closer, pressing against Max's side in a way that felt both deliberate and hesitant, like she was trying to make it seem casual. The warmth of her body seeped through their layers of clothing, and Max suddenly found it hard to breathe. The familiar scent of Victoria's perfume wrapped around her, making her heart beat so fast she worried that Victoria would feel it.

"See that bright star in Cassiopeia?" Victoria said after a moment, her voice soft and confident as she pointed at the sky. To show Max exactly where to look, she leaned in even closer, aligning her arm with Max's line of sight, her cheek almost brushing against Max's temple. "That's Gamma Cas. It's about 550 light-years away. The light hitting our eyes right now left that star before the first European ships ever reached America." Her finger traced upward, and Max followed the movement, trying to focus on the stars rather than how Victoria's breath ghosted against her cheek. "And that one's actually a multiple star system – several stars orbiting each other so closely they look like one point of light from here. Just bound together by gravity, spinning through space."

"I didn't know you knew astronomy," Max managed.

Victoria's shoulder lifted in a slight shrug, the fabric of her designer jacket scraping against the concrete. "Grandparents’ house in Vermont. Middle of nowhere. Not much else to do but look at the sky." She paused, then added more quietly, "I liked the idea that stars were constant. That no matter what changed down here, they'd keep spinning in the same patterns they've followed since the beginning of it all."

There was something almost wistful in Victoria's voice, like she was sharing more than it seemed, though Max wasn't sure she could understand exactly what. Before Max could respond, she felt something being placed on her stomach. Looking down, she found a wrapped bar of chocolate from that famous artisanal shop in Portland.

"What's this?" Max asked, genuinely surprised as she picked up the bar. She turned it over in her hands – the packaging was elegant, all gold lettering and expensive paper. It contained some kind of single-origin dark chocolate with lavender and honey that sounded almost too precious to eat.

"Bought two by accident," Victoria said quickly, eyes fixed firmly on the stars above. "And I really don't need the extra calories."

Max knew Victoria never did anything by accident, especially not shopping. And Victoria definitely didn't just happen to go to one of Portland's most acclaimed chocolatiers and accidentally buy two bars of artisanal chocolate. Max understood what this was – Victoria's way of apologizing for the hallway incident without having to say the words.

"Thanks," Max said simply. She carefully unwrapped the chocolate and broke the bar in half, offering a piece to Victoria. An acceptance of the unspoken apology.

"Okay. Thanks," Victoria muttered, accepting the chocolate.

For the next hour, they lay there slowly eating the chocolate while Max asked Victoria about the stars – the ones she'd always known as just points in familiar patterns. Victoria knew their names, their distances, which ones were actually ancient light from long-dead suns. Her voice got softer, more animated as she spoke about them, like she was sharing secrets she'd never expected anyone to want to hear. And maybe it was the late hour, or the chocolate, or the way Victoria's side was still pressed against hers, but Max found herself hanging on every word. Something new fluttered in her stomach, and she suspected it had nothing to do with what she was eating and everything to do with the way Victoria's face lit up as she talked.

Chapter Text

November 15, 2013

The afternoon sun cast unfamiliar shadows across the roof. Max squinted against the light, unused to seeing this space illuminated by anything other than emergency lights. The concrete of the roof's floor was warm beneath her, heated by hours of direct sunlight – so different from the usual midnight chill that made her huddle into her hoodie.

It felt strange being here during daylight hours. The last time that had happened, she'd been fleeing Mr. Carson's photography class, her lungs refusing to work properly as Jefferson's voice echoed in her head. And before that... Max's mind started to drift toward rain-soaked concrete and Kate's tear-stained face, but she quickly shut that door in her mind. She didn't have the energy to navigate those memories today. Not when Victoria was right there, pacing back and forth, her designer boots clicking against concrete in a rhythm of agitation.

The autumn breeze caught Victoria's carefully styled hair, and she kept running her fingers through it to maintain its perfect sweep. Her sweater (probably another thousand-dollar piece from some fancy European city) caught the sunlight in a way that made the pale blue fabric seem to glow. Max found her eyes drawn to the way the light played across Victoria's collarbones, how it caught on her necklace, how it made her green eyes seem almost translucent when she turned—

Max quickly looked away, her cheeks warming. She blamed it on the afternoon sun.

"This is ridiculous," Victoria declared, stopping her pacing to glare at nothing in particular. "Mrs. Howell knows exactly what she's doing. She has to. The whole 'finding light in darkness' prompt? Could she be any more obvious?" She gestured sharply with perfectly manicured hands. "And pairing us together? What, does she think she's being clever? Like some kind of literary cupid shooting arrows of forced cooperation?"

Max couldn't help but smile at Victoria's dramatics. "You know, for someone who's so horrified by this partnership, you suggested meeting up here pretty quickly. Mrs. Howell had barely finished explaining the assignment before you were basically dragging me here."

"The sooner we finish this ridiculous assignment, the sooner I can stop having to tolerate your presence."

"Right," Max drawled, leaning back on her hands. "It must be exhausting to have to tolerate me so often."

"It really is." Victoria settled beside Max then, closer than strictly necessary. Their shoulders brushed as Victoria adjusted her position, and Max felt her heart skip at the contact. "I wouldn't want people getting the wrong idea about us spending time together."

"Heaven forbid," Max agreed solemnly, trying to ignore the way Victoria's perfume seemed somehow sharper in the daylight, how it wrapped around her, how it made it hard for Max to breathe, though she wasn't sure if that was because of the scent itself or something else. She cleared her throat and focused. "So, any brilliant ideas for this assignment you're so eager to start?"

Victoria's lips curved into a dangerous smile. "How about we write about two enemies who murder their English teacher for forcing them to work together?" Her eyes gleamed with mock malice. "We could make it really artistic. Lots of metaphors about darkness and light. Maybe they strangle her with poetry anthologies."

"How about we don't write about murdering anyone?" Max suggested, rolling her eyes even as she fought back a laugh. She bumped her shoulder against Victoria's. "We could write about two people who meet every night and help each other through darkness. Who aren't actually enemies, despite what one of them keeps claiming."

"Oh, so you want the story to be totally fictional then?"

Max let out a surprised laugh at that, the sound carrying across the roof. Victoria's answering smile was small, but for once, Max could tell it was genuine. "Totally fictional, yes. My suggestion wasn't based on reality at all, was it?"

"You tell me. You're the one who came up with it."

"I made it up."

"I figured."

Max bit her lip around a smile, seeing from the corner of her eye how Victoria's fingers had started fidgeting with her gold bracelet. They fell into comfortable silence, the exact same kind that had become familiar during their midnight meetings. The only difference was that, for some reason, Max found herself hyperaware of every point where their bodies touched – their shoulders, their arms, the way Victoria's knee occasionally brushed against hers when she shifted position. Each contact sent little sparks of electricity through Max's skin, and she wasn't sure when exactly that had started happening.

"It's weird, isn't it?" Victoria said suddenly, her voice softer than before. "Being up here during the day. It feels..."

"Wrong?" Max supplied. "Like we're breaking some unspoken rule?"

"Like we're exposed," Victoria corrected, but nodded slightly. "Like anyone could look up and see us."

"No one can see us, though," Max said quietly. "When we're sitting on the ground like this, the wall," she paused to gesture towards the ledge of the roof, "it covers us."

"I know that, Caulfield. I didn't mean it literally. It's just…" Victoria trailed off, shrugging.

Max knew what Victoria had meant. Their nighttime meetings felt separate from reality somehow, protected by darkness. But here in the daylight, everything felt more real. The walls between their different worlds seemed thinner, more permeable. If only Max stood up, she would see the Blackwell courtyard below, students milling about between classes. From up here, they'd look like actors on a distant stage, playing out their normal lives while Max sat in this strange in-between space with none other than their queen, Victoria Chase.

Victoria pulled out her cigarettes. But then paused, seeming to think better of it. She tucked them away unused, her fingers drumming against her thigh instead. "So," she said, clearly trying to redirect the conversation. "What kind of story are we actually going to write?"

Max drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "Well, if we're sticking with the 'finding light in darkness' theme..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Maybe we write about how sometimes the worst moments in our lives can lead us to unexpected connections? How losing something – or someone – can make us see things differently. See people differently."

Victoria let out a practiced scoff. "Could you be any more cliché?"

"You got anything better?"

"Maybe." Victoria stretched her legs out in front of her, the movement bringing her knee to rest against Max's foot. Max tried not to focus on that point of contact, tried not to notice how Victoria made no move to shift away. "What if we write about masks? About how sometimes people wear… darkness like a mask? Because they're afraid of the light." She said it casually, like she was suggesting they write about the weather, but Max knew there was more to it than that.

"That's..." Max swallowed against a sudden tightness in her throat. "That's actually a really good idea, Victoria."

Victoria turned to look at her then, really look at her, and Max felt her breath catch. The afternoon sun caught Victoria's eyes in a way Max had never seen before, turning them from their usual sharp green into something softer, almost golden. There was vulnerability there that Victoria usually kept hidden, something raw and honest that made Max's heart race.

"We could combine our ideas," Max suggested quietly, unable to look away from Victoria's face. "Write about two people who hide behind different kinds of darkness until something forces them to… see more clearly. And maybe..." She wet her lips nervously. "Maybe they help each other find their way back to the light?"

Victoria's expression softened for just a moment before she steeled it again. "I guess that's not too terrible a plot. It is creative enough while still following the prompt," she conceded. "But we shouldn't make it too sappy."

"Okay, yeah," Max agreed. "No emotions allowed in our story."

"Good. Pure, cold, analytical prose. Like a lab report."

"Subject A exhibited signs of friendship despite repeatedly claiming to hate Subject B," Max quoted in her best documentary voice.

"Subject B, though mostly delusional, managed to display annoying levels of perceptiveness, and refused to be properly intimidated," Victoria countered, her shoulder pressing more firmly against Max's.

"Subject A's intimidation tactics were notably half-hearted and possibly just an excuse for interaction."

Victoria gasped. "Take that back immediately."

"No, I don't think I will," Max said simply.

Chapter Text

November 19, 2013

The stars were particularly bright tonight, scattered across the dark canvas of the sky like broken glass catching light. Max had started noticing things like that more lately – the way shadows stretched across the courtyard at sunset, how the autumn wind carried echoes of summer warmth even as winter crept closer, the subtle way raindrops would cling to spider webs between tree branches like strings of tiny crystals. Maybe it was the photographer in her, still seeing the world through an imaginary viewfinder even if she couldn't bring herself to pick up her camera. Or maybe it was just that everything felt more intense these days, more real, like her senses were trying to make up for lost time.

"So," Victoria said, breaking the silence, her voice carrying that artfully casual tone of hers. "You and Graham..."

Max blinked, looking over at Victoria, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. Tension creeped into Max's shoulders – she wondered if the hallway incident was about to replay itself in some new way, or if Victoria was about to start in on her about her choice in friends. Even after sharing chocolate and holding hands while she talked about Chloe, old wounds were hard to forget.

"Me and Warren… what?"

Victoria’s hands trembled slightly in the November chill as she flicked the lighter once, twice, three times before getting it to catch. "You two seem... close." Each word came out measured, as if she'd rehearsed them.

"We are," Max said carefully.

Victoria hummed noncommittally. "Must be nice having someone so invested in you. And being invested back."

Anyone else might have missed it, but after so many of these rooftop meetings, Max had learned to read the small tells: the way Victoria's fingers tapped against her thigh, how her chin lifted slightly, the barely perceptible tremor in her voice, the way she'd twist her gold bracelet round and round her wrist. And right now, every one of those tells was on display. Max surmised that it meant Victoria actually cared about Max's answer and was tiptoeing around whatever she really wanted to say.

And then it clicked.

Victoria's interest in the nature of her relationship with Warren was understandable, really. After all this time spent together, it made sense that Victoria would wonder about other people in Max's life. Max wondered exactly that about Victoria too. It was normal. What was not normal was how Victoria was acting – Victoria Chase didn't do careful. She didn't nervously tiptoe around subjects. She certainly didn't find it difficult to hold eye contact when asking such simple questions. And a warm feeling started to spread in Max's chest, for some reason.

"And here I thought Victoria Chase was too busy being important to notice who I talk to between classes."

Victoria took an elegant drag of her cigarette, the ember glowing brighter as she inhaled. "Hard not to notice when he's practically shouting whenever he talks to you. It's really irritating." She exhaled smoke with perfect poise, but her fingers betrayed her, drumming once against her thigh before she forced them still. "Though you seem surprisingly interested in whatever it is he talks about."

"I am," Max said. She watched Victoria from the corner of her eye, tracking the minute shifts in her expression. "He's very passionate about science. And he's really good at explaining these very complex concepts..." She trailed off deliberately, heart racing as she watched that perfectly constructed mask of indifference crack just slightly.

"Fascinating," Victoria said, a touch too sharply.

"Victoria," Max began, shaking her head. "Are you trying to ask me if Warren and I are dating?"

Victoria's cigarette paused halfway to her lips. For a moment, she looked almost startled, like a deer caught in headlights, before her features quickly rearranged themselves into something more defensive. "Please. I couldn't care less about your love life, Caulfield."

"You can just ask, you know? It's fine." She glanced sideways at Victoria, watching as her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Victoria took a long moment, as if weighing her dignity against her desire to know. Finally, with careful precision that couldn't quite hide her intensity: "I really don't care, but since you brought it up – are you two dating?"

Max let the question hang in the air for a moment, watching as Victoria tried not to fidget. "No," she said finally. "He's dating Brooke." She couldn't help but notice how Victoria's shoulders relaxed slightly, how her next breath came easier.

Part of Max wanted to push further, to ask the questions racing through her mind: Why were you so nervous to ask me that? Why did you stop twisting your bracelet the moment I said no? Why do you look so relieved? She wasn't even sure what answers she wanted to hear, what answers would make her own heart stop beating so fast. But she knew Victoria well enough by now to recognize when pushing would only make her retreat, build those walls back up higher than before.

"I can't believe someone that obnoxious managed to get a girlfriend. Though she's just as obnoxious, so I guess it's not too surprising." Victoria's lips curled into a smirk, but there was something lighter in her eyes now. She took another drag of her cigarette, then made a face. "Ugh, these are starting to taste disgusting."

"They always taste disgusting," Max said, allowing the unsubtle change of topic. Perhaps for both their benefits. "You probably just notice it more now that they're useless in maintaining your ice queen image with me," she added.

"You're truly insufferable when you think you're being clever, Caulfield." But there was no bite to it and she stared at the cigarette in her hand with something like contemplation. "Maybe we should quit."

"We?"

"Please. You've been smoking just as much as me." Victoria's voice carried that signature mix of condescension and amusement. "I suppose I should feel guilty about corrupting Blackwell's resident wallflower. You're pathetically easy to influence."

"Hey!" Max protested, but just a little. Victoria wasn't entirely wrong – she had been smoking a lot lately, though they both knew it had nothing to do with the cigarettes themselves.

Victoria's fingers twisted the cigarette nervously. "But maybe we keep coming up here? Just without the cigarettes?"

"Do you honestly think I've been coming here for your cigarettes?" Max asked, voice gentle but pointed.

Victoria looked away, maintaining her practiced air of indifference, but her cheeks colored slightly in the dim light. She gave one of those elegant half-shrugs that probably took hours to perfect in front of a mirror.

Max shook her head. "I'll keep coming," she said simply. "Cigarettes or not. Free roof."

"Okay, well. Whatever. So… last one then?" Victoria asked.

When Max nodded, Victoria dropped and ceremoniously crushed out the cigarette, the ember flaring one final time before dying under her heel. Her hand hovered there for a moment, as if already missing the familiar motion.

Max watched the thin trail of smoke curl up into the sky. She felt, somehow, that this moment marked more than just the end of cigarettes. Something else was shifting too, subtle but undeniable, like the last traces of smoke disappearing into the night.

Chapter Text

November 21, 2013

The first thing Max noticed when Victoria emerged through the roof door that night was how thoroughly put-together she looked, even by her usual standards. Her designer jeans looked painted on, paired with an oversized sweater. Her short hair was freshly styled and even her makeup seemed more precisely applied than usual – if that was even possible – with smokey eyes that somehow made the green in them look sharper, more intense, even in the dim glow of the emergency lights. Though Max suddenly realized that she didn't know if Victoria was actually putting more effort into her appearance or if Max had simply started noticing these kinds of things more nowadays.

The second thing Max noticed was the elegant white box Victoria carried, tied with a pale pink ribbon.

"Nicotine withdrawal," Victoria announced by way of greeting. She settled beside Max on the edge of the roof with her usual grace. "I think this will help."

Max herself hadn't actually been craving cigarettes too much – it had never been about the nicotine for her anyway. But Victoria... Max had noticed how she'd been more on edge. Even now, her leg bounced slightly with restless energy, though she tried to hide it.

"I don't miss the taste they left in my mouth," Max said finally. "Though I do kind of miss having something to do with my hands up here." She glanced down at her own fingers, the nails bitten to the quick – a habit that had only gotten worse since October.

"That disgusting tobacco aftertaste is certainly reason enough to quit." Victoria wrinkled her nose delicately. "But I needed something to keep me occupied. Unlike some people," her eyes flicked meaningfully to Max's ragged nails, "I refuse to deal with stress like a middle schooler before their first dance recital."

"So instead you bought..." Max nodded toward the box, which looked like it belonged in a shop window in Paris rather than on a cold roof in Oregon, "whatever fancy thing that is?"

"It's not just some 'fancy thing,' Caulfield. But yes, I bought... something." Victoria lifted her chin proudly. "They're macarons from La Rêverie in Portland." At Max's blank look, she added with exaggerated patience, "The most exclusive French patisserie in the Pacific Northwest?" She sighed dramatically at Max's continued confusion. "Of course you wouldn't know it. I bet you think those technicolor hockey pucks from the mall are actual macarons."

Victoria's hands moved with almost reverent care as she untied the ribbon. When she lifted the lid, Max couldn't help but lean closer. Inside, arranged like jewels in a collector's case, were what had to be the most beautiful cookies Max had ever seen. Each one was a perfect circle in soft, sophisticated colors – pale lavenders, deep burgundies, delicate roses, rich golds. Some bore intricate patterns, others sparkled with the finest dusting of edible shimmer. They looked less like cookies and more like tiny works of art.

Victoria lifted out a pale purple macaron that – Max noticed with amusement – matched her nail polish exactly. Victoria broke it in half with practiced care, the shell making a satisfying crack. "Here. We'll start with lavender-honey. It's a classic."

Max accepted her half quietly, trying to hide her surprise. She had not expected Victoria to actually share these with her. Suddenly, she was acutely aware of how strange this moment was. Victoria didn't just share things – especially not the sugar she'd made a special trip to Portland to acquire in order to fight her nicotine withdrawal. Yet here she was, splitting this precious cookie with Max like it was the most natural thing in the world. Something fluttered in Max's stomach. Hard.

"Wait," Victoria commanded just as Max was about to take a bite. Her tone was sharp but her eyes were bright. "You can't just bite into it like some kind of barbarian. You have to appreciate it properly first. Look at the feet."

"The what?"

Victoria sighed with a dramatic flair, but Max caught the way her lips curved upward at the corners. "The ruffled edge at the bottom, Caulfield. God, keep up." She held up her half of the macaron like a professor with a particularly fascinating specimen. "See how perfectly uniform they are? That's the mark of a properly made macaron. The shell should be smooth too, with just the right amount of shine – like porcelain, not plastic. And when you bite into it…" Victoria continued, her nail tracing the shell's dome, "there should be just a slight resistance before it gives way. Then the outside should shatter just a bit while the inside stays soft. It's all about the contrast in textures."

Max couldn't help but smile at Victoria's unexpectedly passionate explanation of a good macaron. Still, she followed her instructions (with only minimal eye-rolling) and took a careful bite. Her eyes widened involuntarily as flavors bloomed across her tongue – delicate floral notes and honey harmonizing in a way that made her previous conception of cookies seem embarrassingly pedestrian. It was like tasting colors, if that made any sense.

"Good, right?" Victoria was watching her reaction with an intensity that made Max's skin tingle. She was trying for casual indifference, but Max caught how she'd leaned forward slightly, how her fingers had stilled their nervous movement on the ribbon, how she seemed to be holding her breath waiting for Max's verdict. It was such a stark contrast to her usual stance of studied boredom that Max felt almost dizzy with the realization that her opinion actually mattered to Victoria.

"It's amazing," Max admitted softly after swallowing. The fact that Victoria had wanted to share this with her, had watched her first bite with such barely concealed anticipation, made it taste even better somehow. "Really. It's so good."

Victoria's face lit up with genuine pleasure at Max's words, a bright, unguarded smile breaking through her carefully maintained composure like sunlight through clouds. It transformed her entire face, softening all her sharp edges. Then, catching herself, Victoria quickly schooled her features back into something more controlled – but it was too late. Max had seen it. That flash of pure joy, that moment of complete authenticity. It was quite possibly the most beautiful thing Max had ever witnessed.

"Of course it's amazing," Victoria said. She was already reaching for another macaron. "This one's earl grey with dark chocolate ganache..." She split it with the same careful precision as before.

It turned out that Victoria had a story for each macaron – how she'd discovered the pistachio rose during a summer in Paris, why this bakery's chocolate lavender was superior to the one she'd tried in New York City, what wine would pair perfectly with the salted caramel. Her hands moved with increasing animation as she spoke, describing the precise temperature macarons needed to be stored at, the way the shells had to rest before filling, the difference between French and Italian meringue methods.

Max had long stopped paying attention to the desserts, focusing mostly on the other girl. Somewhere along the way, Victoria's carefully maintained wall of casual disdain had crumbled completely, replaced by an almost childlike delight. She was focusing intently on the next macaron – a pale pink one that she explained was rose and lychee. "The rose has to be subtle," she was saying, "too much and it tastes like soap, but this bakery gets it perfect. Like, seriously, Caulfield. They've mastered it."

Max accepted her half with a smile, took a bite, and couldn't help the soft sound of appreciation that escaped her. Victoria's eyebrow lifted in question, and Max just nodded, still savoring. Then: "It's amazing, Victoria. God, first you give me this amazing chocolate and now these fancy French cookies that taste like heaven..." Max said before she could stop herself, eating the rest of the macaron. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to win me over." The words were meant to be teasing, but they came out far more… serious than she'd intended, hanging in the air between them like visible breath on a cold morning.

"If I were trying to win someone over, I'd do better than macarons," Victoria said easily, dismissively. "This is just to help me with quitting cigarettes. But you're here and it would be impolite not to share."

But something shifted in the air between them – a tension that made Max's skin prickle with awareness.

"This is the last one," Victoria said then. "Passion fruit with white chocolate filling. It's my favorite." Her usual precise movements were gone – she split the macaron with shaking fingers, nearly crumbling the delicate shell in her haste.

Great, Max had made it weird. Victoria had simply been sharing delicious treats and she’d made it weird. She accepted her piece of macaron quietly and plopped it into her mouth. She closed her eyes and tried to lose herself in the flavors, tried to distract herself from the fact that she'd made Victoria stop smiling, and how Max felt the loss of that smile deep in her chest. She squeezed her eyes tighter. Focus. Passion fruit. White chocolate. The way the delicate shell crackled, how the filling melted on her tongue. She let out a soft hum of appreciation. This certainly was the best one yet – the tartness of the passion fruit cutting through the sweet white chocolate in perfect balance. No wonder it was Victoria's favorite.

"I used to photograph all my desserts," Victoria blurted out, as if desperate to escape something. Max opened her eyes and saw the flash of panic in Victoria's eyes as the words left her lips – like she'd suddenly jumped into something far worse than whatever she was escaping from. Victoria's voice grew tight, brittle, but she pushed on. "Had this whole aesthetic going on my Instagram. Perfect lighting, elegant plating..." She trailed off, staring down at the empty box in her lap. "I tried to take a picture of these before coming up here. But I couldn't even hold the camera steady enough to frame the shot."

The sudden confession hung in the air between them, heavy with everything it implied. Max's head was still spinning from whatever had just happened earlier, but now they were here, in this vulnerable place where Victoria was admitting she still couldn't hold her camera.

"I miss it," Victoria said simply.

"I do too," Max replied.

Victoria didn't say anything else. She didn't need to. Max watched as she methodically refolded the empty white box, creasing each corner with the same precision she'd used to split the macarons minutes earlier. She tucked it away in her bag like she was already tucking this whole evening away – somewhere neat and contained where it couldn't spill out into tomorrow. Max recognized this careful composure, the way Victoria gathered herself when she felt too exposed. Tomorrow, Max just knew, the halls would feel a little colder and the roof a lot emptier, missing one of its usual occupants. But for now, Victoria's shoulder was still close enough that Max could feel its warmth and the taste of passion fruit lingered on her tongue.

Chapter Text

November 24, 2013

Max sat on her bed staring at her phone, drafting and deleting messages to Victoria. She'd been at it for twenty minutes now, each attempt disappearing under her thumb before it could become real. Victoria hadn't been to the roof in three days. Max knew the Vortex Club had been busy preparing their pre-Thanksgiving party – she had even seen the actual event take place last night through Instagram posts – so Victoria's absence made sense. But Max couldn't shake the feeling that her not showing up wasn't due to the Vortex Club, but due to that moment with the macarons, when something in the air between them had shifted, followed by Victoria's confession about not being able to hold a camera. Max had expected Victoria to need space, but she still felt responsible somehow, like she'd pushed too far that night, made her uncomfortable with that stupid comment about winning her over. Like maybe if she'd just kept her mouth shut, Victoria might have kept coming to the roof.

Max wrote another text. And then she immediately deleted it. It was barely 10 PM – hours before their usual midnight meetings – and tomorrow Max would go to Seattle for Thanksgiving break. She should be packing. She should wait until midnight, sit on the roof for twenty minutes, and then go back to her room when Victoria inevitably didn't show up. There was no real reason to text Victoria now. No reason at all.

Except they'd gotten their grades back on their creative writing assignment, and Max had this idea, and... she told herself this was about reciprocating Victoria's chocolate and macarons gestures. Simple as that – just a response to the delicious treats the other girl had shared. But even as she formed the thought, Max recognized it for the lie it was. The chocolate had been Victoria's way of apologizing, nothing more. And the macarons were only a way for Victoria to deal with her nicotine withdrawal. Neither of them was an invitation for... whatever this was. And yet here Max was, trying her hardest to turn this into a reason to see Victoria again, all while carefully avoiding the question of why she wanted to see her so badly at all.

Another message typed, another deletion. Why was this so hard? It was just Victoria. Just Victoria Chase. Just the Queen of Blackwell. Just the bully that tormented her for months. Just the girl that followed her after she almost had a panic attack in class, and the girl who talked about stars with bright eyes, voice full of enthusiasm and wonder. Just the girl who came to the roof every night except when she was scared or embarrassed because she'd opened up and Max had—

Max pressed her palms against her eyes, as if she could physically push away thoughts.

Her phone buzzed suddenly, making her jump.

'Are you seriously going to keep typing and deleting messages all night? It's annoying.'

Max's face flooded with heat, caught in the act. Of course Victoria could see when she was typing. Of course she'd been watching those three dots appear and disappear for twenty minutes. Before she could spiral into complete mortification, Max forced herself to type: 'Roof in 20? Earlier than usual but important.'

The response came almost immediately: 'Whatever. You're lucky I'm not busy.'

Twenty minutes later, when Max stepped onto the roof, the rain was falling in a gentle veil. Security lights pierced the darkness, transforming the mist into floating pools of silver. Victoria was already there, a dark silhouette against the night sky. She wore a rain jacket but had skipped the umbrella, letting the mist gather in her short hair.

"This better be worth interrupting my evening, Caulfield."
Max felt that now-familiar flutter in her stomach at Victoria's voice – that strange weightless feeling that had been ambushing her more and more lately, catching her off-guard whenever Victoria was near.

"Mrs. Howell posted our grades," Max said.

Victoria immediately pulled out her phone, its screen casting a soft glow across her features. "No she didn't, I've been checking all—" She stopped, eyes widening slightly. "Oh."

"A+," Max said, watching Victoria's expression change. "We got an A+."

"Well, I did write something exceptional." A pause, then: "Even if you insisted on all those nature metaphors."

"I want to celebrate," Max said quickly, the words tumbling out before she could lose her nerve.

Victoria arched an eyebrow, but Max noticed how she was already turning toward her, body language shifting from guarded to interested despite herself. "Celebrate how, exactly?"

"Since we both haven't really touched our cameras since..." Max trailed off, the unspoken weight of Jefferson hanging between them. "But maybe we could still... frame things? With our hands?" She demonstrated with her fingers, suddenly feeling foolish but unable to stop. "Like we're taking photos, but without actual cameras. The rain makes everything look different, it creates all these new compositions... It could be good practice, or preparation, or…" she trailed off, shrugging sheepishly.

She waited for Victoria to dismiss the idea, to call it stupid or childish. But instead, Victoria studied her with an expression Max couldn't quite read. Then, finally, she spoke: "The security lighting all around campus does create interesting contrasts in the rain."

"And no one's around to see us," Max added quietly, offering the words like a key to a lock. "The rain keeps everyone inside."

Victoria adjusted her rain jacket with precise movements. Thoughtfully, she turned around and looked over the courtyard below them. "Yeah,” she said. “Even the guards won't be doing their rounds in this weather."

Something warm bloomed in Max's chest at Victoria's softening resistance. "Is that a yes?"

"It's not a yes."

"But it's not a no?"

Victoria rolled her eyes, but her lips curved into a rare, genuine smile – one that made Max's heart trip over itself. "I don't want to talk about it," Victoria said. Then, she gestured toward the stairs. "After you."

Max was surprised at how quickly Victoria had agreed. She'd expected more resistance, more carefully crafted dismissiveness before she gave in. Maybe Victoria was really bored. Or maybe she actually thought this was a good idea, a good way to get back into photography. Or maybe she missed spending time with... but Max cut that thought off before it could fully form.

They moved through the darkened campus like ghosts, hands framing scenes they once would have captured with their cameras. The rain created a bubble around them, muffling the world beyond their shared space into a distant whisper. Security lights caught the mist, creating halos of gold in the darkness that followed them like personal spotlights. The hood of Max's hoodie lay soaked against her rain jacket, making water trail down her neck, but she barely noticed it. She was too caught up in watching Victoria, who seemed to have forgotten about her expensive clothes. Victoria had started off almost shy, but now she moved with uninhibited grace through the rain, completely absorbed in their makeshift photography game, pausing every few steps to frame another shot. She kept biting her lip in concentration, and kept calling Max over to see particular angles she'd found. And every time Victoria turned to share another discovery, rain dripping from her eyelashes, face lit with genuine excitement, Max felt that warmth in her chest expand, spread, fill all of her. God, Victoria was pretty. Had she always been so pretty?

"Look at how the light hits the windows of the science building," Victoria said. "The way the rain makes everything reflect... it's almost abstract."

Max moved beside her, framing the same scene but from a lower angle. "See how the puddles mirror the lights? It's like the building exists in two worlds at once."

"Trust you to find the metaphysical angle," Victoria said, but it seemed like her voice held warmth rather than the criticism she was aiming for. "Though... you're right. The reflection does add another dimension." She shifted her stance slightly. "The symmetry creates a strong vertical line that..."

"Grounds the composition," Max finished. "While the rain blurs the edges, makes it dreamlike."

Victoria's hands dropped as she turned to look at Max with an expression that she was sure was supposed to be exasperation, but looked more like amusement. "You always see the poetry in things, don't you?"

"Well, you know all the technical terms, so… I have to contribute something."

"Technical knowledge isn't everything. It doesn't even matter that much," Victoria said. "It's more important to see what others miss. You do that really well." Then she simply turned and went back to framing scenes with her hands like that casual compliment hadn't just knocked the air out of Max's lungs.

Victoria had criticized her photography style countless times in class, always with that sharp edge of competition. But here, in the rain and darkness, her voice held something different. She watched Victoria tuck a wet strand of hair behind her ear, the movement gentle, almost shy. Max pushed her own wet hair away from her eyes, wanting to see Victoria better – the way her shoulders relaxed like she'd set down something heavy, green eyes focused, expression serious but happy, elegant fingers in the shape of a rectangle in front of her face.

Victoria caught her staring, a slow smile spreading across her face as she narrowed her eyes. "What are you looking at, Caulfield?"

"Just shocked to see you having fun like a real person for once," Max teased, trying to cover the softer truth of why she'd been staring. "Who knew you could actually smile without plotting someone's social downfall?"

Victoria's eyes narrowed further, but her smile grew. "Watch it, Caulfield. I can still plot yours," she said, but the threat was undermined by the way her eyes crinkled at the corners. Then she straightened, adjusting her wet jacket with an attempt at her usual poise. "We should move somewhere else. We've been making fools of ourselves in this spot long enough." Her eyes darted to the nearby windows. "Don't want anyone to see me playing in the rain with you. That would be my social downfall."

Max wordlessly followed Victoria into the darkness, focusing on fighting the dopey smile that, for some reason, kept finding its way onto her own face.

They continued for what must have been at least an hour, though Max had lost all track of time. She was having more fun than she'd had in weeks, maybe months – darting between puddles, kneeling in wet grass to frame the perfect shot, not caring about her soaked jeans or muddy knees. She felt almost like a child again, that pure joy of discovery untainted by responsibility or consequence. For a moment, a distant memory crept in – how she thought she'd never feel this light again, not after watching time itself bend to her will, not after all the choices and the pain and—

"Caulfield!" Victoria's voice cut through her spiral. "Come look at this reflection. The way the library windows mirror in this puddle... it's actually kind of perfect."

Max joined her quickly, grateful for the distraction, but found herself caught instead by the way Victoria was outlined against the glow of the library lights, how the rain traced silver paths down her neck, how impossibly long her eyelashes looked. The way her wet hair curled slightly at the ends, the slight flush in her cheeks from the cold, the way her breath fogged in the night air when she breathed.

"The way the trees frame the path," Max said, desperate to focus on anything else. She lifted her hands, creating a viewfinder. "How the branches make patterns against the sky..."

Victoria moved behind her, close enough that Max could feel her warmth through their wet clothes, could smell her rain-dampened perfume. "Move your hands slightly left," she said. "See how it changes the composition?"

Max tried to concentrate on the framing and not on Victoria's presence, not on how her breath ghosted against Max's ear, not on the way water dripped from her hair onto Max's shoulder. "The branches look like they're reaching for each other," she said.

"Mm. Though from this angle..." Victoria's hands came up beside Max's, creating her own frame. "See how the negative space creates leading lines toward the main building? The architecture becomes the focal point instead of the organic elements."

Max turned her head slightly, wanting to see Victoria's expression, and suddenly their faces were very close. Raindrops slid down Victoria's cheek. A single droplet traced its way to Victoria's perfectly glossed lips, and Max found herself following its path, then lingering, before her eyes quickly shot back up to Victoria's. They were dark green in this light, wide with something that looked like recognition, or maybe fear.

The moment stretched between them. Neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed. Then Victoria took a measured step backward. "Personal space, Caulfield," she said, voice sharp. "Just because we're playing pretend photographers doesn't mean you need to get up in my face like that." But her fingers were twisting her gold bracelet and Max wanted to ask her why, why are you doing that?

"Sorry," Max managed to say instead, the word coming out breathless. "I just turned and you were... there."

"We should go back," Victoria said. "It's getting cold."

"Yeah."

They walked back to the dorm in tense silence, the rain that had sheltered them now feeling more like a wall than a bubble. Their footsteps echoed in the empty hallway once they made it to the building, wet shoes squeaking against linoleum. They made it to their doors and Victoria paused, her hand on the handle, water still dripping from her hair and clothes. "Good luck with your break," she said.

"You too," Max replied.

Victoria nodded once, sharp and precise, then disappeared inside. The click of her door impossibly loud in the quiet hallway.

Max entered her own room and sat on her bed, wet clothes soaking into her comforter, but she couldn't bring herself to move. She kept replaying that moment in the rain, that split second when nothing happened. Then she got up, grabbed dry clothes and a towel, and headed towards the showers.

Chapter Text

December 2, 2013

During the fall break, Max's thumb had hovered over Victoria's contact information more than once, a 'Happy Thanksgiving' text drafted but never sent. Now, back at Blackwell, they sat on the roof's ledge as if those seven days of distance and silence hadn't been the longest they'd gone since their meetings began. Max swallowed down the words I missed this before they could escape. If Victoria felt the same way, she didn't show it.

Neither of them mentioned their last night together either – the way the rain had made everything feel like a dream, how Max had turned and found Victoria's face inches from her own, that moment when the world had seemed to hold its breath. Neither mentioned it, and she suspected that neither would, but something had shifted that night – not only for her, but for Victoria too. She could tell by the way Victoria had wordlessly pressed her side against Max’s, shoulders and thighs touching, sharing warmth against the increasing cold.

"How was your Thanksgiving?" Max asked, watching the way Victoria's breath formed delicate clouds in the cold December air.

Victoria's green eyes widened slightly, like she hadn't expected the question. Why she wasn’t expecting that question on the first day back from break, Max didn't know. But Victoria's fingers instinctively reached for a cigarette that wasn't there anymore, then dropped to tap her fingers on her thigh. She studied Max's face with careful suspicion, as if searching for some hidden agenda.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because I'm curious?" Max shrugged, keeping her tone light even as she noticed how Victoria's shoulders had tensed. "I mean, I know your parents collect contemporary art and run a gallery, but that's about it. And you've never really talked about what it's like when you go home. I'm just curious."

“More like nosey. Did you spend your break making a list of deep personal questions to ask me?"

"Yes, but this wasn't on the list," Max said. "My deep personal questions are much more intense than this and I'm saving them for special occasions."

Victoria's lips curved into a slight smile, almost shy, before she caught herself and looked away, her gaze drifting over the darkened campus below. Then: "Well, if you must know, this Thanksgiving wasn't particularly exciting. Mother and Father had some important dinner in Chicago they couldn't miss. Art world stuff." The words came out practiced and polished. "I stayed with my grandparents at their Vermont house. Grandmother spent most of the time gossiping about her friends, and Grandfather barely looked up from his tablet except to complain about the wine pairing." She shrugged, an elegant gesture that seemed designed to deflect any hint of vulnerability. "The chef made duck instead of turkey. It was good."

Something in Max's chest tightened at how matter-of-fact Victoria sounded about it all, like being an afterthought in her own family was just another part of her perfectly curated life. Like any of the things she just said were okay at all. She wondered how many holidays Victoria had spent like that, surrounded by undoubtedly delicious food but no affection from her loved ones.

"How about you?" Victoria asked, her voice taking on that carefully casual tone that probably meant she was rebuilding her walls. "How was the Caulfield family gathering? I'm sure it was charmingly middle-class."

"It was good. My grandparents, my uncle, and my cousins came. So it was okay. Normal," Max said, trying to keep her voice light despite the ache she felt. She didn't want to overshare about her holiday surrounded by family. She didn’t want to make Victoria feel worse about her own. Max hesitated for a moment before adding, "The most interesting part was how shocked my mom was when I told her about you."

Victoria's head snapped around with impressive speed, her eyes wide with something between panic and curiosity. "What? You told her about me?"

"She asked me if people had been helping me after... Chloe and everything. So I told her I've been hanging out with you a lot. She actually already knew about you. I'd mentioned you at the beginning of the year, when you were..." Max hesitated.

"Being a complete bitch to you?" Victoria supplied.

"I wasn't going to say it quite like that, but…" Max said with a gentle smile and a shrug. "So she was pretty surprised when your name came up again."

Victoria hummed, looking down at her hands, something vulnerable flickering across her face like shadows from clouds passing overhead. "What did you tell her?"

"That you're different than I thought. That you've helped me a lot."

Victoria frowned for a moment. Then: "And she believed you?" Her voice carried that casual tone that Max had learned meant she very much cared about the answer.

"You have helped me a lot," Max said, somewhat nervous. Saying those words to the other girl for the first time felt risky, but she couldn't take them back now, not that she actually wanted to, anyway. "So yes, she believed me."

"Okay."

"She got curious and looked you up on Instagram and everything," Max said, watching as Victoria's perfectly maintained composure cracked once again.

"Are you serious?" Victoria's eyes widened in genuine horror, her hand automatically reaching up to touch her hair – she knew exactly where this was going.

"Yup. She actually scrolled way down and found the ones of you with long hair," Max said, unable to suppress her grin. "The transformation was... impressive."

Victoria lifted her chin with practiced dignity, though her cheeks colored slightly. "Short hair is more versatile," she said, some of her usual confidence returning as she ran a hand through her blond locks. "Makes it easier to wear whatever I want without looking like I'm trying too hard. Unlike some people who think the same hoodie works for every occasion." She shot Max a pointed look.

"Don't change the subject. You wore preppy headbands in every single photo too," Max teased. "Like, an impressive variety of them. Why did you wear headbands so much?" She watched Victoria's face, delighting in how the usually composed girl was fighting back a smile.

"I was twelve," Victoria said, like that explained everything, though her cheeks were still faintly pink. "Everyone's embarrassing at twelve."

"You were cute," Max said before she could stop herself, then quickly added, "In a preppy, country-club princess kind of way."

Victoria's eyes narrowed, that familiar calculating gleam returning. "Yeah? What would I find if I went through your old photos, Caulfield? Since you're such an expert on middle school fashion choices."

Max shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant even as she felt heat creep up her neck. "You wouldn't find much."

"Really?" Victoria drew the word out, her voice taking on that dangerously playful tone that meant she'd sensed weakness. She shifted closer, studying Max with the same intensity she usually reserved for critiquing photographs. "Nothing embarrassing? No awkward phases?" Her lips curved into a slight smirk. "What did you look like with longer hair? Or..." she paused deliberately, "without the bangs?"

Max groaned, instinctively reaching up to touch her fringe. "Not good. Trust me. There's a reason these exist." She gestured to her bangs, trying not to think about the truly unfortunate photos buried in her parents' house.

Victoria laughed softly, a genuine sound that made her seem younger somehow. She shook her head good-naturedly then. "I doubt that. You've got one of those faces that can pull off any hairstyle," Victoria said, her voice carrying a warmth that seemed to surprise even her. Her eyes widened slightly when she realized what she'd said.

Max forced herself to laugh, trying to ignore the way her heart had started racing, how her cheeks burned. "Was that almost a compliment?"

"No, it really wasn't." But Victoria's smile now was reaching her eyes in that way that made something flutter in Max's stomach. "Just shut up, Caulfield."

"Make me."

The words slipped out before Max could stop them, hanging in the air between them like frost, delicate and dangerous. For a moment, everything seemed to still – even the December wind holding its breath. Max could've sworn she saw Victoria's eyes drop to her lips. Something electric crackled in the space between them. Then, Victoria moved with swift precision, reaching over and giving Max a firm shove that sent her sprawling backward onto the concrete of the roof. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to catch her completely off guard.

"There," Victoria said smugly, looking down at Max's startled face. "Much better."

Max lay there for a moment, mouth open in shock, before pushing herself up onto her elbows, indignation flaring in her chest. "I— I can't believe you just did that. You just pushed me."

"You literally asked me to make you shut up," Victoria said, arching an eyebrow. Her satisfied smirk softened slightly as she extended a hand to help Max up. "Besides, I made sure you fell away from the edge. You should be thanking me, really."

"Oh, my hero," Max deadpanned, taking Victoria's offered hand and letting herself be pulled back to sitting. Despite herself, she felt a laugh bubbling up in her chest – Victoria Chase resorting to playground tactics. It shouldn't have made sense, but it really did. Max brushed invisible dirt from her hoodie, fighting to keep the amusement off her face as she shot Victoria a glare. "Is that how you solve all your problems? Just push people over?"

"No. Consider yourself special."

Chapter Text

December 7, 2013

"Are you sure you don't mind helping?" Kate asked for the third time, sorting through boxes of decorations. "I know you probably have studying to do..."

"I want to help," Max assured her, already kneeling to untangle a particularly stubborn string of lights. The dorm entrance had transformed into a festive disaster zone, with opened boxes spilling their contents everywhere – glittering garlands, delicate glass ornaments, shimmering tinsel, and what looked like enough fairy lights to short out all of Blackwell's power.

When Kate had mentioned yesterday that she decorated the dorm entrance every December, her eyes had lit up with genuine joy. "It's kind of my thing," she'd explained shyly. "My third year doing it now. Just trying to make it feel a bit more like home for everyone." The way she'd said it, so earnest and hopeful, had made Max's heart ache with affection for her friend. And, of course, Max had offered to help her.

Kate pulled out a small snow globe. "Oh! I forgot about this one." She shook it gently, watching the glitter swirl around a tiny winter scene. "I love snow globes."

Max found herself smiling at Kate's enthusiasm, watching her friend's face light up as she described where each decoration should go. It was more than nice – it was healing, in a way, seeing Kate like this. So alive, so genuinely happy, pouring her heart into making their dorm feel like home for everyone. The way she carefully planned each detail, explaining how she wanted the decorations to welcome students coming back from class on dark winter evenings...

But then the guilt hit Max. In another timeline, Kate had never made it to December. In another timeline, Max hadn't reached the roof in time, hadn't found the right words. In another timeline, Kate had stood in the rain, desperate and alone, while Max had failed to be the friend she needed. She could still see it sometimes – Kate's silhouette against the grey sky, her voice breaking as she stepped forward into empty air, falling, falling—

"Max, did you hear me?"

Max blinked hard, her hands trembling slightly as she gripped the lights. That wasn't this timeline. That wasn't this Kate – this Kate was here, safe, planning Christmas decorations. This Kate smiled more easily now, laughed more freely. This Kate was alive and healing, proof that different choices led to different outcomes. Max took a steadying breath, anchoring herself in this reality.

"Sorry," Max shook her head, attempting a smile. "Got distracted. What were you saying?"

"These lights need to run all around the entrance," Kate explained patiently, gesturing with her clipboard like a tiny Christmas general commanding her decorating troops. "Then we'll hang the silver snowflakes between them – they'll catch the light when people walk in. Oh! And I was thinking we could do icicle lights along the top too..."

Max threw herself into the task, grateful for the distraction from her darker thoughts. The first stretch went smoothly enough – Kate holding the lights while Max secured them to the hooks Kate had placed there years prior. But as they worked their way higher, even the step stool they'd borrowed from Samuel (who'd given them a cryptic warning about the dangers of reaching too high) wasn't quite enough to help Max reach.

"Oh my god, what kind of Hallmark movie threw up in here?"

The voice startled Max so badly she nearly toppled off the step stool. She grabbed onto the wall to steady herself, then turned to find Victoria Chase leaning against the far wall, looking like she'd just stepped out of a fashion magazine despite the ungodly hour. She was wearing a designer sweater and jeans. Her short blond hair and her green eyes caught the morning light in a way that made Max's fingers itch for her camera. Trust Victoria to look this perfectly put together at 9:30 AM on a Saturday, while Max was still in pajamas and trying to convince her brain that mornings should legally exist. Max took a deep breath, turned around, and got back to work.

"Good morning, Victoria," Kate said with her usual gentle warmth, apparently immune to Victoria's judgment. "Would you like to help?"

Victoria's laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. "Help turn our dorm into Santa's workshop? I'll pass." Her eyes fixed on Max, who was wobbling precariously on the step stool, struggling with a stubborn section of lights. "Though I have to admit, watching Caulfield attempt basic motor functions is proving to be quite entertaining. Having trouble reaching, shortie? Should we get you a booster seat?"

Max felt her face burn. "I'm fine," she muttered, stretching higher to reach the hook. Her sweater rode up slightly with the movement, and when she looked back, she could've sworn she caught Victoria's gaze snapping away from the exposed skin. The moment was brief, barely there, but it sent a shiver down Max's spine nonetheless.

"Seriously, this is physically painful to watch," Victoria said quickly. "You look like a baby giraffe having a seizure. And Marsh?" Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows arched as she examined the decorations. "Those silver snowflakes? Really? Could this get any more tacky?"

Kate's smile remained serene, as if Victoria's words were merely gentle suggestions rather than barbed criticism. "They catch the light so beautifully. They remind me of home."

"They remind me of a discount store Christmas aisle," Victoria said flatly.

Max was still battling with the lights, now attempting to attach one of the crystal-like snowflakes between them. Even stretched to her full height on her tiptoes, she couldn't quite reach. Her fingers barely brushed the hook. "Almost... got it..."

"For fuck's sake," Victoria finally snapped, pushing off from the wall with an exaggerated sigh. "This is literally the most pathetic thing I've ever witnessed."

Before Max could protest, Victoria stepped onto the stool behind her, one hand settling firmly on Max's hip to steady them both as she reached up with her other arm. The step stool wasn't really made for two people, forcing Victoria to press her front fully against Max's back to maintain their balance. Max's breath caught in her throat at the sudden proximity – she could feel the warmth of Victoria's body through their clothes, the slight tremor in her fingers where they gripped Max's hip, and the familiar perfume enveloped her senses, making her head spin. She was acutely aware of every point where their bodies connected, of Victoria's soft breath against her neck, of how perfectly they seemed to fit together despite the precarious position.

"There," Victoria said, her voice dropping to almost a whisper, lips close enough to Max's ear that she could feel the warmth of her breath. Her fingers tightened on Max's hip before she carefully stepped down, keeping one hand steady on Max's waist until she also stepped down and they were both safely off the stool. The snowflake hung perfectly centered between the lights, catching the morning sun and sending tiny rainbows dancing across the walls.

Victoria was already striding away before Max could remember how to breathe. "Try not to break your neck with any more decorations, Caulfield," she called over her shoulder. "And Marsh? If you're going to insist on turning this place into the North Pole, at least use white lights instead of multicolored. We're not Walmart." The last part lacked bite, almost sounding like genuine decorating advice.

They watched her disappear down the hall, her boots clicking against the floor in a rhythm that seemed slightly faster than her usual measured pace.

"Well. Um. That was... different," Kate said after a moment. "I've never seen her actually help anyone before. Let alone so..." she trailed off diplomatically.

Max was still staring after Victoria, her skin humming where Victoria's hand had been, the ghost of her touch burning through her sweater. "Yeah," was all she could manage.

Kate studied Max's flushed face. "Well, it looks great," she said finally. "Lucky Victoria's so tall."

Max just nodded, her heart still racing. She absently touched the spot where Victoria's hand had been.

"Should we do the other side?" Kate asked, already reaching for more decorations.

Max shook herself out of her daze. "Yeah," she said quickly, her voice higher than normal. "Just... maybe we should ask Samuel if he has a ladder?"

But she couldn't help glancing down the hall where Victoria had disappeared, already thinking about their inevitable meeting on the roof tonight. They'd sit under the stars and pretend this moment hadn't happened.

Chapter Text

December 11, 2013

"You're shaking," Victoria observed from her usual spot on the edge of the roof. "Caulfield."

Max barely registered her voice, couldn't stop pacing, couldn't stop seeing the images from her nightmare playing over and over behind her eyes. She'd crashed in her room right after classes, exhaustion finally catching up with her. But she should've known better than to let herself fall asleep – after all, today marked two months (and four days) since Max had made the choice. She'd fled her room in just a thin t-shirt and sleep shorts, not even registering the cold – the horror still clinging to her consciousness made the late autumn chill seem distant and unimportant.

"Caulfield. Hey." Victoria's voice was firmer now. "What happened?"

"A dream." Max heard her own voice crack, distant and strange to her ears. "About choosing differently. About saving her. Chloe." Her breathing was becoming shallow and quick, panic clawing at her chest. "But the storm came and... and Joyce was trapped in the diner when it exploded. All those people inside, they burned alive, they—"

Warm fabric suddenly settled around her shoulders – Victoria's cardigan. Max startled at the touch but found herself leaning into it, desperate for any anchor to this reality.

"Breathe with me," Victoria said softly, her hands steady on Max's shoulders.

But Max couldn't. And she couldn’t stop the words either, couldn't control what she was revealing. It spilled out of her like a broken dam. "All those people in the streets, in their homes... their bodies... the storm just... the screaming, I could hear them screaming when the buildings collapsed, when the water came, when the fires started. The power lines fell and— god, the smell when they were electrocuted, I can still smell it, and the bodies washed up on the shore, so many bodies—" Her breathing was coming in gasps now. "All of them dead because of me. Because I saved her—"

Victoria pulled her close, and Max felt herself being tucked against Victoria's shoulder, one of Victoria's hands cradling the back of her head. "Just breathe. You're safe. It wasn't real. Breathe."

But it was real, Max wanted to scream. The words caught in her throat as tears spilled over. She could still smell the ozone in the air, feel the rain stinging her face as she stood on that cliff with Chloe, making an impossible choice. Her fingers clutched desperately at Victoria's silk blouse, probably ruining the expensive fabric, but she couldn't let go.

"They died because of me. I created the storm," Max cried desperately into Victoria's shoulder, knowing she should stop talking but unable to halt the flow of words. "There were so many of them. Children from the school. People I knew. I had to choose—" Her voice broke on a sob.

Victoria's arms tightened around her, one hand running soothingly up and down her back. Max waited for the questions – what was she talking about? Why did she feel responsible for a theoretical disaster? Why would saving one person doom everyone else? But Victoria didn’t ask anything, she just held her, letting Max cry against her blouse.

"I killed them," Max choked out, the confession burning her throat. "In that other timeline, I killed them all."

"Shh," Victoria murmured, still holding her close. "Just breathe. Stay with me. It was just a nightmare."

They stayed like that until Max's breathing slowly steadied, though her hands wouldn't stop shaking where they gripped Victoria's blouse. The cardigan was warm around her shoulders, and Victoria's perfume – something Max had come to associate with safety by now – helped ground her in this reality. The reality where she'd made a different choice. Where Chloe was gone, but thousands of people were not.

When Max finally pulled back slightly, she was startled by what she saw in Victoria's face. The other girl’s carefully maintained composure was completely shattered. Her eyes were wide and glassy, like she was fighting back tears of her own, and there was something raw and desperate in the way she was looking at Max – like she couldn't bear to see her falling apart like this but couldn't look away either. Victoria's hands gripped Max's arms, as if scared to let her go.

Then, like a switch being flipped, Victoria's walls slammed back into place. She released Max abruptly, crossing her arms tight against her chest as she looked away, but not before Max caught the way she quickly wiped at her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was deliberately casual, though it shook slightly.

"Keep the cardigan. You need it more than I do tonight." She paused, and beneath her forced snark, that earlier flash of protective fear lingered. "You really don't do anything halfway, do you? Most people have normal nightmares about failing tests or showing up naked to class. But you? You're out here having dreams about killing people with storms." Victoria shook her head in disbelief. "You're completely fucked up, Caulfield. Like, genuinely concerning levels of fucked up."

Max let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Yeah, well. You're not wrong." She pulled the soft cashmere cardigan tighter around herself, letting Victoria's lingering warmth and perfume ground her. If Victoria only knew how right she was – how truly fucked up Max was. Everything that had happened, everything that she'd done.

Victoria guided them both to sit against the wall and Max found herself leaning into Victoria's shoulder without meaning to. Victoria hesitated for a brief moment, but then she took Max's still-trembling hand in hers, lacing their fingers together.

They stayed like that as the night deepened around them. Max's tears would come in waves, quieter now, and each time Victoria's thumb would trace gentle patterns on her palm, a silent reminder that she wasn't alone.

Neither of them mentioned how their hands remained linked long after Max's tears had dried, or how neither seemed willing to be the first to let go.

Chapter Text

December 12, 2013

The cardigan was carefully folded in Max's arms as she pushed through the roof door, Victoria's perfume still clinging to its soft fibers. She'd spent most of the day in a fog, drifting in and out of exhausted sleep after her meltdown the night before. Now, finally feeling more like a functioning human being, she'd spent way too much time trying to smooth out the wrinkles from the cardigan Victoria had given her, wanting to return it in perfect condition. It was easier to focus on that than on the crushing embarrassment of having completely broken down in front of Victoria Chase – the queen bee of Blackwell who could destroy her social life with a single Instagram post if she wanted to. Not that Max actually believed she would. Not anymore.

Victoria was already there, face illuminated by her phone screen as she scrolled with practiced disinterest. She didn't look up at the sound of Max's footsteps, but her thumb paused briefly over whatever she was reading.

"Hey," Max said softly. "I brought your cardigan back."

"Just leave it there," Victoria said, her voice clipped and controlled – nothing like the gentle tone that had talked Max through her panic attack the night before. She kept her eyes fixed on her phone screen, maintaining her barrier of indifference.

Max placed the cardigan carefully beside Victoria, noticing how the other girl shifted slightly away.

Max took a deep breath. "About last night," she started, wrapping her arms around herself against the autumn chill. "Thank you for being—"

"Don't," Victoria cut her off sharply, finally looking up from her phone. Her makeup was flawless even at this hour, her expression carefully neutral. "Just... don't make this into something it's not, Caulfield. You were having a moment. I happened to be there. That's all."

Max was slightly taken aback by Victoria’s response. Though, she wasn't too surprised – it was exactly what she'd expected, really. Same old pattern of vulnerability followed by distance. Although this time it had been Max showing vulnerability, not Victoria, which made her retreat harder to understand. Maybe seeing someone else break down so completely was its own kind of vulnerability. Though Max had to admit, the fact that Victoria had shown up to their spot at all tonight, knowing Max would come, knowing they'd have to acknowledge what happened – that was something. A small crack in the usual pattern, even if Victoria was trying her hardest to paper over it.

"Right," Max said simply.

Victoria's attention returned to her phone, thumbs typing something with precise, measured movements. "Whatever. Just don't expect me to be your therapist every time you have a nightmare."

Max caught the slight tremor in Victoria's voice, the way her grip tightened almost imperceptibly on her phone. And suddenly she remembered the way Victoria had looked at her after the worst of her panic attack, her eyes glossy, her face full of pain and fear and… so that must've been why she was pulling away now.

"Okay," Max said quietly. "I won't mention it again. But Victoria?" She waited until green eyes reluctantly met hers. "Thank you anyway. Really."

Something flickered across Victoria's face. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by her usual practiced disinterest. "Whatever," she repeated, turning back to her phone. "You can go now."

Max scoffed. "I can go now? Free country, free roof," Max said, echoing Victoria's words from their first night up here. "Right?"

Victoria's fingers stilled over her phone screen. For a moment, she looked almost conflicted, caught between her need to maintain distance and some other emotion Max couldn't quite read. Finally, she stood up, smoothing her skirt with practiced precision. "Yeah," she said quietly. "You're right." She picked up her cardigan, carefully avoiding Max's eyes. "I should go."

Max watched her disappear through the roof door. The night air felt colder somehow, but she stayed anyway, settling into their usual spot.

Chapter Text

December 15, 2013

The news had broken that morning: Jefferson's confession. Not just bits and pieces, but everything – every detail, every victim, every photograph. The confession itself remained sealed until trial, but that hadn't stopped the whispers. Social media exploded. News vans circled Blackwell like vultures. Teachers spoke in hushed tones between classes. Victoria hadn't come to the roof since Max returned her cardigan, but now she was back, knees pulled tight to her chest, cigarette burning forgotten between her fingers. Without a word, Max sat beside her.

They didn't speak. There was nothing to say. Victoria shifted closer, pressed her shoulder against Max's.

Surprisingly, despite everything, Max's memories of the bunker were dimming with time, like photographs left too long in sunlight. The sharp edges had softened – Jefferson's voice, the cold floor, even the chemical smell. Sometimes she could go a whole day without thinking about it. But certain things remained stark: the bite of tape against her wrists, the violent burst of camera flashes, the fear. And his confession dragged everything back into harsh focus. But maybe that's what healing looked like: letting the truth come to light, watching something so massive slowly shrink into what it really was – just another criminal being brought to justice, just another monster losing his power.

Both Max and Victoria were still wide awake when the sun came up.

Chapter Text

December 19, 2013

The first snow of the year fell softly around them. Max watched the flakes spiral down, each one catching security lights and transforming into tiny stars before vanishing. The familiar weight of her camera's absence pressed against her ribs – another moment she couldn't capture, another memory she'd have to hold differently now. Her eyes drifted to Victoria instead, watching how the snow gathered on her coat, perfect crystals lasting mere seconds before dissolving into nothing.

This was their last night on the roof before winter break. The thought had been haunting Max all day, making her chest inexplicably tight whenever she remembered it. Three weeks stretched ahead like an empty road – no midnight meetings, no shared cigarettes they sometimes still craved, no Victoria's shoulder pressed warm against hers in the dark. She watched Victoria from the corner of her eye, wondering if she felt it too – this strange heaviness in the air that had nothing to do with snow and everything to do with endings.

Victoria sat with her usual perfect posture, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. Max didn't know how much her designer boots cost – probably too much. Yet Victoria was carelessly letting snow collect on them. That must've meant something. Maybe. Max wasn't sure why she even wanted that to mean something.

They'd been quiet for nearly an hour now. Max had grown used to their silences, learned to read them like the stages of dawn – each one painting the sky in different colors. There were their early silences, dark and heavy as the hours before sunrise, when they'd both been too raw with trauma to speak. Their grieving silences, grey as morning fog rolling in from the bay, shared on the nights Jefferson's shadow felt too long or Chloe's blood stained her memories. Their comfortable silences, warm as early sunlight, when Victoria would press her shoulder against Max's and neither would acknowledge it. But this silence felt different. Fragile as that perfect moment when night finally surrenders to day, when everything hangs suspended between what was and what could be.

"So," Max started, her voice barely disturbing the snow-muffled air. She'd been turning this question over in her mind for days. "Where are you spending Christmas? Vermont with your grandparents?"

Victoria's eyes remained fixed on the falling snow, but Max caught the slight tension in her jaw, the way her fingers instinctively reached for cigarettes she'd sworn off weeks ago. "Seattle," she said finally, the word precise and clipped. "With my parents."

"Seattle?" Max couldn't hide her surprise, watching as Victoria's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly at her tone.

"Yes, Caulfield. Seattle. That's where I live. When I'm not here, anyway." Her voice carried that familiar edge of condescension. "Try to keep up."

Max blinked, processing the revelation. "I didn't know you were from Seattle," she said softly, the words feeling heavy in her mouth. Over two months of these roof meetings and somehow this basic fact about Victoria had eluded her. The realization settled uncomfortably in her chest, a reminder of just how little she actually knew about the other girl.

Victoria rolled her eyes, but her fingers had found her gold bracelet, twisting it in that nervous gesture that she probably thought Max hadn't noticed. "Well, you never asked." It wasn't an accusation, but almost – a gentle reproach wrapped in carefully maintained indifference.

Max wanted to fight that, tell her that most of her questions were met with either silence or venom, but something else slipped out before Max could stop it: "Would you have told me if I'd asked you?"

Victoria exhaled sharply through her nose – almost a laugh, but not quite. A sound that said touché better than words could. Then, "Born and raised," she added after a moment. "The Chase Space isn't exactly a traveling gallery."

"Right. Gosh, I didn't realize the Chase Space was in Seattle," Max said, the words feeling inadequate.

"Of course you didn't," Victoria said, brushing snow from her knee with precise movements. "You were probably too busy taking selfies with the Space Needle to notice anything about actual art."

Max felt heat rise to her cheeks, embarrassment coiling in her stomach. Some aspiring photographer she was, not even knowing one of the most prestigious galleries in the country had been right there in her backyard. She imagined Victoria's judgment radiating off her in waves. But when Max finally dared to look, Victoria's face held none of the condescension she'd expected. If anything, she seemed almost... distant, lost in her own thoughts.

"My friends weren't really into art," Max offered quietly, the words tasting like excuses. "I mostly just followed them around, trying to... well, fit in." She traced patterns in the gathering snow beside her. "But I would've liked to visit the Chase Space. People here always talk about it like it's this magical place."

Victoria turned to look at her then, something unreadable flickering across her face. Her fingers drummed against her thigh once, twice. Her voice carried careful casualness. "It's just another gallery. All polished floors and white walls and people who spend more time discussing their theories about photography than actually looking at it." A ghost of a smile touched her lips, but there was something bitter in it. "Rich assholes sipping overpriced wine while pretending they understand symbolism."

"Sounds familiar," Max teased, trying to lighten the sudden heaviness in Victoria's voice. "You sure you weren't one of them?"

"Please. I practically wrote the handbook on gallery pretension," Victoria responded. "Oh, the negative space here is simply transcendent. The way it challenges our preconceptions of modern society…" she mimicked, her voice rising into an affected, gallery-opening lilt – all practiced pauses and aristocratic vowels. "So no, I wasn't just one of them. I was worse."

Max couldn't help but smile. "Was?" She bumped her shoulder against Victoria's. "Because that sounds exactly like you now."

Victoria's eyes narrowed, but her lips were curved upward. "Watch it, Caulfield. Being this pretentious takes work. It's an art form."

"Well, you've definitely mastered it."

Victoria's smile then was genuine, reaching her eyes in that rare way that made Max's heart skip. "You know, I think you'd fit right in. You're good at pretending you're not the most pretentious person in every room you walk into. They eat that shit up."

Max rolled her eyes, but the smile didn't quite leave her face. "Yeah, alright." She couldn't pinpoint exactly when Victoria's insults had lost their sting, but they kind of had. Victoria looked down at her hands, a small smile playing at her lips that she seemed to be fighting to suppress.

Silence stretched between them then and Max's mind wandered down Seattle's rain-slicked streets. She could picture it now – a young Victoria owning every sidewalk like she owned these Blackwell halls, while Max had stumbled wide-eyed through the city, just a small town girl trying to pretend she belonged in somewhere bigger than Arcadia Bay. Their shared city suddenly felt like a puzzle piece she'd been holding wrong all this time.

"I wonder if we ever crossed paths," Max said. "Back then."

"Unlikely," Victoria said, the answer coming too quickly. "You moved there at thirteen, right? I moved here at around the same time. Perhaps a bit later. For freshman year," she said. "At most, we overlapped during holidays when I went back. And even then, I doubt we frequented the same places."

Instead of pointing out how readily that answer came, ask how much thought Victoria had given it, Max said: "Sounds like the universe really tried to keep us apart."

"And yet here we are anyway. Though I have to admit, blissful ignorance about your tragic fashion choices would've been nice."

"Well," Max said, ignoring the last part of her response. "We'll both be there for break now. I mean – I'm going to Seattle too. That's where my parents live. As you know. So the universe won't be separating us. This time, that is."

Victoria's eyebrow arched perfectly, practiced smirk tugging at her lips, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting, Caulfield? Really can't survive three weeks without me?"

Max felt heat rise to her cheeks. "That's not—" She playfully nudged Victoria's knee with her own. "I was just making an observation. You know that. Don't flatter yourself."

Victoria's smile lingered, her knee staying pressed against Max's even after the bump. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Caulfield. Oh, right, I am what helps you sleep at night."

Max let out a laugh. "That wasn't as funny as you think it was."

"Ha ha." Victoria looked down then, finally kicking her legs and shaking the snow off her boots. She took a deep breath, and there was something almost regretful about it. "I should go," Victoria said finally, but she didn't move. "The driver is coming early tomorrow."

Max nodded. She wanted to ask if they'd do this again when they got back. If whatever this fragile thing between them could survive three weeks of distance. If Victoria would pretend none of this had happened once January came. But the questions felt too heavy for the gentle snowfall around them.

Victoria stood up then, brushing snow from her coat. For a moment she just stood there, like she was waiting for something. Like she wanted to say something. Then her walls slid back into place, perfect and practiced.

"Don't be too pathetic during break, Caulfield," Victoria said, but her voice was softer than usual. "And..." she hesitated, her composure cracking slightly. "Don't go finding another roof buddy while I'm gone."

Max's heart skipped. "I won't."

Victoria nodded once, sharp and precise, then turned toward the door. She paused with her hand on the handle, snow still falling around her. "So, when we get back..." she started, then stopped.

"Same time?" Max offered quietly.

"If I'm not busy."

Then she was gone, leaving only footprints in the snow that were already beginning to fill in. Max stayed a while longer. She thought about Seattle again and how perfectly Victoria belonged there – not just belonged, but seemed to have been carved from the same raw materials as the city itself. All sleek glass and carefully considered angles, too sophisticated to be friendly but too magnetic to ignore. Though really, Max realized, Victoria had that rare gravity that made any city feel like it had been built around her – as if architects had sketched their skylines with her silhouette in mind.

Max groaned and pressed her palms against her eyes until she saw stars, as if she could physically push out these thoughts about Victoria out of her head. Since when did she spend time imagining how Victoria Chase belonged in places? Next she'd be writing terrible poems about how the snow fell just to decorate her stupid perfect hair. "Stop that," she muttered into her hands, her voice muffled and irritated. "Just... stop that right now." But even as she scolded herself, a traitorous part of her brain was already framing how the moonlight caught the frost on Victoria's departing footprints.

Max jerked to her feet and stalked toward the door, pointedly skirting Victoria's footprints in the snow like they might burn her if she stepped in them – the same way she'd been skirting around other things, like how she had spent countless moments fighting the urge to run her fingers through that perfect hair, just to know what it felt like, just to see what Victoria would do. Like how her heart had stopped that day in the rain when they were framing pictures with their hands, wanting Victoria to step closer instead of stepping away. Like how she had held her breath that night after fall break, hoping Victoria would follow through and make her shut up. Like how she had wanted to just lean back on that step stool, press against Victoria's front, feel her.

Max knew what was happening to her, she'd known for a while now, but she'd ignore it. She had to ignore it because, seriously, what the actual fuck was she supposed to do with that information if she let herself believe it? Like her life wasn't already complicated enough without adding that to the list. Some problems were better left buried in the snow.

At least until next year.

Chapter Text

December 28, 2013

Max stood in front of her Seattle bedroom's mirror, adjusting her new sweater for what felt like the hundredth time. Her new cream-colored sweater – a Christmas gift from her parents that had made her eyes widen at the price tag she'd later found stuffed in the bottom of the gift bag – felt impossibly soft against her skin. She'd paired it with her nicest jeans, a deep blue scarf, and a grey beanie. She'd even put on mascara, though she refused to examine too closely why she was making so much effort for brunch with Victoria Chase.

It had started with a simple 'Merry Christmas' text three days ago – a message Max had typed and deleted approximately fifteen times before finally sending. Victoria's response had been immediate: 'How incredibly basic of you.' But then she'd launched into an exhaustive description of her family's Christmas dinner, detailing everything from the herb-crusted prime rib to the hand-piped chocolate truffles dusted with gold leaf. One text had led to another, their usual dynamic translating surprisingly well to messages, until suddenly Victoria had said 'I know a place' and somehow Max had agreed to brunch. She'd spent the last couple of days trying to convince herself it wasn't such a bad idea. It almost worked.

Max's phone buzzed: 'Outside. It's cold. Don't keep me waiting too long.'

"Shit." Her heart definitely didn't skip at seeing Victoria's name on her screen. Just like it definitely hadn't been doing summersaults since she woke up this morning. Max gave herself one final critical look in the mirror. She'd been at this for nearly an hour, and this was probably as good as it was going to get.

When Max stepped outside, she nearly tripped over her own feet. Victoria was leaning against a sleek black Mercedes that Max suspected cost more than her parents' house. She was wearing a perfectly tailored wool coat over what looked like another designer outfit. Her short blonde hair caught the weak winter sunlight, and her makeup was flawless as always.

"Not bad, Caulfield," Victoria said, eyes traveling over Max's outfit with an appraising smile. "The sweater's new?"

Max nodded, walking until she reached Victoria, trying not to fidget under her scrutiny. "It was a Christmas present."

"Tory Burch. Few seasons old. Still somewhat in fashion, though," she said appreciatively. Then, Victoria stepped closer, reaching out to adjust Max's bangs under her beanie with careful fingers. "These are getting long," she said, her hand lingering perhaps a moment longer than necessary. "You'll need to trim them soon or we won't be able to see those obnoxiously blue eyes of yours."

Max's heart was racing at the gentle touch, her skin tingling where Victoria's fingers had been. "I haven't had time," she managed.

"Of course." Victoria rolled her eyes. "Come on, I'm starving."

The interior of Victoria's car smelled like expensive leather and her perfume. Max sank into the passenger seat, trying to calm her nerves. The whole thing felt so surreal – to be in Victoria Chase's car, in Seattle, voluntarily going to brunch together. And it had been Victoria's idea, which made it even more impossible to process.

She stole glances at Victoria as she drove, somehow unsurprised yet still struck by how effortlessly elegant she looked with one hand on the steering wheel, the morning light catching her profile just so. It was unfair, really, how she could make even the simple act of driving look like… that. Max turned away, not wanting to get caught staring, and focused instead on watching Seattle pass by outside her window. But even then, she remained acutely aware of Victoria's presence, of that familiar perfume that made her chest feel tight in a way she promised herself that she wasn't going to analyze until, maybe, next year.

Suddenly, music filled the comfortable silence – an indie band that Max immediately recognized. She couldn't help but smile, turning to look at the other girl. "You know this is considered hipster music, right?"

Victoria's lips curved upward. "Even a broken clock is right twice a day, Caulfield."

"Right." The gentle melody wrapped around them and Max found herself watching Victoria again, cataloging details: the sharp angle of her jaw, the elegant line of her neck, how perfectly she'd styled her short blond hair that morning, not a strand out of place. The way the corners of her mouth were beginning to lift, a small smile tugging at her lips—

"You're staring at me," Victoria said without looking at her.

"Sorry," Max said quickly, heat rising to her cheeks. "But I wasn't staring. I was looking out your window."

"Whatever you say, Caulfield."

Max turned back to the window, mentally kicking herself. This was Victoria Chase, for god's sake. The same Victoria who had spent half a semester making her life hell. The same Victoria who still made her feel impossibly small sometimes, even now. Why was Max being so ridiculously… ridiculous about this?

The rest of the drive passed in relatively safe silence, with Max keeping her eyes firmly on Seattle's familiar streets. When they finally pulled up to the restaurant, Max's suspicions about where this morning was headed were confirmed. It was exactly the kind of place she'd only seen from the outside – all elegant awnings and floor-to-ceiling windows that seemed designed to intimidate anyone without a trust fund. Even at this hour, a line of expensively dressed people wrapped around the corner, but Victoria didn't spare them a glance. She stepped out of the car with the kind of confidence that came from a lifetime of never having to wait in lines, and Max found herself following close behind, trying not to think about how out of place she must look.

"Chase. Table for two," Victoria said to the host, and Max watched as the man's entire demeanor shifted.

"Of course, Miss Chase. Right this way."

They were led to a corner table by the window, tucked away from the main dining room in what was clearly one of the best spots in the restaurant. "Parents know the owner," Victoria explained with a casual shrug that somehow managed to make casual connections with Seattle's elite sound as ordinary as knowing the local barista. "Makes reservations... flexible."

Max tried not to gawk at the elegant interior, but she could feel Victoria watching her take it all in, clearly amused by her reaction. The other patrons looked like they'd stepped out of a lifestyle magazine – all designer suits and dresses, subtle jewelry, expensive smiles. When the leather-bound menus arrived, the prices confirmed her fear: she was so far out of her depth she couldn't even see the surface. She couldn't quite suppress her sharp intake of breath at the first number she saw.

"I've got it," Victoria said immediately. "Don't worry about it."

"Victoria, this is—"

"Caulfield," Victoria cut her off with a mix of impatience and something softer. "This was my idea, my choice of venue. I'm paying."

"I can't let you—"

"You can pay next time," Victoria said with finality, then immediately turned her attention to her menu as if she hadn't just casually suggested there would be a next time.

Max stared at her own menu in response, trying to focus on the elaborate descriptions of dishes she couldn't pronounce. But Victoria's words kept echoing in her head, making it impossible to think about anything else. Next time. Like this was something they did now. Like getting brunch together in expensive restaurants in Seattle was just going to be part of their... friendship? Were they even friends?

Max shook her head and resolutely focused on the menu, trying to make sense of words that seemed to be a mix of French, Italian, and possibly made-up languages. Everything was described in paragraphs of ingredients she'd never heard of, with techniques that sounded more like chemistry experiments than cooking. Lobster Benedict? Crème fraîche? Foie gras? Even the simple items like eggs came with elaborate descriptions that made her head spin.

"What's good here?" she asked finally, looking up to find Victoria already watching her with a hint of amusement. "I mean... what do you recommend?"

Victoria easily launched into detailed descriptions of the menu – gesturing elegantly as she explained the difference between the house-cured salmon and the imported stuff, her eyes bright with genuine enthusiasm. Max found herself watching Victoria's hands move, the way her whole face transformed when she was passionate about something, like when she talked about photography, stars or macarons, how different she looked in these moments from the carefully constructed—

Victoria's phone buzzed, cutting through the moment. Her expression shuttered closed as she read the message, jaw tightening in a way Max had learned to recognize.

"Is everything alright?"

Victoria set her phone face-down with perhaps more force than necessary. And ignored Max's question. "So," she started. "What catches your eye?"

"Oh. Um." Max looked down at the menu again. She tried to remember Victoria's descriptions from before, but she realized she hadn't actually been listening. All the foreign words seemed to blur together then, made worse by her awareness of Victoria watching her. Her eyes instinctively moved to the prices instead, deciding to just order whatever was cheapest. Max exhaled unsteadily – even the cheapest thing was still more than she'd spend on food in a week at Blackwell. Victoria was still watching her expectantly. Max could feel herself starting to fidget, insecurity creeping in.

"Here." Victoria leaned forward, her perfectly manicured finger tapping a spot on Max's menu. "The duck confit hash. It's basically fancy breakfast potatoes with the most amazing duck you've ever tasted, topped with these eggs that..." She caught herself, straightening slightly. "I mean, if you want something more normal, they do regular eggs too. They're not on the menu, but I can ask for them."

The momentary flash of enthusiasm in Victoria's voice, followed by that quick retreat behind her walls, made something in Max's chest tighten. "No, the duck thing sounds perfect," she said quickly, rewarded by the small, genuine smile that flickered across Victoria's face. "I trust your taste."

Victoria's eyebrows rose slightly at that, and for a moment Max thought she might say something more. Instead, she just nodded, and turned to signal their waiter. She ordered for both of them in flawless French, each word flowing into the next like water. The waiter asked something and Victoria responded without hesitation, barely glancing up from her menu. Max found herself watching Victoria's lips form the words, mesmerized. It triggered a memory – another timeline, another Victoria's room at Blackwell, shelves lined with worn French novels mixed in with the fashion magazines and photography books.

The moment the waiter turned away, Victoria's phone buzzed again. She glanced at it, took a deep, calming breath, and then deliberately placed it in her bag with a finality that made Max think of slamming a door closed.

"So… those texts you're getting… they're not fun, huh?" Max said, trying to keep her voice light.

Victoria's fingers tightened around her glass of water. For a moment, she looked like she might brush off the question with one of her practiced dismissals. Her jaw worked slightly, like she was physically holding back words. Then she glanced up at Max and something shifted in her expression – a barely perceptible crack in her facade. "My mother," Victoria said finally. She said it like that explained everything. Which, Max supposed, it did.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Max ventured.

Victoria's fingers found the edge of her glass, tracing its rim with deliberate precision. Max could almost see her weighing the risk of saying more. When she spoke, each word seemed carefully chosen. "She won't stop pushing about this event tonight. She says it's a good networking opportunity. As if I haven't spent every single night this past week schmoozing with exactly the right people, wearing exactly the right outfit, saying exactly the right things." The bitterness in her voice was raw, unfiltered. Frustration and exhaustion bled through her usual composure. "I just want one night off before all the New Year's events start. She doesn't agree."

Max watched Victoria's fingers continue their restless movement along the glass, Victoria's frustration somehow becoming Max's own. "You deserve actual holidays," she blurted out, the words sharper than she'd intended. "Parents should want their kids home for Christmas because they miss them. Not because they want to parade them around like some kind of society trophy." Victoria's shoulders stiffened and Max caught herself, realizing how she'd definitely just crossed a line. "I— I'm sorry, I don't mean to— I just hate watching you have to… perform even during break. All this pressure on you all the time sucks."

"Careful, Caulfield. You really don't know what you're talking about." The words came out sharp, defensive, but her eyes stayed fixed on her glass of water. "Society trophy," she repeated quietly, something bitter and almost vulnerable in how she said it. Then, she looked up at Max and said: "Besides, what would you suggest? That I just... opt out of the Chase family tradition of strategic holiday appearances?" Her laugh was harsh but brittle. "I wouldn't even know what to do with myself without all the... obligations. I'd probably die of boredom." But there was something in how she said it – like she was trying to convince herself more than Max.

"You could rest, maybe. Actually breathe for once," Max said. "When was the last time you just... existed?"

"What does that even mean?" Victoria's lip curled. "To just exist? Is it to be like you? To spend my break watching Netflix in sweatpants?"

"The horror," Max teased, recognizing the deflection for what it was. "Victoria Chase in sweatpants. The world might end."

Victoria's eyes narrowed, but something in them had softened slightly. "It just might. But fortunately for everyone, I don't even own any." Her lips twitched. "I'm sure you have an extensive collection, though. Probably all in tragic shades of grey."

"Three pairs. And yes, all grey," Max said. "Can't risk upsetting the delicate ecosystem of my wardrobe."

"Your 'ecosystem' needs an intervention, Caulfield. Desperately. Get some actual clothes."

"But I have Tony Blur now," Max said, tugging at her new sweater with exaggerated seriousness. "That has to count for something."

Victoria's laugh was sudden and genuine, though she quickly tried to mask it with an exasperated sigh. "Tory Burch," she corrected, but her eyes were softer than her tone. "And while it's definitely a step in the right direction," she added, "let's not pretend one decent sweater makes up for the fashion crimes in your closet."

"My closet thanks you for your patience," Max said, enjoying how Victoria was trying and failing to hide her smile now. "Maybe by next Christmas I'll even get the designer names right."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Baby steps." Victoria took a sip of water, but Max caught the warmth in her eyes, the smile she wasn't quite trying to hide anymore. "Though I suppose stranger things have happened."

Max didn't say anything. She was too busy feeling absurdly proud of herself for having made Victoria smile after those texts from her mother. So, Max just sat there, watching Victoria try to maintain her attitude of exasperated superiority even as her eyes stayed soft, her fingers still fidgeted with her glass, her smile still graced her face. It struck her then – how different Victoria was here, away from Blackwell's politics. Here, in a corner of an expensive Seattle restaurant, despite still defensively deflecting about her mother and critiquing Max's fashion sense, she seemed... lighter somehow. Softer. Content. And she'd always been pretty – that was just an objective fact – but here, in the gentle morning light, she looked so pretty it was almost overwhelming. Her eyes looked so absurdly green, so soft, so— Victoria uncharacteristically broke eye contact first, her fingers smoothing wrinkles from her napkin. Something about that small gesture, that tiny crack in her usual confidence, made the words slip out before Max could stop them:

"I want to get to know you better."

Victoria raised an eyebrow, her fingers stilling on the napkin. Just like that, the warmth of their earlier banter dissipated, replaced by something heavier. Max regretted it, but she'd started this now, so she might as well finish it properly.

"I mean—" Max felt her cheeks warm but pushed on. "The other night you said I hadn't asked you where you were from. And you were right. We've spent what, almost three months meeting on that roof almost every single night? And I didn't even know you grew up here, or that you actually spoke French fluently, or that you could be so..." She took a breath, gesturing helplessly, aware she was rambling but unable to stop. "I'd like to know more. About you. About your past, your favorite things, your, you know, anything. Everything?" Max chuckled, awkwardly, trying to mask the weight of what she'd just said. She grabbed her own glass of water and took a long sip in a useless attempt to hide the undoubtedly red shade of her face.

The silence that followed felt endless. Max's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that seemed to echo in her ears. She hadn't meant to say all that – hadn't meant to acknowledge their rooftop meetings so directly, hadn't meant to make it sound so... important. Hadn't meant to confess… what exactly? Why did it feel like a confession? And now here was Victoria, looking at her with those impossibly green eyes, a slight pink tinging her cheeks, looking entirely caught off guard.

Max's hand tingled with phantom energy as she finally put down her empty glass – she could just rewind time, try again, find better words, maybe even just say nothing at all. But she couldn't bring herself to do that. Not again. Never again.

"I'm sorry," Max said instead. "That was weird."

"No, it wasn't. I…" Victoria started, then stopped, her carefully maintained composure wavering, her expression caught between confusion and wonder. "You're different here," she said finally. "Away from Blackwell. You're more..." She trailed off, seeming frustrated with her own inability to find the right words. Victoria Chase, speechless – Max would have found it amusing if her heart wasn't racing so fast.

"More what?" Max prompted quietly.

Victoria's smile was almost shy. "You're more... you, I guess. Like the you on the roof but just… more." She looked down, fingers finding her bracelet, twisting it. Then, she added so quietly Max almost missed it: "It's nice."

The words hung between them, delicate as spun glass. Max found herself holding her breath, afraid that acknowledging it might make Victoria retreat behind her walls again. But Victoria just sat there, cheeks pink, trying and failing to look unbothered.

Before Max could say anything else, their food arrived – the timing so perfectly terrible that she almost wanted to laugh. The moment scattered like startled birds, and Max felt herself exhale, realizing now that she'd been holding her breath. Maybe it was for the best; she hadn't known what to say next anyway.

The distraction came in the form of what had to be the most beautiful breakfast she'd ever seen. The duck confit hash was a work of art – crispy potatoes and tender duck meat woven together like a tapestry, crowned with perfectly poached eggs that caught the morning light, their yolks promising to spill like liquid gold.

When Max glanced up, Victoria had composed herself again, her gaze fixed on her own plate, her vulnerability carefully tucked away behind practiced indifference. But there was still something tense in her posture. When Victoria finally did look up, her expression was guarded, but Max caught something else there too, something like fear or maybe hope.

Max knew they were both supposed to pretend the last few minutes hadn't happened.

So, she focused on her food instead. The first bite surprised her – flavors blooming across her tongue, rich duck melting into crispy potatoes, the runny yolk adding a silky warmth to everything it touched. Her stomach practically hummed with happiness. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until this moment.

"This is incredible," Max said honestly, and something in Victoria's face softened for a moment.

"It's really good, yes."

They both turned to their food then, settling into a silence that wasn't quite comfortable but wasn't exactly uncomfortable either. Max tried to focus on eating, on the way the flavors mingled together, on anything except the conversation... But her mind kept circling back to it anyway – to Victoria's blush, to that rare moment of speechlessness, to the way she'd said 'you're more you' in that soft voice Max had never heard before. She stole glances between bites, noting how Victoria seemed particularly invested in cutting her potatoes into perfect pieces, her usual grace tinged with something that looked almost like nervousness. The morning light caught in Victoria's eyes, making them greener than usual, and Max's chest tightened again. She forced herself to look back at her plate.

Next year, she reminded herself firmly. She'd think about all of this next year.

The waiter appeared, asking if they needed anything. Victoria requested more water, her voice perfectly composed again. He refilled their glasses with a polite smile. Max kind of wanted to ask him for help. Not sure with what exactly. Perhaps with the girl sitting across from her.

"So," Victoria said as soon as he was gone, and Max recognized that tone immediately – Queen Bee Victoria was back. Her voice had that carefully casual quality that meant she was about to say something deliberate. "What was it like growing up in that shithole?"

"What?"

"Arcadia Bay," Victoria clarified. "You want to know more about me? Fine. But it's only fair that I learn more about you too." She leaned forward slightly. "Must have been... quaint. All those years before you moved here."

Max's stomach did a little flip at that – at Victoria wanting to know her too, even if she couldn't quite ask without her usual sharp edges. She couldn't help the smile that spread across her face, didn't even try to hide it really, even as she felt her cheeks warm under Victoria's gaze.

"It wasn't so bad," Max said. "The beach was nice, the woods, the stars… and then once I was old enough, I spent pretty much every day with Chloe. Her mom used to joke that she had two daughters. We turned the whole town into our playground," Max paused. "I mean, I know it's not exactly Seattle," she added, suddenly aware of how simple it all must sound to someone like Victoria, "but—"

"But you loved it," Victoria finished for her, something unreadable flickering across her features.

"Yeah, I did," Max said softly. "It wasn't perfect or anything, but it was... good. Happy. I used to think of the town as my little kingdom by the sea." She smiled at how silly that probably sounded.

"Must have been nice," Victoria said quietly. "Having a place that was just... yours like that."

There was something in Victoria's voice. She wondered suddenly if Victoria had ever felt that kind of belonging, if she'd ever been allowed to just be a kid, to make kingdoms out of ordinary places. If any place had ever felt like home instead of just another stage to perform on. A strand of Victoria's short blond hair had fallen slightly out of place, and Max's fingers twitched with the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach across the table – to brush it back, to somehow comfort her, to do anything that might ease that quiet ache in her voice. She gripped her fork tighter instead, the metal cool against her suddenly warm skin.

"I was a child. Arcadia Bay doesn't feel like that anymore," Max said. "What about you? What was growing up in Seattle like?"

Victoria studied her for a moment longer than necessary before she leaned back against her seat, rebuilding her distance. "Exactly what you'd expect," she said with practiced smoothness. "Nannies, private school, piano lessons..." Her eyes met Max's again and for a second it seemed like she was about to say something else. But then she just looked down at her plate, taking another careful bite of food.

Chapter Text

January 5, 2014

The world felt muted under its blanket of snow, like someone had turned down the volume on reality. Max watched her dad's car disappear down the street, his final wave still hanging in her mind as she turned to face Blackwell Academy. The building loomed against the grey sky, its brick walls darker where snow had melted and refrozen. The paths had been cleared, creating sharp lines between pristine white drifts and wet concrete – perfect leading lines, her photographer's mind supplied automatically.

Max gripped her suitcase handle tighter, wheels crunching against salt and gravel as she made her way toward the dorms. With each step, memories pressed against her consciousness like frost creeping across glass. Here was where she'd first seen Nathan with that gun, where she'd first discovered her power. Where Warren had gotten beaten trying to protect her. Where she'd sat with Kate, desperately trying to find the right words to keep her alive. Where she'd watched birds fall dead from the sky, where snow had fallen in warm sunshine. Where Chloe had—

She stopped walking, suddenly overwhelmed. Her chest felt too tight, like the winter air had crystallized in her lungs. Everything here held echoes of choices she'd made and unmade, of timelines she'd erased, of versions of herself she'd left scattered across possibilities like photographs torn to pieces. Somewhere in those infinite branches of time, Arcadia Bay lay in ruins. Somewhere, Kate's body had fallen like those dead birds. Somewhere, Chloe lived.

The sound of multiple wheels on concrete jerked her back to the present – other students returning from break, their enthusiastic voices carrying across the quiet campus. Max forced herself to breathe, to move.

The dorm entrance brought a fresh wave of emotion, but different this time. The decorations she and Kate had put up in early December still sparkled under fluorescent lights – silver snowflakes catching and throwing back tiny rainbows, Christmas lights creating a warm glow that somehow made the institutional hallway feel like home. Max reached out to touch one of the snowflakes, watching it spin gently.

They'd survived. Maybe not all of them, maybe not whole, but they'd survived. Jefferson would never hurt another girl. The storm had never come. It still felt like a wound, knowing what she'd sacrificed to make this reality possible. The weight of Chloe's death still pressed against her ribs with every breath. She suspected that it always would, one way or another. But standing here, looking at these decorations she and Kate had hung together, Max felt something else too – not quite hope, but maybe its quiet cousin. A gentle reminder that even in this timeline, even with all its imperfect choices and impossible losses, there was still beauty to be found.

"Max!"

She barely had time to turn before Kate's arms were around her, the force of her enthusiasm making them both stumble slightly.

"Oh my goodness, I missed you! Merry late Christmas and happy new year!" Kate's whole face lit up with genuine joy. She was wearing one of her usual cardigans, hair in its neat bun, and the sight of her – so alive, so present – made Max's throat tight with gratitude.

"I got you something," Kate said, practically bouncing with excitement. "Nothing big, but when I saw it, I thought of you."

"I got you something too," Max smiled, caught up in Kate's infectious happiness. "It's in my suitcase. I should—"

"Wow, this is precious," Courtney's voice cut through their moment like a knife. "The virgin Mary and her loyal disciple."

"Happy new year to you too, Courtney," Kate said softly, refusing to let the barb land.

Max turned, ready to defend Kate, but her words died in her throat. Because there was Victoria, leaning against the wall beside Courtney, watching Max with an intensity that made her chest tight. She hadn't noticed Victoria before, too caught up in Kate's hug, but now she couldn't look anywhere else. Victoria had cut her hair back to its perfect pixie length, exactly how it had been at the start of the year. The style highlighted her cheekbones, made her neck look impossibly elegant, and accentuated the clean, determined line of her jaw. Her makeup was flawless as always, but something about it today made the green in her eyes look deeper, more intense. Or maybe that was just because of the way that those very eyes were fixed on Max's.

They hadn't seen each other since that day in Seattle. Hadn't spoken since Max's ‘Happy New Year’ text that Victoria had left on read. Max had told herself it was fine – Victoria was probably busy with her parents' events, probably needed space after their weirdly intimate brunch, probably... But now, seeing her in person, Max felt like all the air had been sucked out of the hallway.

Victoria seemed to catch herself staring at Max. She turned back to Courtney with practiced casualness, but something about the movement felt forced, like she was making herself look away. Max's heart was racing.

"What's wrong, loser?" Courtney's voice dripped with false concern. "Cat got your tongue?"

Max barely registered the words. She was too busy watching how Victoria's fingers were playing with her bracelet, how she wasn't quite meeting anyone's eyes anymore.

"Max was just going to put her things away," Kate answered for her, gentle but firm. "Not everyone needs to start the new year with unkindness."

"Aw, look at that – she needs the church mouse to defend her," Courtney laughed. "Right, Victoria?"

"Right." But Victoria's eyes were fixed on some point in the middle distance, her jaw tight.

"I should..." Max gestured vaguely toward the direction of her room, finally finding her voice. "Kate, I'll get your present and come to your room?"

Kate nodded, already moving toward her own door. Max forced herself to walk past Victoria, hyper-aware of every step, of the slight tremor in her hands as she unlocked her door. By the time she'd wheeled her suitcase inside and retrieved Kate's carefully wrapped gift, Victoria and Courtney were gone from the hallway. Max couldn't tell whether she was relieved or disappointed.

So, instead of trying to figure it out, she headed straight to Kate's room. They exchanged gifts – Kate presented Max with a carefully wrapped package containing a t-shirt with a cartoon cat that said ‘Are you kitten me right meow?’, while Max gave Kate a sampler of artisanal teas she'd found in a tiny shop tucked away in Seattle's Pike Place Market. Kate's whole face lit up when she opened the elegant wooden box, fingers tracing the delicate paper sachets inside. They spent the next hour catching up, Kate's quiet voice filling the room with stories about her family's Christmas traditions, but Max kept finding her thoughts drifting back to Victoria – how she'd looked at Max with such intensity before forcing herself to look away, how her fingers had twisted that gold bracelet, how even from across the hallway Max had noticed the way her new haircut perfectly framed— Max caught herself mid-nod, realizing she'd completely missed Kate's question.

"I'm sorry, what were you saying?" Max asked.

Chapter Text

January 5, 2014 – Later

The snow had transformed the roof into something unfamiliar – all sharp edges softened, familiar landmarks buried under white. Max's breath clouded in front of her face, disappearing into the darkness like the cigarette smoke that used to drift between them. The snow crunched beneath Max's boots as she made her careful way to their usual spot. She didn't sit. The ledge was buried under several inches of snow and something about sitting felt too permanent anyway, like she was settling in to wait for something that wasn't happening. Better to just stand here, shifting from foot to foot, pretending the cold was the only reason she couldn't keep still.

She should go inside. It was freezing, even with her winter jacket and gloves and the warmest beanie she owned. Victoria probably wouldn't show up – not in this weather, not after leaving Max's new year's text on read, not when she was clearly back in the 'distance' phase of whatever emotional tide pulled her close and pushed her away again. Though normally it was hard for Max to understand it, this time that wasn't the case.

This time she knew that Victoria not showing up had something to do with Seattle – how the careful walls they'd both built between them had started to crack, letting something warmer slip through. How Victoria's voice had gone soft when she'd said ‘you're more you’ like she was confessing something. Or maybe it was about what happened after, when Victoria had insisted on driving Max home, practically demanded it with that mix of authority and concern that only Victoria could manage. How Max had refused, claiming she wanted to walk around the city, unable to admit she was planning to find the Chase Space, to understand that piece of Victoria's world.

Another cloud of breath dissolved into the night air. Max watched it disappear, remembering other breaths on other nights – how her own had caught sometimes when Victoria said something unexpected, how it had steadied when their shoulders pressed together, how it had hitched in her throat that day in the rain when they were framing photos with their hands. She'd promised herself she wouldn't think about these things until next year. But it was next year now.

Maybe she was ready to admit that between shared cigarettes and stargazing, between Victoria's careful hands splitting macarons and her genuine laugh when Max teased her about headbands, between being held through a panic attack and watching rain drops trace paths down her face – somewhere in all of that, these rooftop meetings had become about more than escaping nightmares. Maybe Max could admit now, here in the quiet of a new year, that she came to the roof for Victoria. Had been for a while now.

Maybe she was ready to admit that the flutter in her stomach whenever Victoria was near her, that the skip in her heart whenever Victoria smiled, that the warmth that spread through her chest whenever Victoria let her walls down – maybe they weren't all… entirely platonic. That she'd caught herself staring at Victoria's lips more times than she could reasonably explain away. That sometimes, when Victoria's guard was down and her smile was real and her eyes were soft, Max wanted to lean closer and—

The door creaked open.

"It's fucking freezing up here." Victoria's voice cut through the night, sharp with irritation.

Max immediately turned to face her. Victoria stood illuminated by security lights, snowflakes catching in her newly shortened hair. The sight of her made something flutter in Max's stomach. And maybe it was the next year, and maybe now she could think about certain things, maybe even admit certain others, but one thing she certainly wouldn't do was call that flutter in her stomach butterflies.

"You came," Max said.

"I couldn't sleep," Victoria replied, moving to stand beside Max.

Max knew Victoria was lying – she was wearing the same outfit from earlier under her coat and her makeup was still just as perfect. Victoria hadn't tried to sleep yet. Neither had Max, and she suspected that Victoria knew that too.

Their breath mingled in the space between them, twin clouds rising into the dark. Victoria seemed more guarded than usual, holding herself carefully, like she was afraid of taking up too much space.

"You cut your hair," Max said finally. "It's like how it was when school started."

"Yours is longer," Victoria responded, still staring straight ahead.

"I know." Max tried for playful. "Someone told me I needed to trim my bangs or people wouldn't be able to see my obnoxiously blue eyes. I think she meant it as advice, but it kind of felt like a threat."

Victoria's entire body tensed and Max immediately regretted opening her mouth at all. Message received – things that happened in Seattle were off limits. She watched Victoria's fingers find her gold bracelet, twisting it around and around her wrist. Max shifted her weight from foot to foot, searching helplessly for words to make Victoria's shoulders lose that brittle edge.

"I didn't respond to your text," Victoria said suddenly. "I didn't see it until earlier today."

Max knew that was another lie – she'd watched those two little check marks turn blue just minutes after sending her ‘Happy New Year’ at midnight, had tracked Victoria's status flipping between online and offline for the next hour. But Max just nodded. "It's fine," she said, though Victoria hadn't apologized. "Did you have a good time? At your parents' New Year's thing?"

"It was fine," Victoria said, her voice carrying that practiced smoothness that made it seem like she was reciting rather than remembering. "Lots of important people, very nice clothes, very nice champagne. Everything was perfect," Victoria said. "My parents were thrilled."

"I'm glad," Max said softly, though the words felt as hollow as Victoria's perfect night sounded.

"How was your New Year's?" Victoria asked.

"It was fine," Max echoed with a small self-deprecating smile. "Parents, cookies, watching fireworks from my window. Very middle class." She added the last part teasingly, beating Victoria to the punch.

"Sounds nice," Victoria said.

Max glanced at Victoria then, trying to read her expression in the dim light. Her jaw was set, shoulders rigid. She looked almost angry. But she'd still come up here, for some reason. Still chose to stand in the freezing cold rather than stay warm in her room. Max wondered if Victoria had stood in her own room earlier, debating whether to come up, the way Max had. If she'd changed her mind a dozen times before finally making her way to the roof. If she'd felt that same pull that had drawn Max here despite the cold.

"I'm glad you came," Max said softly. "I wasn't sure you would."

"I told you I'm here because I couldn't sleep," Victoria said dismissively.

"I know," Max said. "But still."

Victoria's eyes found hers then, something uncertain flickering across her face. "Didn't think you'd be here either," she said quietly. "Not in this weather."

"Before winter break, when we were last up here, I told you I'd come. I said ‘same time’. Remember?" Max said. "What's a little snow?" She managed a small smile.

Max realized with a start that it was the first time she'd said out loud that this wasn't just about nightmares anymore. The words hung between them, delicate as the snowflakes drifting around them.

"Okay, Caulfield."

But Max caught the way her shoulders relaxed just a fraction, the way her jaw loosened a little bit.

"God, you're so pathetically earnest sometimes, you know that?" Victoria said quickly. "What are you, some kind of boy scout? Taking promises seriously in subzero weather?" She tried to inject sharpness into the words, but failed, ending up somewhere between exasperated and something else. Her fingers found her bracelet again.

And Max's stomach did that familiar flip, and god, when had that started happening? Since when did Victoria Chase's attempts at meanness give her butterflies?

Max blinked. Once, twice.

No, absolutely not. These were not butterflies.

Chapter Text

January 8, 2014

The weatherproof blanket Victoria had started bringing to the roof was almost offensively expensive-looking, even in the dim security lighting. Max had noticed it appear two nights ago, spread perfectly over their usual spot on the ledge. Victoria had offered no explanation, just settled onto it with her usual grace, leaving space for Max as if this was completely normal. Tonight was no different – Victoria was already there, perched on the pristine fabric, her designer coat wrapped tight against the cold, matching scarf tucked precisely around her neck.

Max felt that familiar flutter in her stomach at the sight of her – not butterflies – but what did it matter what she called it when, despite the freezing temperature, despite having every reason to stay in her warm room, Victoria was still here? Still coming to the roof every night, but now bringing ridiculously expensive blankets just so they could sit comfortably. The security lights made her short blonde hair look almost silver where it escaped her beanie, and even drowning in winter layers, she somehow managed to look unfairly pretty. Again, not butterflies.

Max's boots crunched through the snow as she approached, trying not to slip on the icy patches she'd learned to avoid over the past few nights. Her hands trembled slightly as she walked, though she could probably blame that on the winter chill. Victoria watched her careful approach with poorly hidden amusement, probably enjoying how Max had to concentrate on each step to maintain her dignity.

"I, um. I brought something," Max said, settling onto the blanket beside Victoria. She pulled the thermoses from her bag, their metal surfaces clinking together as she retrieved them. "I didn't know if you liked tea, and it's too late for coffee, so..." She held out one of the thermoses, trying for casual. "I brought hot chocolate. And I know you like chocolate. So much so that you drive all the way to Portland to accidentally buy it sometimes."

Victoria's eyes widened slightly before narrowing into a glare. A faint blush crept across her cheeks. Victoria snatched the thermos from Max's hand, but there was no real bite to it. If anything, she seemed flustered. "Whatever. It is freezing, so I'll try it."

Max couldn't help but nod and watch as Victoria unscrewed the cap, steam curling up between them. Her heart did something ridiculous when Victoria took that first careful sip, green eyes widening slightly before she caught herself, quickly schooling her features back to practiced indifference. But Max had seen it – that flash of genuine surprise, that moment before Victoria remembered she was supposed to be unimpressed by everything.

"So?" Max prompted, trying not to sound too eager for Victoria's verdict.

"This is..." Victoria paused, seeming to choose her next words carefully. "Not completely terrible."

"High praise." Max watched Victoria take another sip, something warm blooming in her chest. Her mom's recipe had always been special – a collection of precise moments and measurements, perfected over years of winter mornings and sleepovers with Chloe. Max hadn't made it for anyone since then, hadn't wanted to. But tonight, watching Victoria try to hide how much she liked it, she was glad she'd remembered every step.

"Don't get cocky, Caulfield. One decent drink doesn't change anything." But Victoria took another long sip, her eyes closing as she savored it. She stayed like that for a moment, thermos cradled in both hands, something softening in her expression, eyes still closed. When she finally opened them, they held a faraway look. "I haven't had regular hot chocolate in forever," she said quietly. "At home it's all about this Swiss brand Father likes. These gold-wrapped tablets imported directly from Geneva."

Max bumped Victoria's shoulder gently. "Bet it's not as good as the cheap packet stuff though."

Victoria's nose wrinkled in perfectly practiced disgust. "Please tell me you didn't make this from a powder packet."

"No, this is actually..." Max stopped, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "I mean, it's just regular hot chocolate. My mom's special recipe."

Victoria was quiet for a moment. "It's good," she said finally, quietly. Then, louder: "Though obviously not up to Chase standards. The chocolate-to-milk ratio is completely wrong, and there's barely any foam, and—" She shook her head, then took another long sip.

"I could change the ratio," Max offered. "Could even add mint, or caramel, or anything you like."

Victoria lowered the thermos, eyeing Max. "You'd actually change your mom's precious recipe to suit my tastes?"

"Well, if you're going to critique it every time, I might as well."

"Every time?" Victoria's eyebrows rose, a teasing smile playing at her lips. "Planning to make this a routine, are you?"

"I didn't mean—" Max felt her face grow warm. "Whatever. Forget it."

Victoria's smile only grew wider. "Aw, Caulfield. If you think you can win me over with hot chocolate..."

Max thought back to that night with the macarons, how Victoria had stopped coming to the roof for days at the mere suggestion she was trying to win Max over. Yet here she was now, casually teasing Max about the exact same thing. Something about that made Max bold. "I'll admit I'm trying to win you over when you admit those fancy macarons were your attempt to do the same."

"Those were for my nicotine cravings. I already told you that," Victoria answered quickly, defensively, voice filled with practiced indignation, though the pink tinge spreading across her cheeks told a different story. "If you happened to develop some pathetic fondness for me after them, that's just an unfortunate side effect."

"And totally unintentional on your part, I gather?" Max said, neither denying the fondness allegations nor looking away from Victoria's face. "It never once crossed your mind that sharing them with me might make me like you a little bit more."

Victoria opened her mouth, likely armed with one of her trademark cutting remarks, but nothing came out. Instead, she held Max's gaze, something flickering in her expression. Then, much to Max's surprise, Victoria let out a half-hearted scoff, dropping her eyes to the thermos clutched in her hands. And Max's heart nearly stopped. Because Victoria Chase, queen of having the last word, hadn't denied it. The butterflies – whatever – in Max's stomach went absolutely crazy at the implications. Max found herself staring at Victoria's profile, at how her teeth worried at her bottom lip around that betraying smile. Max couldn't have suppressed her own giddy grin if she'd tried, her shaky exhale visible in the cold air between them, drifting towards Victoria's face.

Victoria looked up then. "If you bring this shit up again…" She let the threat hang in the air between them, though any semblance of intimidation crumbled under the way she was still fighting her stubborn smile, her cheeks flushed deeper than could be blamed on just the cold.

"I won't," Max said, unable and unwilling to hide the grin spread across her face.

Victoria shot her a glare that might have been devastating in any other circumstance. "Stop smiling like an idiot, Caulfield," she muttered.

"You first."

Victoria made an exasperated sound and shoved the thermos into Max's hands with more gentleness than the gesture pretended to have. "Just drink some." Her fingers lingered for a moment longer than necessary against Max's, and Max wondered if Victoria's heart was racing as fast as her own.

They sat in comfortable silence after that, passing Victoria's thermos back and forth (Max had brought two but somehow they'd ended up sharing one). Their shoulders pressed together, sharing warmth and Max found herself cataloging tiny details she'd never noticed before – the way Victoria's eyelashes cast delicate shadows under the security lights, how her throat moved when she swallowed, the precise angle at which she held the thermos between sips. Small, ordinary movements, but there was something about how she—

"Stop staring at me," Victoria said without looking at her.

"I wasn't."

"Whatever." Victoria took another sip of hot chocolate, but Max caught how her lips kept twitching upward.

Chapter Text

January 15, 2014

Even before Max finished pushing through the door to the roof, she knew something was wrong. Victoria wasn't in her usual spot, perched on the ledge. Instead, she sat on the ground, back pressed against the concrete barrier, knees hugged tight to her chest. Her weatherproof blanket was spread across the snow-covered roof – the expensive material rumpled, no signs of Victoria's usual precision. In her trembling hands, she clutched a letter, the paper creasing under her grip. More pages lay scattered across the blanket like fallen leaves. Beside her, a bottle of what looked like vodka sat half-empty in the snow.

Max's stomach dropped at the sight, anxiety crawling up her throat. Victoria didn't look up as Max approached, her focus fixed on the letter in her hands with an intensity that felt dangerous, jaw clenched so tight Max could see the muscle jumping there.

"Victoria?" Max kept her voice soft, careful.

"Nathan wrote to me," Victoria said flatly, still not looking up. The words came out slightly slurred. "From prison. Wants to explain himself. Says he's getting help now. Therapy. Medication."

Of all the answers Max had been bracing herself for – parents, academic pressure, social obligations – Nathan Prescott hadn't been one of them. Mindlessly, she settled onto the blanket beside Victoria, feeling the cold of the snow seep through the material. Her stomach churned violently at the mention of his name, memories rising up like bile. She could still see it sometimes, the moment replaying in her nightmares with perfect clarity – his wide, panicked eyes in that bathroom, reflecting back at her in the mirror's edge. The way his hands had shaken around the gun, finger twitching against the trigger. The sound it made when—

"Would you hate me?" Victoria's voice sliced through Max's dark thoughts. When Max looked over, Victoria was watching her with an intensity that seemed at odds with how drunk she clearly was. "If I wrote back?"

The question knocked the air from Max's lungs. She opened her mouth, closed it, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions inside her. Because the truth was visceral – she didn't want Victoria within a thousand miles of Nathan. The mere thought of them connecting, of Victoria reading his words, his justifications, made something primal rear up in Max's chest. But Victoria was looking at her with those green eyes – clouded with vodka, but still somehow piercing, still somehow desperate for... what? Understanding? Permission?

"I wouldn't hate you," Max said finally, honestly.

Victoria's lips twisted into something too bitter to be a smile. "But you don't want me to write back."

"No," Max admitted quietly.

The letter Victoria had been clutching finally slipped from her fingers, falling to join its scattered siblings on the blanket. She reached for the vodka bottle, but her hands were betraying her now, trembling so violently that vodka splashed onto the pristine snow like small wounds. "Fuck," she muttered, slamming the bottle down hard enough that Max winced.

The silence stretched between them. Their breath clouded in the winter air, ghost-white against the darkness. Max watched as Victoria's fingers moved restlessly, compulsively – smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her pants, adjusting her coat collar, picking at loose threads that weren't there. It was like watching someone try to put their world back in order, one futile gesture at a time.

"He said—" Victoria's voice cracked, and she swallowed hard before continuing. "He said he needed to talk to someone who knew him before. Before he was..." Her hands clenched into fists. "Before he killed people and drugged girls with that monster, and helped him take pictures, and—" The words seemed to strangle her and she lunged for the vodka again. This time, Max caught her wrist, gentle but firm.

"Maybe that's enough," Max said softly, her voice carrying both concern and caution.

Victoria stared at where Max's fingers circled her wrist, something complicated and wounded flickering across her face. She slipped away from Max's grasp, but didn't reach for the bottle again. "Whatever," she muttered, the word hollow. "Not like it's helping anyway."

Max's instinct was to reach out, to touch her again, to try and anchor Victoria as she seemed to drift further into this dark current of thoughts. But Victoria's posture was a warning sign – spine straight as a blade, shoulders pulled back like she was bracing for a blow. So, Max stayed where she was, close enough that she hoped her warmth might seep into Victoria's trembling frame, might ease some of her shaking.

"He was my best friend," Victoria said finally, the words tumbling out like they'd been living behind her teeth for too long. "Do you know how many times I've tried to convince myself that he was different back then? That there were two Nathans – the one who was my friend, and the one who..." Her fingers pressed against her temples, like she was trying to hold her thoughts together. "But that's bullshit. He was already— he was doing those things while he was bringing me coffee during finals. While he was critiquing my photos. While he was..." Her voice cracked. "And I don't hate him. I should. I want to. But I can't, and maybe that makes me just as evil as—"

"You're human," Max interrupted, her voice gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. "Having complicated feelings about someone who hurt you – who hurt other people – that doesn't make you evil. It makes you human."

"He killed your friend," Victoria spat out, each word like broken glass in her mouth. "He killed Rachel. He could've killed you in that bathroom. You could've—" Her voice shattered on the last word. She swiped angrily at her eyes with the heel of her hand, as if tears were a weakness she couldn't afford. "You could've been another photo in his collection. Another body they never found. And I'm sitting here with you, feeling sorry for—"

Max didn't let her finish. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around Victoria's shoulders, pulling her close, feeling how the other girl went rigid in her arms, like she'd forgotten how to be held. For a moment, they stayed like that – Victoria stiff and trembling, fighting herself as much as the embrace. Then, slowly, like ice melting, she softened. She didn't cry. Victoria Chase wouldn't allow herself that release. But she let her head fall against Max's shoulder. Her breathing came in short, controlled bursts, each one carrying the weight of tears she refused to shed.

After a long moment, Max spoke softly into Victoria's hair. "I meant what I said. I wouldn't hate you if you wrote back. I'd understand." She took a careful breath. "And what I think or feel shouldn't matter anyway. You need to do whatever helps you heal."

Victoria pulled back just enough to look at Max, her expression caught between disbelief and something else. Her lips parted like she wanted to argue. But she just swallowed hard and looked away, her fingers unconsciously tightening in the fabric of Max's jacket. "You're so fucking annoying," she said. But she didn't let go, and the letter lay forgotten on the blanket beside them.

Chapter Text

January 16, 2014

Max couldn't stop pacing her room, the distance between her bed and door becoming a well-worn path as she tried to talk herself out of going to the roof. The clock read 11:43 PM, and each minute that ticked by felt like a weight settling in her chest. She knew how this worked – Victoria's carefully maintained pattern of retreat after vulnerability was very predictable. And last night had been more than just a glimpse of vulnerability – it had been a flood, walls crumbling under vodka and grief. It had been too raw, too real. Victoria had trembled in Max's arms, had allowed herself to be held together while she nearly fell apart.

And there was no way Victoria would show up tonight. Not after that.

11:49 PM.

Max's fingers tingled with an old familiar itch – the temptation to rewind time and find some way to make this easier for Victoria. But she'd sworn she was done with that, done trying to manipulate time to protect people, let alone from their own feelings. It caused too many problems. It caused—

11:54 PM.

"This is ridiculous," Max muttered to herself, but she was already reaching for her coat and slipping it on. The worst that could happen was spending fifteen minutes alone in the cold. She'd done it before. And she'd probably do it again.

The winter air bit at her face as she pushed through the roof door, stealing her breath for a moment. She immediately looked down at the ground, making her careful way across the snow-covered roof. She was so focused on avoiding the icy patches that she almost missed it – that soft cloud of breath that wasn't her own, floating in the security lights like a ghost.

Max's heart stopped, then started again double-time.

Victoria.

She sat in their usual spot, perched on her ridiculous weatherproof blanket. But her posture was too perfect, spine too straight, shoulders too squared – all the little tells that said she was deeply uncomfortable but trying desperately to hide it. But she was here. She'd actually shown up.

The words tumbled out of Max before she could stop them, soft with wonder: "I really didn't think you'd come tonight."

Victoria tensed almost imperceptibly, but she didn't turn to look at Max. "Why wouldn't I?"

Max cleared her throat. Then, she settled carefully onto the blanket beside Victoria, close enough to feel her warmth but not quite touching. Her heart was racing, and she knew she probably shouldn't say what she was about to say. She should just brush it off. Say literally anything else. But: "Usually when we get closer," Max hesitated. "You kind of... disappear? For a few days?"

Silence followed. Max could feel her pulse in her throat, could hear every small shift of Victoria's coat against the blanket. Her stomach immediately twisted with regret – she'd ruined it, of course she had. Victoria had actually shown up tonight, had chosen to be here despite everything that happened yesterday, had broken her own pattern – and Max had gone and pointed it out like some kind of idiot, had basically told Victoria she was acting out of character. Of course Victoria would leave now. She'd probably make some excuse about being cold or tired or—

"Ah." Victoria's soft exhale carried something that wasn't quite defeat, wasn't quite acceptance, but somewhere in between. "You noticed that."

Max's racing thoughts stuttered to a halt. She risked a glance at Victoria's profile, studying the sharp angle of her jaw, the way she held herself so carefully still. There was something almost fragile in her posture now, like she was waiting for judgment or criticism, and Max's chest ached at the sight.

"It's not a big deal," Max said softly. "I get it." She paused, weighing her next words carefully. "But I'm... I'm really glad you're here. After everything yesterday, I was worried about—" Max caught herself, not wanting to make Victoria feel scrutinized. "I— I'm just glad to see you're doing better." Another pause, shorter this time. "Are you? Doing better?"

Victoria's fingers stilled on her bracelet – she'd been twisting it unconsciously. "I threw away his letter," Victoria said finally, the words sharp and precise, wielded like a shield against their previous conversation. "This morning."

"Oh," Max said. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit," Victoria admitted, then let out a hollow laugh. "But also... lighter? I don't know." Her voice got quiet. "It's stupid."

"It's not stupid," Max said, meaning it with every fiber of her being.

Victoria finally looked at her then, and Max's breath caught. Because there was something so open in Victoria's face, something so vulnerable it made Max's chest hurt. But then Victoria blinked and it was gone. "Can we... not talk about this right now?"

"Of course," Max said quickly. "We can talk about anything. Or nothing at all."

Victoria nodded. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, their breath mingling in the cold air. Max had almost resigned herself to a completely quiet night when Victoria spoke again.

"Your mom's hot chocolate," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "It was really good."

Max's heart did a familiar flutter, but she kept her voice carefully neutral. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Victoria took a careful breath, like she was anchoring herself. Her fingers found her bracelet again, but this time the movement was slower, more deliberate. "I wouldn't hate having it again."

Max blinked, warmth spreading slowly through her chest despite the cold. She watched Victoria's profile, noting how the tension in her jaw had softened just slightly, how her shoulders had lost that painful rigidity from earlier.

"I could make some," Max offered, trying to match Victoria's careful tone. "For tomorrow night?"

Victoria's eyes met hers, something tentative in them. A pause. "I'd like that,” she said.

And just like that, for the first time, Victoria had agreed to meet up here with Max without the pretense of insomnia or nightmares. They'd both said that out loud now, that they were here for each other. And though it wasn't said in those exact words, that's what it was, and Max knew that, and she knew that Victoria knew that too. Max swallowed around her suddenly dry throat and studied Victoria's eyes, trying to think of what to say, trying not to show how significant this felt to her.

"Cool," Max murmured finally.

"Okay." Victoria broke eye contact, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her clothes with precise, methodical movements.

Max traced patterns in the snow beside the blanket with one gloved finger, trying to contain the soft smile that threatened to show on her face.

Chapter Text

January 20, 2014

Max sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the corner where she knew her camera lay hidden. She hadn't touched it since October – hadn't even looked at it properly, keeping it wrapped in an old sweater and shoved under her bed like some kind of cursed object. But now she had no choice. Mr. Carson's assignment loomed over her like a shadow.

"Portraiture," he'd explained earlier that day, his voice carrying that forced cheerfulness of someone trying very hard to make something normal feel normal again. "But with a twist. I want you to find contrast. And not just in the technical sense. Show me something unexpected." He'd paused then, scanning the unusually quiet classroom. "And since this is our first practical assignment since... since October, I thought we could work in pairs."

Max had known what was coming even before he'd said their names. Because of course he'd pair her with Victoria – their different styles were legendary, even if neither of them had picked up a camera in months. And indeed, "Victoria and Max," he'd announced.

Now, sitting on her bed, Max wondered if Mr. Carson knew about their rooftop meetings, about their gradual shift from enemies to... whatever they were now. Maybe he'd noticed how they'd both always flinch whenever he'd mention portraiture. Maybe he thought they could help each other through this. Maybe he knew. Or maybe that was just Max trying to justify to herself why she was so glad he'd paired her with Victoria rather than with Kate or somebody else.

Max took a deep breath and reached under her bed. Her fingers found soft wool first – the sweater she'd wrapped around her camera like a shroud. She pulled it out slowly, letting the fabric fall away. Her hands were shaking but her Polaroid camera looked exactly the same. Of course it did. She wasn't sure why she'd expected it to look different, to somehow show the weight of everything that had happened. But it was just a camera, waiting patiently to be used again.

Her phone buzzed: 'Parking lot.'

Max's heart skipped at Victoria's name, even as anxiety churned in her stomach.

Max reached under the bed again, this time for her camera bag. She gingerly maneuvered the camera into the bag and headed for the door. They'd agreed to meet forty-five minutes before sunset – something about needing time to prepare for golden hour, Victoria had said, spouting off technical terms about optimal lighting conditions and shadows. Though Max suspected the early timing had as much to do with avoiding the curious eyes of their classmates for this first attempt at photography as it did with perfect lighting.

Victoria was waiting by her car – not the black Mercedes from Seattle, but a gleaming silver BMW. She was leaning against it with practiced casualness, but it didn't quite hide her tension. Her own camera bag hung at her side, and Max noticed how her fingers kept brushing against it.

"Ready?" Victoria asked, her voice carrying carefully maintained indifference. Victoria was nervous.

"No," Max admitted honestly. "You?"

"Obviously not. But let's get this over with."

The football field lay blanketed in pristine white when they arrived a short while later, untouched snow stretching from goalpost to goalpost. The late afternoon sun hung low but hadn't quite reached golden hour yet – maybe fifteen minutes until the real show would begin. Even now, though, Max's photographer's eye was already framing potential shots – the way sunlight sparkled across the crystalline surface, how shadows were beginning to lengthen across the snow, the precise angle of Victoria's jaw as she surveyed their surroundings.

"I had an idea," Victoria said, her voice tight with false confidence. "What if we traded cameras?"

Max blinked in surprise. "What?"

"Well, you're always going on about seeing things differently," Victoria said, her fingers twisting her bracelet. "Maybe it would be easier if we..." She gestured vaguely between them. "Maybe using different equipment would help. Distance us from... before."

Max understood immediately – Victoria's expensive mirrorless camera wasn't the same as Jefferson's, but it was similar enough. And Max's Polaroid... well, that was the camera that had documented all her attempts to save Chloe, all those photos she'd taken and torn up and taken again until she finally had to make that impossible choice. Switching cameras might make it feel new, might let them approach photography without those ghosts looking over their shoulders.

"Okay," Max said. "Yeah, let's try that."

They exchanged cameras with careful movements, like handling live explosives. Victoria's camera felt impossibly expensive in Max's hands, all sleek lines and precise engineering. She watched as Victoria examined her Polaroid with surprising gentleness, fingers tracing its worn edges with something like reverence.

"You go first," Victoria said, carefully hanging Max's camera around her neck before moving to position herself against the not-quite-setting sun. "And don't you dare make me look bad, Caulfield."

Max took a series of long, steadying breaths. And then did it again when the first ones didn't slow her racing heart. Then she tried again. And again. After her sixth attempt, she gave up on the calming breaths. It was clear her heart wasn't going to slow down. So, Max raised the camera, trying to ignore how hard her hands trembled. But, perhaps unsurprisingly, it did help that this wasn't her Polaroid. All of the buttons and sleek display screen made it feel starkly different. It was distracting. It was even somewhat intriguing. She'd never actually used a mirrorless camera before. She'd seen them, of course, and she'd watched countless YouTube videos about them. But watching videos and actually handling the expensive equipment were wildly different experiences. The pressure in her chest was there, but it wasn't as sharp as it had been.

Through the viewfinder, Victoria looked beautiful – even in the harsh late afternoon light, her short hair caught the sun just so, her green eyes bright and defiant. But her shoulders were too rigid, her chin lifted too high, her entire posture screaming defensive perfection. This wasn't the Victoria that Max wanted to capture. This wasn't the contrast Mr. Carson had asked for.

"Hey," Max said softly, lowering the camera. "Tell me about Cassiopeia."

Victoria's perfect pose faltered. "What?"

"The stars," Max clarified, raising the camera again. "That night you taught me about them. Tell me about the stars in Cassiopeia again."

Victoria's expression shifted, confusion bleeding into something else as she remembered that night on the roof. "Um," she started, "you mean, like, Gamma Cas? The very bright one that is about 550 light-years—" Click.

They both froze at the sound, the shutter breaking the spell like a crack of thunder. Max's hands shook around Victoria's camera, her breath coming out long and heavy – that had been a photograph. Max had done it. She'd actually taken a photo. Victoria stared at her with wide eyes, her own carefully maintained composure cracking. For a moment, neither of them moved or spoke, both processing what had just happened. Then Victoria's lips curved into something almost like a smile – relieved, proud, maybe even a little shy. It was exactly the expression Max wanted to capture.

"Keep going," Max encouraged, moving slightly to catch better light. "Tell me about Gamma Cas."

As Victoria spoke about binary stars and light-years, Max kept shooting, watching Victoria through the viewfinder. She talked about gravity keeping stars bound together, her hands moving with increasing animation as she explained complicated astronomical concepts that Max only half understood. She barely registered the words themselves – she was too captivated watching her, seeing that perfect facade melt away into the girl who got excited about stars and macarons and fancy breakfast food. It was like watching ice thaw in real time, and Max couldn't look away even if she wanted to.

"And that's why—" Victoria stopped suddenly, seeming to remember herself. "I don't actually need to try to explain it, do I? You're just trying to distract me."

"Is it working?" Max asked, snapping another photo as Victoria's lips curved into that genuine smile she usually tried to hide.

"You irritate me," Victoria said, but her posture was completely relaxed, her eyes bright.

"Now tell me about that chocolate place in Portland," Max said. "The one you absolutely didn't go to just to get me an apology chocolate."

"I swear Caulfield, one more word about that fucking chocolate or the fucking macarons, and I'll spread a rumor that you—" Click. Click. Click. Victoria rolled her eyes, but she was fully smiling now, the kind that reached her eyes and made Max's heart skip.

Some time later, when they finally reviewed the photos on Victoria's camera's screen, Max felt her breath catch. She'd really captured it – that moment when Victoria Chase became just Victoria.

"These are..." Victoria's voice trailed off as she flipped through the images. "How did you make me look so..."

"It wasn't me," Max said softly. "That's just you."

Victoria's eyes snapped up to meet hers, something unreadable flickering across her features. Then, she straightened her spine and lifted Max's Polaroid camera. "My turn," she said, her voice slightly unsteady. "Get over there."

Max nodded, heart immediately started racing as she moved to where Victoria had been standing. The sun was finally hitting that perfect golden hour sweet spot, but instead of feeling magical, it felt too bright suddenly, too exposing. The last time she'd been in front of a camera…

"Look at me," Victoria commanded, then immediately softened her voice. "Caulfield, look at me."

Max forced herself to meet Victoria's eyes over the camera. Victoria was watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle, like she could see exactly what Max was thinking.

"I know that in your nightmares…" Victoria started, then stopped. "This isn't like that, okay? This is just us. Just you and me."

Max nodded, trying to breathe normally.

Victoria talked as she lifted the camera. "You know what I see through this viewfinder right now? I see this completely hopeless wannabe hipster who somehow manages to make thrift store clothes look somewhat charming."

Max blinked in surprise, then a confused smile formed on her lips. Only Victoria could make 'somewhat charming' sound like the highest of compliments in a moment like this.

"Someone who thinks liking indie music makes her special. But it doesn't. She just happens to have good taste sometimes."

"You're just saying that because you like that music too. I heard those songs in your car's playlist," Max countered, her heart skipping as she suddenly realized that this was how Victoria would do it, this was how she would capture whatever she was seeing – through carefully crafted insults that weren't really insults at all. She caught the way Victoria's eyes narrowed playfully behind the camera. Max's smile widened.

Click.

"Oh," Max breathed.

"I see this absolute disaster who can't even coordinate an outfit but still manages to look irritatingly photogenic."

Heat spread across Max's cheeks at that one. She watched Victoria's fingers tighten slightly around the camera. Click.

"And don't even get me started on how you've somehow turned being socially stunted into an endearing personality trait."

Max's breath caught in her throat. Because the way Victoria said 'endearing' made it sound like... but no, she was definitely reading too much into this. Click.

"The light makes your eyes look absurd right now," Victoria continued, moving closer. "All these shades of blue..." she trailed off. Click. "And your stupid freckles, all over your face, they catch the sun in a way that's so..." Click.

Max's heart was racing for entirely different reasons now, her earlier fear forgotten as Victoria circled her, still talking, still saying things that made Max's heart race, things that made her face heat up. Clicks, followed by the familiar mechanical grind of the Polaroid spitting out the photo. Over and over. Victoria was completely lost in the moment, reminding Max of that night in the rain when they'd framed potential shots with their hands, when the space between them had felt electric, when Victoria's face had been so close to hers, close enough that—

"Fuck, this isn't—" Victoria made a frustrated sound, lowering Max's camera. "The light is perfect right now and this camera just isn't..." She shook her head, clearly annoyed. Her eyes fixed on her own camera hanging around Max's neck. "I need my camera. The way the sunset is— ugh." She cut herself off. "I need better equipment. No offense."

Then Victoria was impossibly close, carefully lifting her own camera strap over Max's head. Her fingers brushed Max's neck, leaving burning trails in their wake, and she was breathing shakily now, not just from the touch but from the intensity in Victoria's eyes.

Victoria fell silent then. Her hands trembled slightly at first as she lifted her camera, but within moments, muscle memory took over. The familiar weight seemed to steady her hands, focus her completely, and she moved around Max with quiet determination as she began to take pictures, adjusting settings between shots, completely absorbed in capturing whatever it was that she was seeing through her viewfinder.

Max found herself transfixed by this version of Victoria – all sharp focus and quiet passion, completely unguarded in her pursuit of the perfect shot. Her short blonde hair caught the last rays of sunlight, her green eyes intense with concentration, and she looked so devastatingly beautiful like this. Max's fingers itched to capture it. So, when Victoria lowered her camera to check her settings, Max saw her opportunity.

"Your turn," Max managed, reaching for her Polaroid. "Let me get some shots of you with my camera too. Please."

Victoria looked up, startled. But before she could rebuild her careful composure, Max had already taken her own camera and was already shooting – capturing how the setting sun painted gold across Victoria's cheekbones, the way her eyes still held that spark of creative focus, how her fingers curled professionally around her own camera, muscle memory stronger than fear. That slight smile that played at the corners of her mouth as she realized what Max was doing. Each shot preserving a piece of this moment when Victoria looked so passionate and real, and utterly magnetic.

Victoria's eyes met hers then, something warm and dangerous flickering in their depths. "You're moving so much. Can't find my good side?"

"They're all good," Max said. "So, you mentioned Orion's knee was called, what, Nigel?"

"Rigel," Victoria corrected.

"And it's just one star?"

"No, at least four."

"Tell me about them?"

Chapter Text

January 27, 2014

The classroom buzzed with quiet conversation as students hunched over their desks in pairs, photographs spread out before them like tarot cards waiting to tell their futures. Max sat across from Victoria, their desks pushed together to form a makeshift sorting table.

They had a good system going: Victoria would pick up a photo, study it for a moment, then place it in what seemed to be a precise order. Max would either nod or gently slide it to a slightly different position, trying desperately not to think about how so many of them showed her looking at Victoria with what felt like a neon sign above her head flashing 'crushing on the girl taking my photograph'. But if Victoria noticed the way Max's eyes softened in certain shots, or how her smile turned almost hopeful in others, she thankfully didn't mention it.

Either way, the photos had turned out great and the progression of their selected pictures was clear – from the first few shots of Victoria where she looked like she'd stepped out of a Vogue editorial, all sharp angles and perfect posture, to the later ones where her smile reached her eyes and her hands moved animatedly as she talked about stars. And then from Max's initial nervous poses to moments where she seemed to forget about the camera entirely, moments where she was caught mid-laugh or looking at Victoria with an expression that made her want to crawl under her desk now. But still, it was guard up to guard down. Walls to windows. Heart on sleeve, apparently. Contrast, exactly what Mr. Carson had asked for.

Victoria's fingers suddenly stilled over one of the photos, her perfectly manicured nail catching on its glossy edge. It was one of the last shots from golden hour, when Victoria had switched back to her own camera. In the photo, Max was looking directly into the lens with an expression that really surprised current Max – there was a look on her face she could barely recognize, a quiet confidence she certainly didn't remember feeling in that moment.

"This one," Victoria said softly, almost to herself. Her finger traced the edge of the photo with absent-minded gentleness. "This is the best one. It should be the final one."

Max leaned closer to study it, really study it. Victoria's technical skill was flawless, naturally – the framing meticulously crafted to catch Max just off-center, drawing the eye exactly where Victoria had wanted it. The depth of field was masterfully controlled, the background melting into a bokeh that made Max's figure stand out without feeling isolated. And the lighting… Victoria had used that golden hour glow masterfully. She'd positioned Max so the warm light caught her eyes at just the right angle to make the blue pop dramatically against all those sunset tones, and she'd somehow made Max's freckles look intentional, like they were part of the artistic composition rather than just... spots on her face. It was the kind of technical perfection Max would have expected from a professional shoot, not a school assignment in a football field.

"It's a really good picture, Victoria," she agreed. "And I don't look as awkward as I do in the others. You made me look..." Max let out a small, breathy laugh that caught slightly in her throat. "I don't even know. I wish I actually looked like that."

Victoria's head snapped up immediately. "You do," she said almost defensively, her brow furrowed, eyes sharp with an intensity that took Max off guard. Then, seeming to catch herself, she smoothed her expression and looked back down at the photos. She moved the picture with precise fingers, placing it dead center between their desks. Ever the perfectionist, she adjusted it until it sat at a perfect right angle to the desk edges.

Max just stared helplessly at Victoria, heat spreading across her cheeks and down her neck, heart hammering against her ribs. You do echoed in her head like a song stuck on repeat, each replay making her stomach flip in new and increasingly desperate ways. Victoria's jaw worked slightly as she continued to meticulously align the photo's edges with the desk, though it was already perfect, had already been for a while.

Max cleared her throat and, with fingers that weren't quite steady, reached for her favorite polaroid. She didn't really need to search for it – she knew exactly which one it was, had spent the past week studying it in the privacy of her room, pulling it out after coming down from the roof, Victoria's voice still fresh and so clear in her head. In the picture, Victoria was mid-motion, her camera held with professional grace despite months of not touching it. But it wasn't just her perfect form that made the photo special. There was this light in her eyes, this spark that transformed her entire face as she spoke about Orion and light traveling across impossible distances. The setting sun cast her in warm tones, caught on her eyelashes and danced across her features, making her look both softer and somehow more alive than Max had ever seen anyone ever look in a picture.

Wordlessly, Max placed the photo next to the one Victoria had chosen, trying not to think about how obvious it was why she'd picked this particular shot. How anyone looking at it could probably see exactly what Max had been thinking when she took it – how utterly captivating Victoria looked when she was passionate about something, how the camera in her hands looked like it belonged there, how her natural grace hadn't disappeared but instead merged perfectly with this private version of herself. How the brightness in her eyes turned her from absurdly beautiful to devastatingly breathtaking.

Max held her breath as Victoria's eyes moved to the polaroid, something unreadable flickering in their depths. Then, she simply reached out and adjusted the position of both photos slightly, aligning them perfectly with each other.

"Do you think these should be the final two?" Victoria asked, looking up at her, her green eyes uncertain behind their usual confident shine.

"We're, um, definitely showing the contrast Mr. Carson wanted. These first ones are all..." Max waved her hand vaguely, "And then the last ones... so different. You know?"

Victoria hummed almost distractedly. Her finger was tracing the edge of her own photo now, her nail catching slightly on the corner. "I don't disagree. But I…" she paused, seeming to wrestle with the words she wanted to say. "I don't know if we should use this specific picture of me."

"What? Why not?" Max asked, genuinely confused. "It's perfect. The lighting, the composition—"

"Not that," Victoria cut her off, then glanced around to make sure no one was listening. Her voice dropped even lower. "I mean... Mr. Carson's going to see these."

Max leaned forward slightly. "And?"

Victoria made a frustrated sound, her fingers still worrying at the corner of the photo. "Nobody sees me like..." she gestured at the image of herself, all bright eyes and animated expression, "... like this. I hadn't even seen myself like this until now. I am… I don't know if I want to… Caulfield, this is nothing like me. I don't get excited about binary stars and I'm not..." She trailed off, a flush creeping up her neck. When she finally looked up at Max, her eyes were wide and unguarded, almost lost.

"Oh," Max breathed, the realization washing over her. This was about vulnerability – Victoria's sworn enemy, the one she fought against even in their quietest moments on the roof. Victoria's fingers moved restlessly over the photo again, her other hand finding and twisting her bracelet around her wrist. And something warm was blooming in Max's chest, something that felt like tenderness and pride, and other things she couldn't quite name. Because Max got to see that every night – she got to see that version of Victoria, real and genuine, and so very private that Victoria herself could barely even recognize it. And she'd let her in anyway, had trusted her enough to be like that around her, and the words you're so perfect when you're you rose in Max's throat, desperate to be said. But she swallowed them back harshly.

Instead, she said, "That's the point though, isn't it? The contrast?" Max's fingers moved to the photo, brushing against Victoria's where they still rested on the picture's edge. Her heart stuttered at the contact, but she pressed on. "Look at the first ones – we're..." Max searched for the right words, acutely aware of how their fingers were still touching, of how Victoria wasn't looking at her, her eyes fixed on the photo, on their hands. "We're our public selves in the first ones. All the armor we wear, all the masks. And then these... these are like..." She hesitated, knowing she was about to say something embarrassingly earnest but unable to stop herself. "These are like seeing the stars instead of just the sky."

Victoria's eyes snapped to hers, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "That was terrible, Caulfield. Absolutely horrible metaphor. Never try to be poetic again."

"You started it with all your talk about binary stars," Max countered, relief flooding through her as Victoria's lips curved into a small smile.

"That was scientific, not poetic." Victoria's fingers had stopped fidgeting with the photo, but they remained pressed against Max's. Almost imperceptibly, her index finger moved in the smallest possible circle against Max's skin, so light it could have been accidental if not for how deliberately still the rest of her hand had become.

"Scientific can be poetic," Max said, her breath catching slightly at that ghost of a touch. "Especially if it's you talking about it."

Victoria's eyes widened slightly at Max's words. And for a moment, she thought Victoria would say something else, something that would make Max's heart race even faster than it already was. Instead, Victoria exhaled softly and withdrew her fingers from where they'd been touching Max's. Suddenly bereft of that warmth, her own fingers felt strangely cold. She pulled her hand back from the photo too, reaching instead for her pencil and turning it over and over in her hands.

"My pictures are much worse anyway," Max said quickly, the pencil spinning faster between her nervous fingers. "I mean, look at these. I'm practically glowing red in half of them."

"You are," Victoria agreed, her composure returning with a slight smirk. "It's almost impressive how easily you blush."

"Well, what did you expect?" Max said, feeling her already warm cheeks getting hotter. "You kept complimenting me and I—"

"I did not compliment you," Victoria cut in quickly. "I very distinctly remember calling you socially stunted, and that was an insult, Caulfield, not a compliment. Do try to keep up."

Max considered pushing further, considered telling her that charming, endearing, and photogenic were certainly not insults. The words hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she just shook her head instead and looked back down at the photos between them, a small smile playing on her lips that she couldn't quite suppress. She stilled her hands and calmly pressed the pencil back onto the desk lest she accidentally fling it and hurt herself or someone else.

When she glanced back up, Victoria was watching her carefully, her eyes moving from one of Max's to the other like she was searching for something. It was curious, almost hesitant, like she was trying to confirm something. Before she could ask her what was wrong, Victoria spoke.

"You picked this one out really quickly," she said, gesturing towards the picture. "Like you already knew exactly which photo you wanted to use." She tilted her head slightly. "You like it."

It wasn't a question, but Max answered anyway. "Yes."

Victoria's eyes stayed on Max's face for another breath, then two. "Fine. Whatever. Let's just use these," she said finally. "Carson will love them. This is A+ work."

"Okay. Alright. Agreed."

When Mr. Carson finally called time, they gathered their photos in silence, their fingers brushing occasionally as they sorted through the pile, each accidental touch making Max's stomach flip and her heart skip beats. Victoria slipped their final selections into a presentation folder with her usual precise movements, but Max noticed how her fingers lingered over the photos – not the ones where she'd let her guard down talking about stars, but all those shots she'd taken of Max. She was tracing their edges almost reverently, like she didn't want to let them go, like she was memorizing them.

Max quickly averted her eyes, forcing herself to look anywhere else. She couldn't let herself read too much into any of this, couldn't start seeing meaning in things that weren't there. That was a guaranteed path to hurting her own feelings, and she knew it. But Max was weak, and curious, and her eyes drifted back to Victoria, anyway.

Chapter Text

February 1, 2014

"—and then there's this scene where they're trying to escape the haunted house, but the doors keep leading them back to the same room," Max gestured animatedly, caught up in explaining the intricacies of an obscure Japanese horror film she'd discovered during one of her YouTube rabbit holes. "But it's not scary-scary, you know? It's more like... absurdist horror? Like, there's this floating head that just starts singing, and a dancing skeleton playing piano, and—"

Victoria sat beside her on the blanket, empty hot chocolate thermos in the now slushy snow. She had one knee pulled up to her chest, chin resting on it as she watched Max ramble. Her expression held none of its usual sharp edges – instead, her lips curved into that soft, genuine smile that made Max's heart do ridiculous things. The security lights caught in her short blonde hair, creating a halo effect that was probably some kind of metaphor for how angelic she definitely wasn't.

"And there's this cat," Max continued, trying to focus on the plot and not on how Victoria's eyes seemed to catch every bit of available light, "the cat's either evil or just really judgmental – it's kind of unclear – but it keeps showing up at these perfect comedic moments and, uh..." Max loved her eyes, she really did. They were the most beautiful shade of green to ever exist, Max was sure. And those very green eyes blinked, and her expression twisted into one of confusion. And suddenly Max realized she'd stopped talking, and she was all too aware of how long she'd been talking in the first place. "Sorry, I'm probably boring you with all this weird movie stuff."

"You're not," Victoria said. "It's actually fascinating watching you get so excited about something so completely bizarre." A slight smirk played on her lips. "Though I have to say, your taste in films is exactly what I'd expect from someone who thinks wearing the same hoodie everyday is a fashion statement."

"I haven't even worn a hoodie in forever. It's too cold to—" Max's words caught in her throat as Victoria suddenly leaned forward, reaching out to brush Max's bangs away from her eyes with gentle fingers. The touch was casual, almost absent-minded, like Victoria didn't even realize she was doing it. But Max's entire world narrowed to those points of contact, to the way Victoria's perfectly manicured nails ghosted across her forehead, to how her fingertips lingered just a fraction too long.

"These really are getting long," Victoria murmured, still focused on Max's hair. "I already told you in Seattle. It's been over a month now."

Max tried to remember what she'd been saying about the movie. Something about a cat? Victoria brought up Seattle – it was supposed to be off limits. Or had Max been talking about the piano? Victoria had been so gentle, her touch had been so gentle. Words seemed to have abandoned her entirely, scattered like leaves in a storm. All she could focus on was how close Victoria was, how all she could smell was that expensive perfume, how Victoria's eyes had drifted from Max's bangs to meet her gaze with an intensity that made breathing feel like an advanced skill she hadn't quite mastered.

"I..." Max started, then stopped, completely lost. "What was I...?"

Victoria's hand dropped back to her side, but she didn't lean away. If anything, she seemed to shift slightly closer, her knee brushing against Max's thigh. "You were telling me about that horror movie you watched," she supplied. "Something about a judgmental cat and a ghost?"

"Right," Max managed, her heart racing. "The cat. It's... there's this part where..." She couldn't remember a single scene from the movie anymore, not with Victoria looking at her like that – like maybe Victoria was— like maybe, she just— Max dropped her gaze to the ground, suddenly fascinated by a scuff mark on her boots.

"You okay there, Caulfield?" Victoria asked, and Max could hear the smile in her voice without having to look.

Max felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I'm fine," she said quickly. "Just... lost my train of thought."

"Mmm." Victoria's voice carried a hint of amusement, but there was something else there too – something warmer, something that made Max's stomach flip. "I'd like to hear more about the movie."

Max risked looking at Victoria again, found her still watching her like she was the only person in the world. Like maybe Victoria wasn't actually interested in the movie at all, but just wanted to listen to Max talk about it.

"It's actually not that interesting."

"It is," Victoria replied quickly.

"Okay. Yes. Um." Max picked up the thread of the story again as best as she could, though she kept stumbling over details, losing her place whenever Victoria shifted closer or made one of those small sounds of amusement that somehow managed to be both teasing and encouraging. And the whole time, Victoria just watched her with that slight smile, like Max's fumbling attempts to explain a bizarre seventies horror film were somehow the most entertaining thing she'd encountered all day.

And if Max's heart wouldn't stop racing, if her skin still tingled where Victoria's fingers had brushed her forehead, if she kept losing her place in the story because Victoria's knee was still pressed against her thigh – well, who could blame her? She was finally letting herself feel every single butterfly she'd been denying.

Chapter Text

February 8, 2014

The winter sun hung low over the Pacific, painting Arcadia Bay's waves in shades of gold and amber. Max watched as Victoria carefully made her way down the beach, boots sinking slightly into wet sand with each step. The sight was so wonderfully incongruous – Victoria Chase, Queen Bee of Blackwell, willingly getting sand on her designer boots – that Max had to resist the urge to pinch herself. But here they were, cameras in hand, alone on the beach in the fading afternoon light.

Max still couldn't quite believe Victoria had agreed to this. She'd stammered through suggesting it yesterday on the roof – "Maybe we could practice more? Together? Like, actual photography practice?" – fully expecting Victoria to shoot her down with one of her trademark cutting remarks. Instead, Victoria had just studied her for a long moment, fingers playing with that gold bracelet of hers, before saying "Fine. But somewhere private. I don't need the whole school watching me try to remember how to do this."

Victoria knelt in the sand like yet another study in contrasts – dark jeans against the pale beach, her pristine white wool coat catching the dying sunlight until she seemed haloed in gold, the ocean breeze playing with her short blond hair, each slight movement catching the light differently, transforming her sharp edges into something softer. Max watched, transfixed, as Victoria's brow furrowed in concentration, elegant fingers adjusting her camera settings with precision. In that moment, she looked like something out of a dream – all focused grace and devastating beauty that made Max's chest ache with the need to capture it, to preserve this version of Victoria that so few people ever got to see, to—

Before Max could stop herself, she raised her camera and clicked. The familiar mechanical whir of the Polaroid filled the space between them.

Victoria's head snapped up at the sound of the shutter, catching Max frozen with the camera still half-raised. For a moment, they just stared at each other – Max looking like a deer caught in headlights, Victoria's eyes narrowing as she registered what had just happened.

"What do you think you're doing?" Victoria asked, her voice sharp. The camera in her own hands lowered slightly as she focused her full attention on Max.

Max clutched her Polaroid closer, already feeling heat rise to her cheeks as the fresh photo slid out. "Taking pictures? That's why we're here, right?"

"We're here to practice landscape photography," Victoria said, each word measured and pointed. "You know – waves, rocks, dramatic lighting?" She gestured toward the ocean with one elegant hand before turning that cutting gaze back to Max. "Not... whatever this little candid moment was supposed to be."

Max looked down at the developing picture in her hand, watching Victoria's profile emerge from the chemical haze. It was exactly what she'd hoped to capture – Victoria lost in her craft, that rare moment when her walls came down and pure passion took over. "The lighting was perfect," Max defended, still studying the photo. "And you were so focused on getting your shot... I couldn't not take it."

Victoria's eyes narrowed, but something flickered beneath the annoyance – uncertainty, maybe, or curiosity. "Since when are you into portraiture? I thought your thing was... random hipster shit and selfies."

"I'm not," Max admitted, fingers tracing the edge of the picture. "Into portraiture, I mean. Usually." She watched the colors deepen in the photo, Victoria becoming clearer. "But sometimes you just... sometimes inspiration just happens? And you kind of make that easy, and..." She trailed off. Even the cold ocean breeze couldn't hide how flushed she was getting. Desperate for something to do with her hands, she busied herself tucking the photo into her messenger bag, deliberately taking extra time to make sure it wouldn't bend against her other shots from the day.

"And what? What were you going to say?" Victoria prompted impatiently. When Max didn't continue, she let out a huff. "Well, whatever. I obviously make it easy. I've been modeling since I was twelve."

"Obviously," Max echoed, unable to keep the gentle teasing from her voice. Victoria rolled her eyes as she shifted on her knees, turning back to face the ocean. She raised her camera again, framing another shot, and Max could see how she kept adjusting her position, searching for the perfect angle despite the wet sand clearly seeping into her designer jeans. The sight made something warm unfurl in Max's chest – this girl who wielded words like weapons, who dressed like she was perpetually walking a runway, who maintained her carefully constructed walls with military precision... was here, letting the ocean spray catch in her perfectly styled hair, getting sand on her, probably, thousand-dollar outfit, all because Max had stuttered out an invitation to practice photography together. Max's hands twitched, wanting so badly to take another picture of her.

And Max raised her Polaroid again, but she focused on what they'd actually come here for instead – landscapes, waves, rocks, sand, sunlight, seagulls, maybe, and whatever else the beach had to offer. Max took a few shots, carefully adjusting her angle each time, but her attention just kept wandering back to Victoria. Because every so often Victoria would pause to brush her hair back from her face when the breeze displaced it, the movement absent and unselfconscious in a way Victoria never was. And Max found herself lowering her camera more and more, just watching – catching glimpses of that spark of genuine passion in her eyes as she worked, the way her lips would part slightly when she found exactly the composition she'd been looking for, the way she'd bite her lip around a smile when the photo inevitably turned out perfect.

"I can feel you staring at me," Victoria said without looking up from her viewfinder. "It's creepy, Caulfield."

"I'm sorry," Max said quickly, realizing that she was, in fact, being creepy. She needed to get a grip. "It's just nice seeing you enjoy photography again," she explained. "After so many months… I was just kinda— you know. Yeah, um, it's just nice that you can do this again."

Victoria's hands stilled on her camera. For a moment, she didn't move, didn't speak. Then: "Yeah, it is nice."

Something warm bloomed in Max's chest at the admission. She wanted to say more – about how proud she was of Victoria for being here, for trying again, for letting Max see her like this. But then it hit her suddenly: Max was here too. She was holding her camera steady, taking photos without flinching, without seeing darker memories overlay every shot. She'd been so focused on Victoria's journey back to photography that she'd almost forgotten her own. But here she was, thoughts filled with nothing but light and composition, and... well, Victoria.

Max had to bite back a smile at that thought. Of course it would be Victoria Chase who got her taking photos again – this sharp-edged, beautiful girl who'd somehow become her anchor to the present. Maybe it should have been obvious sooner. After all, it was hard to get lost in dark memories when you were too busy being distracted by how pretty someone looked, or how their voice got softer sometimes, or how they'd scrunch their nose slightly whenever you said something silly. Somehow, without Max even noticing, Victoria's presence had pulled her back to photography one lingering glance at a time.

She caught herself, the 'thank you' dying on her lips before it could escape. The words felt right, felt necessary even – a recognition of everything Victoria had been for her these past months. Her steady presence, her quiet understanding, her patience while Max stumbled through her own darkness toward something like healing. But gratitude had weight, and weight made things real. There were careful boundaries between them, invisible lines they'd silently agreed never to cross. Some things were better left in that gray space between thought and speech, where they couldn't disturb the delicate balance they'd built.

So, instead of speaking, Max moved closer to the other girl with deliberate care, not wanting to disturb the position Victoria had settled into.

"What are you shooting?" Max asked.

Victoria gestured toward where waves crashed against a collection of rocks. "The way the water moves around the rocks," she said. "How it creates these patterns in the foam, and then the light catches it just right… I'm trying different things."

Max hummed in understanding, crouching beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Through Victoria's camera's display, Max could see exactly what had caught her attention – how the waves created ever-changing compositions as they broke against the rocks, how the sun transformed the spray into liquid gold. "It's beautiful. Good eye," Max said.

Victoria turned her head slightly, probably to make some dismissive comment, but the movement brought their faces impossibly close. Max could suddenly feel Victoria's breath whisper against her cheek, warm and soft, and smelling faintly of mint. Her perfume – the one Max still didn't know the name of but would recognize anywhere – wrapped around her suddenly. And Max couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, and neither of them moved.

The last time they'd been this close was months ago, in the rain, framing pictures with their fingers against an iron-gray sky. Back then, Max had watched, transfixed, as a raindrop traced its way down Victoria's cheek, catching on her bottom lip before disappearing. Now her eyes followed that same path without permission, memory and something else tangling together in her chest. Victoria's lips were slightly parted and Max found herself swaying forward, drawn in by some gravity she couldn't fight. The movement was tiny, barely there, but she heard Victoria's intake of breath, felt it across her own lips. Max's eyes snapped up instinctively, meeting green ones that were fixed unmistakably on her mouth. The realization hit her like a physical force, sending her heart into overdrive and making her jerk back suddenly. She lost her balance in her crouch, hand shooting out to catch herself and sinking into cold, wet sand. The shock of it brought her crashing back to reality, pulse thundering in her ears.

"I need to adjust my aperture," Victoria said, her voice slightly higher than usual. "The light is dropping too fast and I need to..." She shifted away, putting careful distance between them as her fingers fumbled with her camera settings. "These waves aren't coming out right either. The shutter speed is all wrong, and the depth of field isn't..." She trailed off, squinting at her display screen.

Max stumbled to her feet quickly, nearly tripping in her haste to back away, absently wiping her sand-covered palm against her jeans as she put several long strides between them. Her hands were trembling as she raised her camera, barely even trying to frame the shots she was taking. She just kept clicking the shutter, not really seeing the waves or rocks or sunset through her viewfinder, just desperately pretending to be focused on anything but the girl still kneeling in the sand behind her. The photos came out as blurry swirls of gold and blue, like watercolor paintings of the moment her heart had tried to escape her chest – abstract evidence of how she couldn't keep her hands steady, couldn't slow her breathing, couldn't stop thinking about the way Victoria's eyes had definitely been fixed on Max's lips.

They worked in silence after that, broken only by the sound of waves and camera shutters. Gradually, as Max's heartbeat settled and her hands steadied, she somewhat found a rhythm. The familiar weight of the camera in her hands became grounding and she even managed a few shots she didn't hate. Not her best work, but certainly not her worst either.

"Fuck," Victoria said suddenly. "My legs are soaked." She stood up, brushing sand from her jeans with sharp, irritated movements.

Max couldn't help but chuckle at Victoria's indignant expression. "I tried to warn you about kneeling in wet sand."

"You absolutely did not."

"Well, I was going to," Max said. "But you looked so focused, I didn't want to interrupt your creative process."

Victoria's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You're an idiot," she said, but there was no real heat in it. Then, before Max could process what was happening, Victoria's hand darted down and up in one fluid motion, flicking a handful of wet sand directly at her.

Max barely had time to jerk her Polaroid out of the way, clutching it protectively to her side as the sand hit her square in the chest, scattering across her winter jacket in dark speckles. Her shocked yelp echoed across the empty beach. "Victoria!" she exclaimed, staring down at her sand-spattered jacket in disbelief. "Did you actually just—"

"What?" Victoria's voice was pure innocence, but her eyes danced with barely contained laughter. "Scared of a little sand, Caulfield?"

Max stared at her in disbelief. This was Victoria Chase – the same Victoria who had once spent twenty minutes ranting about someone accidentally scuffing her shoes, who probably had an entire skincare routine just for her hands, who treated her clothes like they belonged in a museum. And she'd just willingly thrown sand. At Max. While grinning like a child who'd just discovered a new game.

"Asshole," Max grumbled with a smile, carefully brushing the sand from her jacket, then wiping it delicately from her face. Finally, she shook her head to dislodge the sand that had somehow found its way into her hair, scrunching her nose as it fell. "I can't believe I'm getting a beach exfoliation treatment from Victoria Chase. Should I feel honored? I'd imagine this is, like, a thousand-dollar service?"

That broke something in Victoria – a laugh that Max had never heard from her before burst from her lips, loud and unrestrained and absolutely golden. It transformed her entire face, made her look younger somehow, more real, more gorgeous, if that was even possible. Max's camera was up before she could think, capturing that perfect moment of pure joy.

Victoria's laughter faded into a warm smile as she caught the movement of Max raising her camera. "Did you just take my picture again?" she asked, but there was no edge to it this time, just a kind of amused acceptance.

"I'm sorry," Max said softly, not really sorry at all. "I had to. You looked so happy. Plus," she added, gesturing at her sand-covered jacket, "you kind of forfeited your right to complain about surprise photos when you decided to throw sand at me."

"Fair enough," Victoria conceded, still smiling that real smile that made her look like a completely different person. She ran a hand through her short hair, displacing a few grains of sand that had somehow made their way there too.

Max looked down at the developing photo, watching as Victoria's joy came into focus – head thrown back slightly, eyes crinkled at the corners, smile wide and uninhibited. Her heart did a funny little flip in her chest as she realized this might be her new favorite photo that she'd ever taken. There was something about it – maybe the way the light wrapped around Victoria, or how completely unguarded her expression was, or just... everything about it, actually. Max couldn't help the wide smile that spread across her face as she carefully slipped the photo into her messenger bag, already knowing she'd be looking at it again later.

When Max glanced back up at Victoria, still unable to wipe the smile from her face, she found the other girl watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Something vulnerable flickered across Victoria's features, like she was wrestling with thoughts she wasn't sure she wanted to voice. Her eyes darted from her sand-covered hands to Max's face, then out to where the ocean was turning silver in the fading light.

"I can't believe I'm here with you," Victoria said finally, her voice soft enough that Max had to strain to hear it over the waves. "If someone had told me at the start of the year that I'd be on this beach with you, getting sand all over my clothes, and actually..." She trailed off, looking down at her ruined jeans with a small laugh that sounded almost wondering. Her fingers absently brushed at the sand still clinging to the wet fabric. "God, I would've rather died. Like, literally."

"Hey," Max protested. "Maybe try to be less mean about that? I could say exactly the same about you, you know? You literally tormented me for months."

"In my defense," Victoria said, lips quirking up at one corner in a way that somehow managed to be both smug and self-deprecating at once, "you are an incredibly easy target. I mean, look at you – doe eyes, that nervous fidgeting thing you do, the fact that you can't dress yourself, the way you can't hold eye contact for more than a few seconds, the way you can barely string two words together when someone puts you on the spot..." She trailed off, that hint of a smile growing softer. "It's like you were designed in a lab to be bullied."

"Victoria, come on. You can't say that kind of stuff just like that," Max said, staring at Victoria with wide-eyed disbelief and, despite herself, so much amusement. "That's not— you're supposed to regret it and apologize, not list all the reasons you were mean to me like you're giving a presentation."

"Oh please," Victoria said, rolling her eyes but still smiling. "Don't act all scandalized now. You knew exactly what you were getting into when you kept coming to the roof."

The casual way in which Victoria mentioned the roof made butterflies erupt wildly in Max's stomach. Even after all these months, whatever they'd been doing on the roof wasn't exactly something they ever really talked about explicitly. Plus, the way Victoria said you knew what you were getting into – low and teasing, with that hint of challenge in her eyes – sent a shiver down Max's spine that had nothing to do with the cold Pacific breeze. She made herself meet Victoria's gaze, lifting her chin despite the heat rising to her cheeks. "Well then don't pretend like any of what you said still applies. When was the last time you actually tried to bully me?" Max asked, and watched Victoria open her mouth, then close it again. "Exactly. You're losing your edge."

"Don't get smart with me. I can still make your life hell," Victoria warned.

"So intimidating right now in your wet jeans covered in sand."

Victoria shot her a look that might have been withering in any other circumstance. "I could still ruin your social life with one Instagram post. You know that."

"Bold of you to assume I have a social life to ruin."

Victoria scoffed, lips twitching, fighting another smile as she brushed ineffectually at her jeans. "God, you're such a— I don't even know why I—" She cut herself off, her gaze dropping to her ruined outfit instead. Sand clung to the expensive fabric in dark patches. "Mother would have an absolute fit if she saw me right now," she said finally, swiftly changing the topic.

"Want to really give her something to be horrified about?" Max asked.

Victoria's eyebrows rose, interest clearly piqued. "What did you have in mind?"

Max grinned and raised her camera. "Sit in the sand."

"Absolutely not."

"Come on," Max coaxed, already seeing the shot in her mind. "We're gonna lose the light soon and your jeans are already covered in sand. What's a little more?"

"I'm not going to—" Victoria started, but Max was already moving closer, camera held ready.

"Please?" Max said softly, and something in her voice seemed to make Victoria pause. "Look at how the sunset's hitting the waves behind you. How the colors are all..." She gestured helplessly at the scene, trying to make Victoria see what she was seeing. "It would be such a good shot."

Victoria studied her for a long moment, something soft and dangerous flickering in her eyes. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, she carefully lowered herself to sit in the sand. "The things I do for art," she muttered, but Max caught how her lips curved upward, how her eyes seemed to sparkle with…. something.

Max grinned, basking in her victory, and quickly raising her camera and taking the first picture, mesmerized by how naturally Victoria had settled into the moment – there was no tension in her shoulders, no careful composure to maintain. Just Victoria, bathed in sunset, hair somewhat disheveled from the wind, smiling at the ocean like it was sharing secrets with her.

Unable to resist getting closer, Max moved forward and sank to her knees in the sand beside her. Through the viewfinder, she could see every perfect detail – Victoria's long eyelashes, the elegant arch of her cheekbones, the way her green eyes had turned almost translucent in this light, catching fire at the edges. Max couldn't stop noticing the curve of her lips – bare now, all traces of gloss gone from Victoria's habit of biting them while she concentrated on her shots – the way they shaped themselves into that rare, unguarded smile that made Max's chest feel too tight. Her hands trembled slightly as she took another shot, then another, and another, fighting the urge to reach out and brush back that strand of blond hair that the breeze kept playing with. She kept clicking, trying desperately to capture everything about this moment.

"You're going to waste all your film," Victoria murmured, but she didn't turn away or try to hide her face. If anything, she seemed to glow brighter under Max's attention.

Max couldn't find her voice to respond. She just kept shooting, trying desperately to capture what she was seeing. Her brain kept stumbling over itself, a cascade of fragments she couldn't quite contain: Victoria and beautiful and please stay like this forever and how are you even real and you have no idea what your smile does to me and I want to keep every version of you that no one else gets to see. Her thoughts were spinning too fast to catch, mixing with the sound of waves and her own heartbeat until she could barely breathe.

"Caulfield?" Victoria's voice was barely above a whisper, and Max belatedly realized she'd lowered her camera without meaning to, caught in simply staring.

The air between them felt heavy again. "Sorry," Max managed, her own voice just as quiet. "I just... spaced out."

"We should go," Victoria said, pushing herself up to her feet, brushing sand from her clothes with quick, precise movements. "It's getting dark and the temperature's going to drop soon. The ocean wind gets brutal after sunset."

Max nodded silently, getting to her feet as well. The walk back up the beach felt endless, every step a reminder of how Max's face was burning so hot she was convinced it must have been visible from space. Victoria had been catching Max staring at her for months now, but this last instance – getting caught when she was so obviously entranced, her camera lowered, all those embarrassingly stupid thoughts speeding through her mind – it may have been the most mortifying thing to have ever happened to Max. The rush of sand under their feet and the crash of waves behind them did nothing to drown out the thundering of her pulse in her ears. Finally at Victoria's car, they paused, the moment stretching as Victoria's keys jingled between her restless fingers, a small sound that seemed too loud in the growing darkness.

"Get in," Victoria said finally. "I'll drive you back to Blackwell."

"I can walk. It's really not that far. I don't mind."

"Get in, Caulfield."

"Okay. Thank you."

They slipped into the car together, sand cascading from their clothes onto Victoria's pristine leather seats. Max waited for the inevitable comment about the mess, but Victoria didn't seem to even notice, too caught up in whatever thoughts were making her fingers tap restlessly against the steering wheel. The drive would be short – just a few minutes back to campus – but sitting here in the darkness of Victoria's car, the only sounds their slightly uneven breathing and the quiet purr of the engine. To distract herself from the charged silence, Max pulled all the photos she'd taken out of her messenger bag, spreading them carefully across her lap. Even in the dim light from passing street lamps, she could tell many of them were actually good. And Victoria... God, the photos of Victoria…

When they finally pulled into the Blackwell parking lot, Victoria drove past the usual spots near the entrance, choosing instead to park in the furthest corner where the security lights barely reached. Victoria didn't want anyone seeing Max climbing out of her car, she supposed. The engine hummed to a stop then, but Victoria's hands stayed fixed on the steering wheel, knuckles almost white. Her eyes flickered briefly to the stack of polaroids in Max's lap, then back to the windshield, like she couldn't quite bring herself to look directly at them, like she was afraid of what she might see in the photos Max had taken.

"Just..." Victoria's voice was barely audible despite the quiet. "Don't submit those anywhere, okay? They're worse than— they're kind of..." She trailed off, fingers tightening on the wheel.

"I won't," Max promised. "These are just for us."

Chapter Text

February 10, 2014

"Caulfield..." Victoria warned.

"No, wait – are you serious?" Max shifted on the weatherproof blanket they'd spread across the now mostly thawed ground, patches of stubborn snow still clinging to the shadowy corners of the roof. She sat cross-legged, facing Victoria who mirrored her position on the opposite edge of the blanket. Max leaned forward eagerly, more excited than she had any right to be. "Did you really have— I mean, you really had to wear an actual uniform? Like, every day?"

Victoria took a careful sip from the thermos of hot chocolate. Then, she made a show of rolling her eyes at Max, the gesture so dramatic it seemed designed for the stage.

"Victoria, come on," Max pressed.

"Of course I had to wear a uniform, Caulfield. That's pretty much the whole point of prestigious private schools," she said flatly, setting down the thermos with exaggerated aristocratic annoyance.

"A uniform." Max couldn't help the delighted grin spreading across her face at the confirmation. This was somehow the best thing she'd heard all week. "You had to wear a uniform."

"Yes."

"Every day."

"For six whole years."

"Oh my god."

Victoria scooted closer to Max almost unconsciously, their knees brushing together as she watched Max's growing delight with bewilderment. Her green eyes narrowed slightly, like she was trying to figure out exactly why Max was so fascinated by something as ordinary as a school uniform. Despite her confusion, there was a softness creeping into her expression too – the way her lips kept twitching upward despite her obvious attempts to maintain her usual composure, how her head tilted just slightly as she studied Max, the way her fingers traced increasingly gentle patterns against the thermos.

"Navy blazer, white button-up, plaid skirt, dark knee socks," Victoria offered, her eyes never leaving Max's face. "The blazer had the school's crest embroidered on it. Gold thread and a Latin motto – Virtute et Sapientia. Virtue and wisdom."

A soft, awed laugh escaped Max's lips before she could stop it, the surge of tenderness in her chest catching her off guard as she pictured it – a tiny Victoria strutting through elementary school hallways in her impeccable uniform. In Max's mind, she could see mini-Victoria correcting other children's astronomy facts, or organizing her expensive colored pencils by shade while critiquing everyone else's art supplies. The image was somehow both amusing and almost overwhelmingly endearing – this perfectly put-together little girl who probably carried herself like she owned the playground, just a smaller version of the sharp edges and hidden softness Max knew now.

"Did they make you wear those little Mary Jane shoes too?" Max asked.

"Patent leather," Victoria confirmed with dignified resignation. "And before you ask – yes, they had to be polished every Sunday night."

"I bet you had a special shoe-polishing routine and everything."

"The fact that you think this is somehow embarrassing for me just proves you don't understand the first thing about proper presentation."

And something about that made Max's eyes light up with sudden remembrance: sitting on the couch with her mom after Thanksgiving dinner, Max telling her that the girl who had been mean to her in the beginning of the year was now the person she talked to the most at school, telling her about how she somehow always knew exactly what to say to Max to make her feel better, telling her about how smart she was, and how patient, and generous, and her mom curiously looking her up on Instagram, a gasped question about how wealthy her family was, and a sheepish answer of I don't know exactly, but they're super rich, I think, and scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, until there was a huge birthday cake with twelve candles, and long blond hair, and—

"When did the great headband era begin? While you were in that school, or after?" Max couldn't hold back a chuckle when Victoria's expression shifted from surprise to annoyance, and then to more reluctant amusement.

"God, you're really determined to drag out every embarrassing detail, aren't you?" Victoria took a long, deliberate sip of hot chocolate, cradling the thermos between her palms like she was imagining it contained something considerably stronger. But she leveled Max with a mirthful look and answered anyway: "The headband thing started in fourth grade, I think."

"So the headbands and the uniform coexisted," Max mused playfully.

"That they did."

"And I'm guessing you made it work?"

Victoria gave her a disbelieving look before lifting her chin slightly. "Please. They were Prada headbands with an expertly tailored uniform. Of course I made it work."

Max couldn't help the burst of laughter that bubbled up from her chest. And Victoria tried to maintain her air of superiority, but she was smiling and looking at Max with those eyes, and Max didn't really know what to do with any of it. Because these moments had become her favorite part of any day – the way Victoria's walls seemed to soften just for her, how their personalities clicked together in ways that still surprised her, how at some point insults had become banter, and how the butterflies in her stomach made her want to reach out and run her fingers through blonde hair, and caress her face, and grab her, and pull her close, and—

Max drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and resting her chin on top, unable to fight the fond grin spreading across her face. "My apologies. You were coordinating designer accessories while the rest of us were still figuring out how to match our socks. I never should've doubted elementary school Victoria Chase."

"And that's the first sensible thing you've said all day."

Max hummed thoughtfully then, tapping at her chin with a serious expression. "Wait, but... this means that somewhere out there, there are pictures of tiny you in your perfectly pressed uniform and coordinated Prada headband. Right?"

Victoria's lips curved into that slight smile she seemed to reserve just for Max – the one that was playful with just a hint of challenge in it. "Don't even think about it, Caulfield. Those photos are under strict lock and key."

"You can't do that. You can't just tell me they exist and not show me."

"I seem to remember you claiming there were no photos of you without bangs. I knew that was a lie, yet I did not push. Do you want me to push?"

Max's eyes widened in mock horror. "Oh no. Will you threaten my parents' reputation until they show you my childhood pictures?"

"Please, if they're anything like you," Victoria said with a knowing smirk, "then I suspect no threats would be necessary. Just a few well-placed compliments, and they'd be pulling out albums before you could stop them."

"What is that supposed to mean, 'if they're anything like me'?" Max crossed her arms, trying and failing to look offended. "You think I'm like that? So easily manipulated by simple flattery?"

"I know you are like that."

"Oh, okay, sorry. I didn't realize you'd become such an expert on all things me," Max said, trying to sound stern.

Victoria let out a quiet laugh, absently playing with the thermos in her hands. "I don't know if I'm an expert, per se. But, unfortunately for both of us, I know you far too well at this point, Max."

And Max's world abruptly stopped.

She froze, her heart stuttering in her chest as she looked at Victoria and the smile that came so easily now, at the silky-looking hair that fell across her forehead perfectly, and at those eyes that watched her with a hint of confusion at her sudden stillness. Had the entire planet stopped breathing? Was it only Max's universe that had tilted sideways? Was Max the only person that heard that? Victoria had called her Max. Not Caulfield. Not Maxine. Not anything else. Max. The sound of her first name rolled off Victoria's tongue like honey, making her insides feel like they were free-falling from the roof's edge. She'd imagined it before, how her name might sound in Victoria's voice, but the reality was so much more overwhelming than she'd expected.

"You called me Max," she said far too seriously, heat rising to her cheeks immediately.

Victoria's brow furrowed slightly. "That is your name, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but you always call me Caulfield." Max's heart was racing and her fingers twisted in the fabric of her coat, suddenly needing something to do with her hands. "You've never... I mean, I think this was the first time you've... since we started coming up here, that is, I think it's, um..." she trailed off, hating how flustered she was, how breathless she sounded, but completely unable to help it.

"Oh." Victoria's eyes dropped to the thermos in her hands, her fingers tracing the metal rim with precise movements. "Would you prefer I didn't call you that?"

"No!" Max said quickly, then immediately felt her face grow warmer at how eager she'd sounded. "I mean... no. I don't mind. Max is... nice."

Victoria's lips curved into that slight smile again. "Nice," she repeated.

"You know what I mean," Max managed, though she wasn't entirely sure she herself knew what she meant.

"Do I?" Victoria's eyes met hers. "Max."

Max's breath caught at the sound of her name, at how deliberately Victoria had said it this time – like she was testing something, like she knew exactly what she was doing to Max's heart rate. The word hung in the cold air between them, somehow both a question and an answer.

"What..." Max started, then had to swallow past the sudden dryness in her throat. "What should I call you?"

Victoria's fingers tightened slightly around the thermos, seemingly surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"

"I just..." Max's fingers found the edge of the blanket, twisting the expensive fabric. She thought about all the variations of Victoria's name she'd heard around campus – how some people tried too hard with cutesy nicknames and how others used shortened versions like they were trying to prove their closeness to the Queen of Blackwell. "I mean, most people call you Victoria, but I've heard some call you Vic, or V, or..." She trailed off, not wanting to mention the countless variations of 'Vicky' she'd heard thrown around. "What do you want me to call you?"

Victoria was quiet for so long that Max started to regret asking. But then she caught something almost soft in Victoria's expression. Something that made her heart skip and her breath catch and her hands shake where they still gripped the blanket.

"Victoria," she said finally. "From you, I really— Victoria is fine."

"Victoria," Max echoed softly, testing how it felt now. She watched as Victoria's fingers stilled on the thermos, how they moved to her bracelet instead for the first time tonight, and when Max tried to find her eyes, they were resolutely not looking at her.

But then Victoria cleared her throat and shifted away slightly, her walls sliding back into place with practiced ease. "I don't actually care," she said quickly, almost angrily. "It's not like it matters what you call me."

But it did matter. They both knew it did. Just like they both knew why Victoria had moved away, why she always moved away. Max let her retreat, the way she always did, but she couldn't help the small smile that played at her lips. Because Victoria had called her Max. And that felt very significant, for some reason.

Chapter Text

February 14, 2014

Max absolutely hated Valentine's Day.

Blackwell's halls had been steadily filling with paper hearts and pink streamers for a while now, but overnight it seemed like Cupid's entire arsenal had detonated in the corridors. Red and pink paper chains hung from every possible surface, glitter hearts sparkled mockingly from classroom doors, and someone had even managed to wrap the stairwell railings in ribbons. The air was thick with perfume from countless flower deliveries, and everywhere Max looked, couples were exchanging gifts and sharing those sickeningly sweet looks that made her stomach turn.

She told herself it bothered her because of the commercialized nonsense – yet another corporate holiday designed to sell overpriced cards and mediocre chocolate. But as she watched some girl excitedly show off the roses her boyfriend had sent, something else twisted in Max's chest. Something that felt a lot like longing and looked a lot like a certain popular blonde.

Of course, Max had thought about today more than she cared to admit. She'd spent countless nights imagining different scenarios – writing a note and slipping it into Victoria's locker, leaving an anonymous bouquet at her door, or even just working up the courage to say something on one of their late-night roof meetings. She'd drafted dozens of messages in her head, ranging from simple confessions to elaborate plans. But each fantasy inevitably crumbled under the weight of reality, under all the ways it could go wrong, under all the ways she'd look at Max with those piercing green eyes and...

Victoria's empty seat in English seemed to mock her. Max kept glancing at it throughout the period, as if staring hard enough might make Victoria materialize. But the chair remained stubbornly vacant, and Max's chest felt increasingly tight as the minutes ticked by.

"She told me she's already in Portland," Courtney's voice drifted across the classroom during a lull in the lecture. "Shopping for tonight. Said she needed a new Valentino dress."

Max's pencil stilled against her notebook. She hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but Courtney wasn't exactly being subtle about it.

"She always has the best Valentine's Day plans," Taylor's voice carried equal parts envy and admiration. "How does she even find these men?"

"Chase family connections, duh. Apparently this one has been, like, pursuing her for over two months. Sending these insane flower arrangements to her parents' gallery and everything. He booked Le Pigeon even before she'd agreed to go with him."

"He's the lawyer, right? Or the architect?"

"The lawyer. The one in his mid-twenties. She said he's already a partner at his father's law firm. He got all the—" and Max forced herself to stop listening.

Because her stomach was churning violently. Of course Victoria would have plans. Of course they'd be with some successful older guy who could afford fancy restaurants and elaborate flower arrangements. Of course she wouldn't waste her time with—

What had Max expected? That Victoria would spend Valentine's Day... what, exactly? Sitting on a cold roof drinking hot chocolate with her? Max nearly laughed at herself. They were barely friends. They were barely anything at all. But that anything had been growing into something... and that something had been growing into whatever this ache in Max's chest was. And god, it ached. It ached watching Victoria's empty desk, knowing she was in Portland picking out the perfect dress to wear on a perfect date. It ached thinking about how her expensive perfume would fill someone else's space tonight, how her beautiful, genuine smile would be directed at someone else. It ached in a way that felt embarrassingly close to jealousy.

Max pressed her palms against her eyes until she saw stars, deliberately ignoring the wetness she found there. Because she absolutely wasn't going to cry right now. Not over this. Not over Victoria Chase going on a Valentine's Day date, as if that wasn't the most predictable thing that Max, somehow, hadn't actually predicted. And this was exactly why she'd fought so hard against admitting these feelings to herself. Why she'd spent months pretending those butterflies were something else, anything else. Because admitting feelings meant acknowledging hope. And hope was the most dangerous thing of all.

But it was too late – that hope had already creeped in, Max had already started looking for signs, evidence that could suggest Victoria felt this too. She'd started collecting little moments like precious photographs: how Victoria's voice got softer when they were alone, how she pressed her side against Max's when sitting together on the roof, how her eyes looked at her with such fascination sometimes, such gentleness. The way Victoria kept opening up about her childhood, about her fears, about her passions. How she'd started bringing that stupid blanket just so they'd be more comfortable. How she'd trusted Max enough to let herself be photographed. How she'd finally called her Max instead of Caulfield, like she'd been testing how it felt in her mouth, like she'd decided she enjoyed it. How she kept showing up on the roof night after night, after night, after night, after…

Max could fill entire albums with these moments. But that's all they were – moments. Little glimpses of something that only existed in Max's head, in that dangerous space between reality and hope where she'd let herself imagine stupid, naive, impossible things. It was clear now. It had always been. But Max had hoped…

She rubbed at her eyes frustratedly, trying to focus on her notebook, trying to focus on what the teacher was saying, trying to focus on anything except Victoria and how… she didn't even like girls. And even if she did – even in some impossible universe where that was true – she certainly wouldn't like Max. Not ever. Victoria needed someone who could keep up with her, someone who understood her world of high fashion and fine art, someone who could order in French in fancy restaurants, someone who would one day inherit a legacy that was worth something. She needed someone who could give her more. Someone like that lawyer – successful, sophisticated, probably devastatingly handsome. Someone worthy of Victoria Chase.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Max barely registered Kate's concerned glances or Warren and Brooke's attempts at conversation. She just wanted to get back to her room and hide under her covers, and pretend they'd never met, and that Max hadn't developed the most inconvenient, stupid feelings for the one girl that would never reciprocate. Maybe Max could finally try to organize her old photos, the ones she'd shoved in a box under her bed in October. The task felt impossible enough, painful enough, that it might actually distract her from thinking about her, probably looking absolutely stunning in some designer outfit while her date ordered expensive wine and—

When Max finally made it to her room, she slammed her door harder than necessary. "So fucking stupid," she muttered, collapsing onto her bed. The words felt like Chloe's somehow, and the thought of her best friend hit her harder than she was expecting. God, Chloe would be having a field day with this. Max could almost hear her voice: Seriously, Max? Victoria Chase? That's who you're getting all twisted up about? But she'd say it with that crooked smile, the one that always meant she was trying not to laugh but also kind of loved you for being such a mess. She'd probably grab Max's hand, drag her out to do something ridiculous and potentially illegal, something to get her mind off rich lawyers and rich heiresses, and eyes that she thought were looking at her mouth on the beach, and just how dumb and blind had she been?

"I know," Max said to the empty room, to the ghost of Chloe's voice in her head. "I know." But Chloe wasn't here to save her from herself anymore. Wasn't here to turn her heartache into an adventure. There was just Max, alone with these feelings she couldn't seem to shake, no matter how hard she tried.

Chapter Text

February 14, 2014 – Later

Max's limbs felt heavy with that peculiar exhaustion that came from doing absolutely nothing all day.

She hadn't moved from her bed since classes ended, still in her clothes from the day, until her bladder finally forced her to acknowledge basic human needs around dinner time. After that unavoidable break in her dedicated moping, she'd at least changed into her pajamas – though that small act of self-care felt less like progress and more like accepting she planned to spend the rest of the night exactly as she'd spent the afternoon. And she had, collapsing right back into the same spot, her body leaving what probably qualified as a permanent impression in her mattress by now. The only difference was that at least her flannel pajama pants were more comfortable than jeans for extended periods of misery.

Max had literally held time in her hands, she'd watched her best friend die more times than she could count, had seen David's body crumple in that bunker over and over, had felt Jefferson's zip ties cutting into her wrists. And yet somehow, right now, none of that trauma felt quite as immediate and terrible as the thought of Victoria on a date with some guy. How fucked up was that? The self-awareness just made everything worse – not only was she wallowing, but she was fully conscious of how ridiculous she was being, which made her feel even more pathetic. But still, she just lay there, marinating in her own emptiness, too drained to even properly wallow anymore, wondering what it said about her that apparently this was what it took to defeat her – not time powers, not murderous teachers, not impossible choices, just Victoria Chase liking someone else.

12:14 AM glowed accusingly from Max's phone screen. She'd been mindlessly scrolling through social media, letting algorithmic recommendations wash over her without really seeing them. On her laptop, her YouTube feed had devolved into increasingly bizarre video essays about topics she didn't care about, but kept clicking anyway, desperate for any distraction from her thoughts.

Thoughts like how this was the first night since coming back from winter break that Max hadn't gone to the roof. The first time they wouldn't meet. It had been thirty-nine consecutive nights. She wondered if Victoria was also thinking about that right now. She wondered if Victoria even kept count. Then, Max rolled her eyes at herself. Victoria wasn't keeping count. And of course she wasn't thinking about that or Max right now. She was too busy – she and her lawyer had probably gone back to his place. Right now, probably, his fingers were in her hair, and his lips on her skin, and his body on—

A wave of nausea hit Max, and she quickly clicked another video – some documentary about deep sea animals that she definitely didn't care about but might be weird enough to keep her brain occupied. The narrator's voice droned on about bioluminescent creatures living in the darkest parts of the ocean, something about how they created their own light in a world without sun. The narrator explained how some deep sea animals used bioluminescence to attract mates, and Max immediately clicked away with an eye roll.

Her phone buzzed.

'So you got plans tonight?'

Max stared at Victoria's name on her screen, her heart performing a complicated series of gymnastics – stopping, starting, fluttering, sinking – while her stomach churned with a mix of dread and, embarrassingly enough, hope. The familiar push and pull of Victoria Chase: how even now, even after spending hours trying to crush down every feeling, just seeing her name could send Max's entire body into revolt against her better judgment.

"Trying to rub it in, huh?" she muttered bitterly. "You know I don't have plans."

Max's fingers hovered over her phone. She should ignore it. She should absolutely ignore it. But instead, she found herself typing: 'No, why?'

The response came through almost instantly.

'Why aren't you up here then? You're late.'

Max was already moving before she finished reading the message, nearly falling in her haste to get off her bed. She didn't even bother changing out of her pajamas, just grabbed her jacket and shoved her feet into the first shoes she could find.

When she pushed through the roof door, Victoria really was there. She was perched on their usual spot on the ledge, the weatherproof blanket spread beneath her and, instead of an elegant Valentino dress, she wore simple dark jeans and what looked like a wool sweater under her winter coat, and...

Victoria was here. Not in Portland, not with some guy, not anywhere else. Here. The relief hit Max so hard it made her dizzy, made her legs feel weak, made her want to laugh or cry or maybe both at once. The weight that had been pressing against her chest all day suddenly lifted, replaced by something lighter but no less overwhelming.

She tried to quiet the warring voices in her head. One whispered that although Victoria was here now, she had been on a date earlier today, that Victoria wouldn't have come if said date had gone well, that her presence here was nothing but force of habit. The other voice was louder, more dangerous, pointing out just how pretty Victoria looked in the security lights – all soft edges and gentle shadows, her hair slightly mussed like she'd been running her fingers through it, a small, amused smile playing on her lips as she took in Max's pajamas, her green eyes soft and light and… here. On a cold roof. On Valentine's Day. Her presence felt like an answer to a question Max hadn't dared to ask, but Max didn't know if she was brave enough to hear what that answer might be. Hope was still a dangerous thing – especially now – when Victoria looked like this, when every certainty Max had clung to all day was crumbling in the face of her simply existing on their roof tonight.

"Were you sleeping?" she asked, eyebrows rising teasingly at Max's pajamas.

"No," Max responded, gingerly settling onto the blanket beside her. Another wave of relief washed over her as she breathed in Victoria's perfume – not filling some fancy restaurant, but here in Max's space and her space only.

"Then what's the occasion with the pajama pants?" Victoria's voice carried a now familiar blend of judgment and amusement, her eyes trailing over Max's attire with exaggerated criticism. "Even for you, this is... ambitious. I mean, you've always been shit at clothes, but flannel pants and..." she paused, gently pushing aside the edge of Max's jacket to get a better look underneath, squinting in the dim light, "a t-shirt with a cartoon cat on it, wow. You're actually outdoing yourself tonight."

Max let out a quiet chuckle, fighting the blush she could feel spreading across her face, all too aware of Victoria's fingers near her ribs. "I was already in bed. I thought..." She shifted slightly under Victoria's gaze. "I mean, I heard you were in Portland. So I thought we weren't meeting up here tonight."

Victoria's fingers jerked away from Max's jacket like she'd been burned. "What?" Her eyes narrowed, a familiar flash of anger crossing her features before something more complicated flickered in their depths – embarrassment, or regret. Her whole body seemed to pull back, shoulders tensing. "How did you—" Her voice caught slightly, then hardened, sharp edges creeping back into her tone. "Who told you that?"

"Taylor and Courtney. In English," Max said quietly, her fingers finding the edge of the blanket, twisting the expensive fabric between them. "They didn't tell me directly or anything. They were just... talking. About your date with the lawyer?" She tugged harder at the blanket. "They were kind of loud. I think they wanted people to hear."

"Of course. Of course they did," Victoria said, her voice razor-sharp. She looked away, jaw clenched tight enough that Max could see the muscle working beneath her skin. "I hate that you—" She cut herself off, fingers automatically finding her bracelet almost angrily. Then, quieter, the words coming out like they physically hurt: "It wasn't even... I didn't want anyone knowing about..." Her voice faded as she stared hard at something in the distance, though her eyes flickered briefly to Max's face before darting away again.

Max was processing Victoria's unfinished sentences, questions tumbling over themselves in her mind. But before she could find the right words, Victoria reached down beside her and retrieved a familiar-looking white box tied with a pale pink ribbon. She thrust it at Max.

"Here," Victoria said. "I got this for you."

Max's breath caught as she recognized the elegant script on the box. La Rêverie. The same bakery Victoria had gone to months ago, the one where she'd bought the macarons. The butterflies that seemed to live permanently in her stomach whenever Victoria was near suddenly multiplied, transforming from a gentle flutter into a wild storm. Because Victoria had said outright that she'd gotten this for Max – not for nicotine cravings, not as a distraction, not as anything else but a gift specifically for her.

"Victoria," Max said softly, her fingers tracing the pale pink ribbon with something close to reverence. "I—" The words caught in her throat, trapped behind the weight of everything she couldn't say. Her mind raced with all the impossible thank yous: Thank you for thinking of me tonight of all nights. Thank you for making my heart feel like it's going to explode whenever you're near me. Thank you (and damn you) for giving me all these reasons to hope. But she couldn't voice any of them. So she just sat there, pulse thundering in her ears, fingers trembling against the delicate ribbon, drowning in the space between what she felt and what she dared to say.

"This isn't—" Victoria's fingers drummed against her thigh in that nervous rhythm Max had come to recognize. "I just happened to be there anyway, and I remembered you practically inhaled them last time, so..." She waved her hand dismissively. "They sat in my car all day. They're probably not as perfect as last time."

Max carefully untied the ribbon. Inside the box, the macarons were arranged like precious jewels. Some were familiar – the lavender-honey that Victoria had shared first, the passion fruit that was her favorite. Others were new – deep reds and rich browns. Max glanced up and found Victoria watching her intently, knuckles white where they gripped the roof's edge. Something flickered across her face then – too quick to read – before she straightened her shoulders slightly. Max couldn't handle trying to decipher what this all meant right now. She felt overwhelmed by the gesture, by Victoria thinking of her, by all of the things she felt throughout the day, and her chest felt too tight, and the butterflies wouldn't let up. And maybe eating would help.

"Let's try them," Max said, her voice soft but eager.

"They're yours," Victoria said firmly, like it was important Max understand this point. "I got them for you."

"I know, but… share them with me anyway?" Max was already reaching for one – a deep burgundy that she didn't recognize. She split it carefully, the way Victoria had last time, and held out half. "Please? It's more fun if we do it together."

Victoria's eyes met hers, something vulnerable flickering in their depths. For a moment, she seemed to be fighting some internal battle – but then, with careful movements that felt almost ceremonial, she accepted the offered half. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, sharing macarons between them, and Max watched in fascination how Victoria's posture softened with each bite, how she seemed to be relaxing into their familiar rhythm like ice melting, gradually and so slowly you might miss it if you weren't paying attention.

After they'd worked their way through half of the cookies, Max finally gathered her courage. "How was your date?" she asked softly, trying to keep her voice casual.

Victoria was quiet for a long moment, studying the macaron in her hand with unusual intensity. "I left early," she said finally. "Didn't even make it to the first course." She took a small bite, chewing thoughtfully. "He was... boring. And I just..." She shrugged. "I didn't want to be there, really."

That treacherous hope bloomed dangerous and warm in Max's chest at Victoria’s words, even as she tried to squash it down. She watched as Victoria reached for another macaron – the passion fruit one, her favorite – and split it perfectly in half with precise movements. She offered it to Max quietly.

"I'm sorry it didn't go well," Max said softly, though she wasn't. Not really. Not when Victoria was here instead of there. She took a careful bite of the macaron Victoria had shared, letting the sweetness settle on her tongue as she searched for what she should say next. "Will you see him again?"

"No," Victoria said easily, brushing invisible crumbs from her lap.

Max swallowed down the desperate will you try with other guys? that threatened to escape her throat, knowing she wouldn't like whatever answer Victoria might give. So, they fell into another comfortable silence, sharing the remaining macarons between them. The winter air was sharp with cold, seeping through her thin pajama pants, but Max barely felt it, too aware of how Victoria's knee had pressed against her thigh, how their shoulders brushed whenever one of them reached for another cookie.

"Tonight makes forty consecutive nights up here," Max blurted out before her brain could stop her mouth, the words tumbling out like a secret she'd been keeping too long. She immediately fixed her eyes on her pajama-clad knees, watching her fingers twist in the fabric, mortified at having admitted she'd been keeping count. God, who even did that? She could feel her face burning. "Not that I'm... I mean, we haven't missed a single night since winter break. I was scared today might break our streak."

"Forty-one." Victoria's correction came immediately.

"What?" Max's head snapped up, but Victoria wasn't looking at her. Her gaze was fixed somewhere over the campus below them.

"Forty was last night. Tonight makes forty-one."

Something unfurled in Max's chest, spreading through her entire body like wildfire. "You've been counting too?"

"You think you're the only one who can keep track of things, Max?"

She said Max's name like it was important, like she meant it, and their eyes finally connected again, and the moment felt perfectly balanced – like the split second before taking a photograph, when everything suddenly aligns. Victoria shifted slightly, her knee pressing more firmly against Max's thigh, and Max felt the contact like an electric current through her entire body.

"Oh," Max breathed. "I just figured... I mean, you probably have better things to keep track of."

Victoria scoffed softly, but there was no real edge to it. "Like what? The number of times Taylor reorganizes her closet by color?" She reached for another macaron, splitting it in half. "Besides, now I see that I definitely can't trust you to do it. I know public school math is questionable, but really, Caulfield, didn't they teach you how to count?"

When Victoria offered her the half, their fingers brushed, and Max felt herself mentally adding this moment to her collection – right alongside Victoria leaving her fancy date early and coming to the roof, alongside forty-one consecutive nights, alongside all those other precious photographs she'd been gathering as evidence that maybe, just maybe, Victoria Chase liked her back.

Chapter Text

February 15, 2014

Max drifted into consciousness gently, each small wave of awareness bringing with it fragments of last night. Her bed cocooned her in the kind of bone-deep comfort that only comes after staying awake far too long, doing something that mattered far too much. Through heavy eyelids, she squinted at her phone: 1:33 PM. The guilt of sleeping half of a Saturday away should have hit her then, should have sent her scrambling for clothes and excuses. Instead, she found herself sinking deeper into her pillows, letting the memories of last night wash over her.

They'd talked so much – once they'd finished the macarons, Victoria asked about Max's childhood, genuinely curious about her decidedly middle-class upbringing in a way that should have felt condescending but somehow didn't. She'd leaned in close as Max told her about helping her dad fix their ancient car, her eyes dancing with amusement at stories of grease-stained shirts and colorful curses. When Max talked about weekend cooking lessons with her mom, about movie nights with microwave popcorn and whatever soda was on sale at the corner store, Victoria's eyes had softened with something that felt just as impossible to name as to ignore.

In return, Victoria had opened up about her own childhood – she'd been doing that more and more lately, sharing memories with Max that she just knew Victoria had never shared with anyone else. She told Max about sneaking into her parents' gallery after hours, just to sit with the photographs without anyone watching her reactions. Victoria told her about how she'd spend hours studying single images, trying to understand what made them worthy of wall space, what made them art – what made her parents like them and deem them valuable enough. Then, a slight smirk playing on her lips, Victoria told her how, sometimes, she would sneak into the gallery bathrooms and soak all the toilet paper rolls with water, her smirk turning soft at Max's surprised laugh.

Now, sprawled in her bed with sunlight streaming through her window, Max felt that all-too-familiar warmth in her chest. And how could she not? Victoria had been counting the nights too.

Hope – a wildfire starting in her chest, sparking between her ribs, catching on every breath until her whole body burned with it. She knew better than to feed these flames. Knew how easily they could consume everything. But Victoria kept giving her kindling. And Max? Well…

Forty-one nights. Plus thirty-two from last year. Because yes, Max had counted those too. It could have been more if not for fall break and winter break keeping them apart. If Victoria hadn't missed two nights early on. If Max hadn't stayed in her room for five after Victoria's cutting words in the hallway. And five more lost to Victoria's pattern of vulnerability and retreat.

A total of seventy-three nights on the roof.

Max wanted so badly for Victoria to correct that number as well. To jump in and tell Max she was wrong – that it was actually seventy-four or seventy-two. To reveal that she'd been counting those too, that those nights lived in her thoughts just as vividly as they did in Max's, that she cared about all of this, that she cared about this… thing they'd accidentally built together.

Her stomach growled, an angry reminder that she'd subsisted solely on macarons since yesterday's lunch. She should probably do something about that, even if part of her wanted to stay wrapped in her blankets forever, replaying last night's memories. With a groan, Max forced herself to sit up. Her muscles protested – hours of sitting on cold concrete in February hadn't done her any favors – but she couldn't bring herself to regret a single minute of it.

Max gathered her shower supplies, trying and failing to focus on the simple task as memories from last night kept stealing her breath away. Victoria saying her name like it was something precious. The way she'd slowly shifted closer throughout the night until their shoulders were pressed together, until their fingers brushed the other's clothes whenever they gestured while talking, until Max could feel the warmth of her even through winter layers.

The dormitory hallway stretched silent and empty – a typical Saturday afternoon with everyone already out living their lives. Max was so wrapped up in remembering the soft cadence of Victoria's laugh that she didn't hear the voices until she'd already pushed through the bathroom door. Then she froze, her heart slamming to a stop before racing double-time.

Because of course Victoria was there, poised at the mirror like some untouchable deity, somehow managing to look immaculate despite their late night. Her hands moved with practiced grace as she applied her mascara, while Taylor and Courtney flanked her like perfect satellites – Taylor dabbing at her lipstick, Courtney fussing with her hair. For one suspended moment, no one moved. Then Taylor's eyes caught Max's in the mirror, her lips twisting into that particular curve that always preceded something cruel.

"Well, well. Look who crawled out of her cave," Taylor drawled, her voice dripping artificial sweetness. "Long night, little hipster?"

Max's fingers tightened around her shower caddy until the plastic bit into her palm. In the mirror, she watched Victoria's hand freeze mid-motion, the mascara wand suspended like a conductor's baton caught between beats. Their eyes met in the reflection – one electric moment where Max searched for any trace of last night – before Victoria looked away, her face a perfect mask that betrayed nothing.

"Oh my god," Courtney's lip curled as she took in Max's flannel bottoms. "Are those... actually, I can't even tell what those are supposed to be. Did you raid a dumpster before coming to Blackwell?"

Victoria remained silent, fascinated by her mascara application. Something in Max's chest crumpled at how seamlessly Victoria could transform from the girl who'd share secrets under starlight to this creature of calculated silence and aloofness, as if all their time together was nothing but a dream. Max slipped past them without a word, retreating to the furthest shower stall. She knew this was who Victoria was in public – or rather, who she felt she had to be. After all that time together, Max understood why Victoria clung so desperately to this image. But even knowing why Victoria needed these walls, even understanding the pressure she was under, it didn't make it suck any less when she stood there in silence, pretending Max didn't exist while her friends took their shots.

The shower sputtered to life, hot water slowly washing away the lingering exhaustion in her muscles. Max closed her eyes, trying to focus on the sound of water hitting tile rather than the voices that drifted over the shower curtain. She reached blindly for her shampoo, squeezing way too much into her palm before working it mechanically into her hair, telling herself she was absolutely not listening to their conversation, even as her hands stilled every time Victoria's voice cut through the steam.

"So, Victoria," Taylor's voice carried over the shower spray, her voice suddenly honeyed with gossip-hungry anticipation, "are you finally going to spill about last night? Was he actually as hot as his pictures?"

Max's fingers stilled in her hair again, seemingly for good this time, warm water washing away the last traces of shampoo as her hands dropped to her sides uselessly. She found herself holding her breath, the steady drum of water against tile faded to background noise as she strained to hear Victoria's response.

"Taylor," was the only thing she said, but the chill in her warning tone could have frozen hell over.

"Oh come on, V!" Courtney jumped in. "You've been so weird about this date. Like, suspiciously weird. We need details!"

"Drop it."

"But seriously," Taylor pressed, clearly immune to Victoria's tone. "I literally knocked on your door at one in the morning to get the scoop and you weren't even back yet." Her voice took on a suggestive lilt. "Something must have happened after dinner, right? I mean, where else could you have been at that hour?"

The irony of that question wasn't lost on Max, who could still feel the phantom warmth of Victoria's shoulder pressed against hers on the roof at that exact hour Taylor mentioned. She found herself drifting closer to the shower curtain, water running down her back as she leaned toward their voices. Some wild, hopeful part of her imagined Victoria saying it – just telling them the truth, that she'd left her date early and that she'd spent her night with Max, same as pretty much every night since October. She imagined Victoria telling them they'd met in Seattle to have brunch together, and that they'd become so close that it showed in the pictures they took of each other, and that they'd gone to the beach together and she'd thrown sand at Max while laughing like a little kid, and that—

"I said drop it," Victoria said instead, her voice carrying that edge that usually sent people scrambling to obey. But Taylor and Courtney must have been feeling brave today.

"Was he a good kisser at least?" Courtney asked. "I bet he was amazing. All those years of experience—"

"For fuck's sake," Victoria snapped, slamming something made out of plastic down on the porcelain sink. "Fine. The restaurant was perfect, and so were the food and the wine. He was exactly as hot as his pictures. And yes, Taylor, something happened after dinner, that's why I wasn't in my room. And yes, Courtney, since you're so desperate to know, he was a fantastic kisser. I got back at like 6 AM, which explains why I look like death warmed over."

Max let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding just as Taylor and Courtney erupted into delighted squeals, swallowing Victoria's lies without a second thought.

"Oh my god, I knew it!" Taylor gushed.

"But like, tell us more," Courtney pressed. "What was he like?"

"I already told you. Hot. Good kisser. The end."

"No way," Taylor protested. "Come on, V. You've been dodging our questions all morning. Why are you being so weird about it?"

"Stop saying that. I'm not being weird about anything," Victoria responded dismissively. "I just don't see why we need to dissect every single detail about my date."

"Because that's what we always do? You never shut up about your dates," Courtney pointed out. "Remember when you went out with that British guy? We got, like, an hour-by-hour breakdown."

"Yeah, and this was your first real date in forever, but you're all... quiet," Taylor added. "What aren't you telling us?"

A frustrated groan escaped Victoria then, raw and unguarded, and so out of character that Max startled, her fingers curling around the edge of the shower curtain, ready to pull it aside. But she caught herself and jerked her hand back quickly, silently thanking the steady drum of water that masked the telltale rustling.

"V..." Taylor's voice had lost its teasing edge, dropping into something softer. "Was your night… did something bad happen last night?"

"No," Victoria cut in immediately. "God, no. Nothing bad happened. My night wasn't bad at all," she said, like the very idea was the most absurd thing she'd ever heard. "Last night was actually, well… good. Last night was really good."

The words hung in the air for a long moment. No squeals, no immediate follow-up questions – just silence. For the first time since they'd started grilling her, Taylor and Courtney didn't jump in with their usual enthusiasm. Max frowned in confusion and mild concern, her hand immediately moving toward the curtain again with the intent to peek out and see what was happening, but she stopped herself, fingers curling back into her palm instead.

"Wait," Taylor said emphatically. "Hold up. What was that look?"

"What look?" Victoria snapped, suddenly defensive.

"I saw it too," Courtney added. "What the fuck, V?"

"There was no look. I'm trying to do my makeup, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Oh my god," Courtney gasped. "No way."

"You like him," Taylor said, her voice full of awe. "You actually like—"

"Can we please talk about literally anything else?" Victoria's voice was tight, almost desperate. "What about that marine biology guy you've been stalking? Did he finally notice you exist, Taylor?"

Another heavy silence fell over the bathroom, and Max was dying to see, to understand what exactly was happening on the other side of the curtain. She was clearly missing something. And of course the girls that never shut up were being quiet the only time Max had ever wanted them not to be.

"Taylor," Victoria repeated, pleaded, and once again, it was so out of character that something in Max felt like it was about to burst. "Tell us about your night."

After some moments, Taylor seemingly accepted Victoria's request to shift the focus of their conversation. She easily launched into a detailed recount of her Valentine's date with said marine biology guy, and Max finally stepped back into the shower stream, suddenly remembering she was supposed to be getting clean.

She washed her body, her mind barely registering the motions, and not long after, she shut off the shower, figuring her half-rinsed conditioner was good enough. Taylor was still going strong about her date's perfect teeth, with no sign of wrapping up anytime soon, and Courtney seemed to have an endless supply of follow-up questions. At this rate, they'd still be trading gossip when the water ran ice cold. Might as well cut her losses now. She wrapped her towel around herself, suddenly very aware that she'd have to walk past them again to get back to her room. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the shower curtain aside and stepped out into the steamy bathroom.

"Finally," Taylor drawled, pausing her story to glare at Max through the perfectly clear mirror she'd obviously been wiping down herself. "Your fucking endless shower was fogging everything up."

"God, you're getting water everywhere," Courtney added, nose wrinkling in disgust. "Some of us actually paid more than five dollars for our shoes."

Max started toward the door, trying to keep her dripping hair from making more of a mess, when movement in the mirror caught her eye.

Victoria had been applying lipstick, but her hand had frozen halfway to her mouth, the tube hovering forgotten near her lips. Her eyes were fixed on Max's reflection, making a slow journey from the water beading on her bare shoulders down to where the towel cut across her thighs. Then, like she couldn't help herself, those green eyes traced their way back up Max's body, slowly, deliberately. When they finally locked with Max's in the mirror, she felt her entire body flush with a type of heat that had nothing to do with her shower. A soft exhale escaped Victoria's slightly parted lips, but she was seemingly unaware.

Then Taylor's sharp laugh cut through the air like breaking glass, apparently finding something Courtney had said about Max absolutely hilarious, and Victoria startled back to herself. Her eyes snapped to her lipstick and Max quickly fled the bathroom, her skin burning everywhere Victoria's gaze had touched.

Chapter Text

February 18, 2014

Max's pencil moved absently across her notebook, her mind wandering as tiny abstract designs filled the margins – it was the kind of mindless doodling that happened when thoughts were elsewhere. And right now, her thoughts were definitely elsewhere. More specifically, her thoughts were fixated on one thing and one thing only: Victoria's knee pressed against Max's under the desk.

Mr. Carson's voice drifted through the classroom as he made his rounds, the scrape of his chair marking his progress from one student pair to the next. When he'd asked everyone to sit with their partners, Max had hesitated for just a moment before moving her chair over to where Victoria sat. Victoria hadn't moved, hadn't even looked up, but she'd shifted slightly to make room as Max settled awkwardly at the side of her desk. And then, as Max finished arranging her notebooks, she felt it – Victoria's knee pressing deliberately against hers under the desk. Not a brief brush that could be dismissed as accidental, not a tentative touch that might be withdrawn. No, Victoria pressed her knee against Max's with unmistakable intent, the pressure steady and sure, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And it just... stayed there. Victoria didn't move away, didn't acknowledge what she'd done, didn't give any indication that she was even aware that it was happening.

That had been about ten minutes ago.

Victoria scrolled through something on her phone, her expression carefully bored, ever the unbothered Queen Bee. But she was touching Max. And the thing was that Victoria – for all her coldness and walls – couldn't seem to stop doing just that while they were on the roof. A knee pressed against Max's thigh, or shoulders brushing, or fingers grazing and lingering when passing things... Almost every night, there was a point of contact between them. Max still wasn't used to it, her breath still catching and her heart still racing, but she'd gotten good enough at somewhat functioning through it, not wanting to alert Victoria to how much it affected her in case she did something devastatingly horrible, like stop. So Max could pretend she didn't care, she had months of practice keeping her reactions hidden. But that was the roof. This was not the roof.

Victoria had never done this casual touch thing during school hours, let alone in front of their classmates. And Max's pencil pressed harder into her notebook, leaving dark, chaotic patterns that probably matched her heartbeat. Because here, in broad daylight, Victoria's perfume wasn't just a hint on the night breeze anymore, but an intoxicating cloud that made it hard to breathe in the best possible way. And god, she looked so good – her short blond hair styled to perfection, plump lips pursed slightly as she focused on whatever was on her phone screen, her free hand on her textbook, perfectly manicured nails in light pink moving in absent patterns across the cover.

It was all driving Max absolutely crazy.

She couldn't stop stealing glances, couldn't make herself look away for longer than thirty seconds. She wanted to reach out and brush that strand of hair that had fallen across Victoria's forehead, she wanted to trace those delicate fingers with her own, she wanted to lean in and finally just taste those perfectly glossed lips. She wanted to know how soft her hair would feel grazing against Max's cheeks, against her jaw, how those manicured nails would feel dragging across her shoulders, how those perfect lips would feel trailing down her neck, her collarbones, her stomach, and lower, and lower, and— Max hadn't wanted to admit it to herself, but things had gotten significantly more difficult these past few days, ever since that moment in the bathroom last Saturday. The way Victoria had looked at her when Max was wrapped in just a towel – that slow path her green eyes had traced up and down Max's body, lingering on her bare thighs, following the curve of her hips, trailing up her waist to where she'd pulled the towel tight across her ribs, drifting over her shoulders... Victoria had looked. And it had unlocked something inside Max.

The rational part of her brain kept screaming about hope being dangerous, about reading too much into things, about all those very important, very real things. But those warnings were getting harder to hear over the way the monkey part of her brain kept giving her thoughts that wandered into increasingly inappropriate territory. What had once been safely contained to late-night fantasies now invaded her days without warning – in the hallways, in the cafeteria, in class, any time Victoria was near, really, there were thoughts about skin, hands, mouths, teeth, and sounds, sounds, what sounds would Victoria make if Max—

Victoria's knee pressed infinitesimally closer to Max's, and she had to consciously loosen her white-knuckled grip on her pencil before she snapped it in half. Her heart thundered so loudly in her ears that she was certain everyone must be able to hear it. She darted quick glances around the classroom, wondering if her complete meltdown was as obvious to everyone else as it felt to her. But no one was paying them any attention at all. Every other pair was absorbed in their own quiet discussions, their heads bent together over shared desks, completely oblivious to the tense silence between Max and Victoria.

Though Max supposed it wasn't actually tense silence. Victoria looked completely normal, face neutral, relaxed posture (as relaxed as it could be when sitting perfectly straight), totally focused on what now Max could see were pictures of some fancy designer's new spring collection. There really was no reason for tension and Max clearly needed to get it together. After all, it was just knees under a desk – the tamest form of physical contact possible, hardly even qualifying as touch at all, even in public. Victoria certainly wasn't affected – of course she wasn't. One, because it was literally just a knee, and two, because it was Max's knee.

Still, the silence felt tense to her and she needed it to stop. But she didn't feel quite ready to actually talk, so Max's pencil hesitated over her notebook for just a moment before writing:

really nervous

She carefully slid the notebook slightly toward Victoria.

Victoria's fingers stilled on her phone screen. She didn't turn her head, but Max watched her eyes slide to the notebook, lingering there for a heartbeat too long. When Victoria finally met her gaze, Max offered her a small, albeit slightly awkward smile. Victoria's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, before she rolled her eyes with practiced disdain. But she switched her phone to her left hand and picked up her pen with her right, and wrote beneath Max's messy scrawl, her elegant script a stark contrast.

Why?

our photos, Max wrote beneath Victoria's question.

Victoria arched a perfect eyebrow, unimpressed, but she put her phone down on the desk and pulled Max's notebook slightly closer to herself.

Our photos are perfect.

you seem so sure now

Victoria's lips momentarily curved into something that was almost a smile, but it was gone before it could fully form. And you were so sure they were perfect last time. What changed? she wrote.

Max stared at Victoria's elegant handwriting, butterflies going absolutely insane in her stomach, because they were essentially passing notes in class, and her knee was still warm against Max's, and though her expression was impassive and disinterested, her pretty green eyes were looking at Max with careful attention and subtle curiosity, and Max wanted nothing more than to write what she was actually thinking – that she wasn't nervous about the photos at all, not really, she was actually worked up because Victoria silently insisted on always keeping a point of contact between them, even now, even in the middle of class, and that every time they touched, it made Max want to do incredibly stupid things, like lean over and kiss her, and maybe cry, and then kiss again. But Max couldn't tell her that.

Max's pencil moved hesitantly across the paper.

teacher feedback always makes me nervous. even when I feel good about the work

Victoria's response came quickly, her pen moving with confident strokes beneath Max's note: We're the best photographers in this school. Carson would love anything we submitted. Plus, even if our work sucked, he wouldn't risk demotivating us by giving us bad feedback. After some moments, she added more: But our work didn't suck. I've seen most of what the others submitted and it's hilarious how superior our photos are.

Max glanced up at Victoria and gave her a small, sheepish shrug and smile. A battle played out on Victoria's face then – irritation warring with something softer as she fought to maintain her stern expression. Finally, Victoria put down her pen and picked her phone back up, clearly trying to focus on the fashion pictures there, but her fingers kept drumming an uneven rhythm against its surface. Her eyes darted to Max's notebook every few seconds, expectant, as if waiting for more words to appear.

Max was trying to think of what to write when Taylor's frustrated groan echoed from the back of the classroom. She'd been paired with Daniel for the assignment – a pairing that was clearly going about as well as everyone had expected. The sound sparked a memory in Max's mind, bringing her thoughts back to that morning in the bathroom, to Taylor's voice mixing with the shower steam. She considered, briefly, asking Victoria about that look she'd given Max when she'd emerged from the shower. But no, that was exactly the type of stuff she and Max did not talk about. Instead, her mind circled back to the other thing that had been nagging at her – the lies Victoria had told Taylor and Courtney about her Valentine's Day date.

why did you lie to your friends about your date?

Victoria's entire body tensed beside her, clearly having read the words Max had written. For a long time, Victoria seemed to just stare at the notebook, her expression unreadable. Max hurried to offer more context.

in the bathroom last saturday. why didn't you just tell them he was boring?

Before Max could even process what was happening, Victoria snatched the notebook and slammed it shut with enough force to make Max jump, and then shoved it against Max's sternum. Her startled hands immediately flew to the notebook, pressing it against her chest before it could fall to the floor and draw attention to themselves. Victoria yanked her leg away then, the sudden absence of warmth where their knees had been pressed together for the last fifteen minutes leaving Max feeling unanchored. In one fluid motion, Victoria twisted in her chair to face Max, her eyes molten with fury as she closed the space between them, so close Max could feel the heat radiating off her skin. When she spoke, her whispered words carried the precise, lethal edge of a blade. "Were you fucking spying on me?"

The question hung between them like a loaded gun, and Max felt every muscle in her body go rigid under Victoria's razor-sharp scrutiny.

"No!" Max whispered back, the word coming out sharper than intended. She forced her voice lower, conscious of the students around them. "I was in the shower, Victoria. The water was running. I couldn't have heard more than fragments if I tried," she lied, swallowing hard. "Just… barely caught the part about getting back to Blackwell at six."

Victoria's jaw clenched so tight that Max could see the muscle work beneath her perfectly porcelain skin. Victoria moved even closer now, her breath tickling Max's ear, voice low and dangerous. "Don't. Fucking. Eavesdrop on me. What I discuss with my friends isn't any of your business."

"I know," Max whispered back, hating how her voice wavered, hating even more how her body betrayed her – because Victoria was being cruel, was trying to intimidate her, and it should have made Max angry. Instead, all she could focus on was how close Victoria was, how hot her breath felt against her skin, how her expensive perfume seemed to wrap around her senses until she felt almost drunk on it. She clutched the notebook tighter against her chest like a shield, trying to ground herself even as her head spun. "I really didn't mean to listen. I was just... there. You knew I was there. All three of you knew. And I barely heard anything, anyway."

Victoria pulled back slightly to study Max's face, and Max watched as something shifted behind those green eyes. The anger was still there, but now it seemed paper-thin, barely concealing something that looked a lot like fear. Maybe even shame. Max wasn't surprised by the complexity in Victoria's expression – she'd learned over these past months that Victoria's cruelty was almost always a shield, a reflexive defense mechanism when she felt exposed or vulnerable. They'd spent enough nights on that roof sharing confessions between stargazing for Max to recognize when Victoria was lashing out to protect herself. But what Max couldn't figure out was why this particular situation had triggered such an intense reaction. They'd both been lying to their friends for months about what they did at night, had even joked about it together a few times. So why was pointing out this particular lie different? What was it about that bathroom conversation that had Victoria looking at Max like—

"What else did you hear?" Victoria's voice had changed, the anger suddenly undercut by something completely different that she couldn't pinpoint.

Max frowned, slowly lowering her closed notebook back onto the desk, entirely caught off guard by the shift in Victoria's tone. But before she could untangle what it meant, the harsh scrape of Mr. Carson's chair cut through the tension between them. Victoria snapped back to perfect posture beside her, the mask sliding seamlessly into place as she turned to face the teacher.

"Ah," Mr. Carson said, settling into his chair across from them. "I've been looking forward to talking with the two of you."

He placed their photos on the desk with careful movements, spreading them out like he was dealing cards. Max focused on looking at the pictures they'd selected weeks ago – Victoria standing on the snow-covered football field, caught mid-sentence explaining something about the stars, her face transformed with genuine passion. And there was Max too, somehow looking braver than she'd ever felt, staring directly into Victoria's lens with a confidence she didn't know she possessed.

"These are..." Mr. Carson paused, studying the progression. "Well, they're exceptional. Truly. A+, obviously."

Max watched as Mr. Carson arranged the photos in order – from their first careful shots to the later ones where they'd both finally relaxed into it.

"The technical aspects are flawless, of course," he continued. "But what really stands out is the emotional journey. Look at this progression – how you both start so guarded, so careful, but then..." He gestured to their final selections. "These last shots. The vulnerability here is stunning. The trust between subject and photographer is palpable." He smiled, tapping one of the photos emphatically. "This is exactly what I was looking for when I assigned this contrast project. I didn't want just technical contrast – light and shadow, composition – I wanted this. Emotional contrast. You've both captured that journey beautifully."

Max risked a glance at Victoria and found her staring at the photos with burning intensity. Max quickly looked back at the teacher who was, once again, gesturing excitedly at the pictures spread across the desk.

"You got something rare here," Mr. Carson continued, his voice carrying genuine enthusiasm. "Both of you. The way you've documented this subtle shift from performance to authenticity – it's masterful. Victoria, the technical precision in your shots is outstanding, but there's a warmth here I haven't seen in your work before." He picked up one of the photos of Max, studying it. "The lighting is perfect, but it's the emotion that makes it extraordinary. And Max," he turned to her, "your eye for genuine moments is remarkable. You've caught Victoria in these absolutely perfect instances of unguarded joy. The composition is beautiful, but it's the timing that makes these so special." He paused for a moment, regarding them both carefully, almost like he was preparing himself to say something important. Then: "I'd really like to display these. There's an exhibition coming up at Reed College's Art Gallery. That's where I teach in the afternoon and... the exhibition would really benefit from a series like this," he said. "With your permission, of course, I'd love to give these a spot." Carson smiled warmly at Max and Victoria. "You two make an excellent team. I hope you'll consider working together on future projects."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," Victoria said smoothly, her voice carrying that perfect mix of gratitude and professional distance. "We'll discuss that option and let you know."

Mr. Carson nodded, gathering their photos into a neat stack and placing them back on their desk. "Here, all yours again. Exceptional work," he said again.

As Carson's chair scraped against the floor, moving away from their desk and towards the next pair, Victoria reached for the stack of photos. Max watched as she began sorting them with precise movements, creating two distinct piles – Max's shots of Victoria on one side and Victoria's shots of Max on the other.

"We don't have to display them," Max said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry beyond their shared space. "It doesn't matter what he says. These photos could be just for us. Like the ones from the beach."

Victoria's hands stilled, and she looked up at Max. Her face was carefully blank, the mask of indifference firmly in place, but Max could see the cracks in it. Something raw and uncertain – the same vulnerability that had leaked through during their tense exchange about the overheard shower conversation, now amplified by Carson's earnest praise about trust and authenticity.

Victoria looked back down at the pictures on the desk, and got back to sorting them with slightly less steady movements than before. "The trust between subject and photographer is palpable," she quoted Mr. Carson mockingly. But there was something almost brittle in the way she said it, like she was trying to make light of words that had cut too close to something they both knew was nothing but the truth.

She finished separating the photos into their final piles. Then, carefully, she slid Max's photographs of Victoria across the desk toward Max. The other pile – the photos Victoria had taken of Max – with a gentleness that belied her earlier sharp words, Victoria pulled closer to herself, her fingers curling protectively around their edges.

Chapter Text

February 20, 2014

Victoria's hand disappeared into her nondescript and seemingly bottomless shopping bag, emerging with a dress that seemed to capture twilight itself, its dark silk flowing like liquid shadow between her careful fingers. She held it up for Max to see, one hand delicately pinching the neckline while the other gathered the fabric at the waist, creating a drape that revealed the garment's true artistry.

Max studied the piece. She did. Her eyes stayed on the dress for a perfectly acceptable number of seconds. Perhaps five, or even six. And then, inevitably, like a moth to a flame, her gaze moved to Victoria's face instead. She found the green eyes already fixed on Max – intense, expectant, excited, and so playful that Max couldn't help the smile that spread across her face. Victoria's response was a simple eye roll, typical, but Max caught the slight upturn at the corners of her mouth – that tell-tale sign that her annoyance was performance, not reality, and it made the butterflies in Max's stomach take flight. Again. For, perhaps, the hundredth time tonight.

But who could blame her? It was thrilling to watch Victoria try to battle her smiles like that, and to see her eyes sparkle with excitement like that, and to get to be someone Victoria felt comfortable enough with to act like that, so passionate, and enthusiastic, and relaxed and, god, Max would happily do this for the rest of her life if it meant she'd get to keep seeing her like—

"Well?" Victoria said impatiently, giving the dress in her hands a gentle shake and fixing Max with a pointed look.

"Hang on. I'm trying to..." Max shifted closer to Victoria on the blanket, careful not to disturb the growing collection of designer pieces spread between them. Her eyes traced the fabric again and again, noting the subtle details Victoria had taught Max to look for during their countless conversations about fashion over the past months. "This one, uh – I think this one..." Max took a breath, caught between wanting to impress Victoria and dreading the inevitable correction. She braced herself and ventured with a small: "...Balenciaga?"

Victoria let out a loud, exaggerated sigh, her shoulders dropping in an elegant slump that was too perfectly timed to be anything but practiced. "No, Caulfield. It's not Balenciaga. Are you even trying?" Her tone was supposed to convey disdain, but a small smile was already breaking through her theatrical disappointment. Despite herself, Victoria had been getting increasingly animated as her little impromptu fashion quiz went on, practically glowing with each of Max's guesses, no matter how embarrassingly incorrect. "This dress is clearly Saint Laurent. Look at the construction of the shoulders," Victoria continued. "It's their signature cut. And I know that you know that."

"Crap," Max breathed out with a wince, immediately recognizing the cut now that Victoria was pointing it out. Her hand flew to her face in frustration, fingers pressing against her forehead like she could somehow extract the memory that had been there just moments too late. "You're right – the shoulders. I did actually know that."

Victoria's smile widened slightly, the corners of her eyes growing softer as she watched Max's dramatic display. Only after her hand had finally dropped from her face did Victoria start carefully folding the dress. She laid the expensive silk on the blanket between them, joining the countless other pieces Victoria had bought last week in Portland. She'd gone there on Valentine's Day, ostensibly to find the perfect dress for her date, but had returned with everything except that – a detail that felt significant in a way Max wasn't going to examine right now.

Without missing a beat, Victoria reached back into the bag. "Alright, this one should be easier." She pulled out something cream-colored and intricately knit, holding it up like a curator displaying a masterpiece. And given the absurd price tag dangling from its sleeve, it might as well have been.

Max leaned forward almost unconsciously, drawn in by both the sweater and Victoria's obvious excitement in sharing it. The pattern slowly revealed its secrets as she studied it – what at first glance seemed like simple geometric shapes gradually transformed into something more subversive. Tiny skulls emerged from the intricate knit work, woven through the wool with such clever subtlety that you'd miss them if you weren't looking for them. The memory clicked then, warm and certain: Victoria's passionate explanation about punk aesthetics in luxury fashion, her hands moving in elegant arcs, her eyes bright as she'd detailed the designer's influence on high-end rebellion.

"Alexander McQueen," Max said without hesitation.

Victoria's composure slipped for just a moment, surprise coloring her features before she could catch herself. And then came that smile – the real one, the one she usually guarded so carefully, the one Max had grown to treasure, the one that made her chest tighten and her thoughts scatter, the one she found herself doing increasingly ridiculous things just to glimpse again.

"That's right. It is McQueen," Victoria said, the pride in her tone unmistakable despite her obvious attempt to contain it.

And heat flooded across Max's cheeks, violent and unapologetic, all while her heart performed a complicated dance against her ribs. It was barely even praise, just a simple acknowledgment that she got the designer right, but Max's whole body hummed with it like she'd been awarded a solo exhibition at the most prestigious gallery in the world. She found herself wondering, not for the first time tonight, how many fashion magazines she could download to her phone, and exactly how many hours she could allocate to learning about hemlines and seasonal collections and the subtle differences between couture houses. Because if memorizing the entire history of high fashion would make Victoria's eyes light up like this, if it would coax out that rare, genuine smile that transformed her entire face, if it would make her proud of her, proud of Max – well, Max had certainly devoted herself to less worthy artistic pursuits before.

"You got it so quickly," Victoria said, and there was none of her usual performative boredom in her voice, just genuine interest. "What gave it away?"

"The skulls," Max said quickly, confidently, tracing their pattern in the air with her finger. "That article you showed me about his punk influences, how he implemented these darker elements into his designs." Victoria's smile widened, and at that, so did Max's. "And then, um. That whole thing about how the company changed after his death in… 2010?"

"2011," Victoria corrected automatically, but there was no bite to it. In fact, she looked almost... shy? But before Max could truly try to identify what it was, Victoria had already caught herself, her eyes dropping to the sweater in her hands – she smoothed the shoulders, aligned the sleeves, pressed each crease with gentle fingertips. After the garment was perfectly arranged on the blanket, she spoke again, her voice carefully modulated: "I can't believe you actually remember that thing about McQueen and his punk influences. We had that conversation months ago."

"Come on, Victoria. Of course I remember," Max replied, looking down at her fingers, twisting them together in her lap as she aimed for casual and missed spectacularly. "I mean, you always make it interesting," she admitted sheepishly. "When you talk about fashion, it's not just about the clothes for you – it's art and history and cultural shifts and..." She risked a glance up, finding Victoria's eyes. "It's easy to remember what you say when you're so passionate about it. I mean, when you actually care about something... it's like everything else just fades away and all I can pay attention to is... you?" She let out a small, breathless, awkward laugh when she realized what she'd just said. "Just— you know, you're a good teacher. That's all."

Victoria, to her credit, didn't cringe like Max expected her to. Instead, her hand froze halfway to her bag, looking almost startled as her eyes quickly darted between both of Max's for what felt like hours, but really was just a few seconds. "Right. Well," Victoria said, her voice pitched just slightly too high. She cleared her throat, reaching deeper into her bag. "Let's see if this newfound competence of yours holds." Her hand emerged with a sweep of light blue silk. "Last one. What do you think this—"

"Hermès," Max cut in as soon as she realized the piece was a scarf.

Victoria's eyebrows shot up, a small, disbelieving laugh escaping her before she could catch it. Something warm, bright, and unguarded flashed across her face, breaking through her careful composure. "Wow," she said, trying and completely failing to sound sarcastic, her voice carrying too much delight to be able to hide it. "You barely even looked at it. That was almost impressive, Caulfield."

Heat crept up Max's neck again at Victoria's words – because this time it actually was praise, kind of. She ducked her head, trying to hide her flush behind her bangs. "I mean, that one was actually easy," she managed, watching as Victoria arranged the blue scarf alongside the other garments, creating what looked like a museum-worthy display on the blanket. "You've made your stance on scarves really clear," Max said. "What was it again? 'If it's not Hermès, it belongs in a dumpster'? Your exact words, by the way."

Victoria's lips twitched. "Leave it to you," she started, "to downplay getting it right by admitting you only knew because I was insufferable about it. God forbid you take credit for being good at something."

"I was just being transparent about the scarf thing."

Victoria hummed noncommittally as she began gathering the clothes, each garment disappearing into the shopping bag in what was clearly a deliberate sequence. Max watched, trying to decode Victoria's organizational system, but it seemed to defy logic. The McQueen sweater wasn't placed with other knits, none of the dresses joined their fellow evening wear, and even pieces of the same designer were separated. Yet Victoria's hands moved with such certainty, such purpose.

"Anyway, that was fun," Victoria said, Max's eyes immediately drifting back to Victoria's face. "You're still hopeless about most of it, obviously, but at least you're trainable."

"Hey," Max protested. "Not hopeless. I got practically half of them right."

Victoria arched one perfect eyebrow, her hands pausing in their careful task of tucking a blouse into the bag. "You got four out of twelve." She shook her head with exaggerated dismay, though her lips kept betraying her by curving upward at the corners. "I know we've already established that public schools have tragically failed you in mathematics, but surely even you can't believe that's anywhere close to half."

"I said practically half," Max insisted, grinning when Victoria scoffed. "The 'practically' makes it true."

"You can't just add 'practically' to make math work however you want."

"Watch me – six is technically half of twelve, and four is close enough to six that they're practically twins. And since eleven is basically twelve if you don't think about it too hard... By the laws of questionable mathematics, four out of eleven is practically half, which means so is four out of twelve," Max said, satisfaction warming her chest when her silly performance pulled another genuine smile from Victoria. "Therefore, I correctly guessed practically half of them."

"God, you're ridiculous," Victoria muttered, still working on returning the clothes to the bag, but the smile was still there, and Max felt almost high on it.

"And fair warning – next time, I'll be quizzing you on something you don't know. We'll see how you like being on the other side of this."

"I'd like to see you try to find a topic you know more about than me."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Max promised playfully. "There are plenty of topics where I'll leave you in the dust. I'll make sure it's challenging enough to keep Her Majesty entertained."

Victoria looked up at the teasing, a small, startled laugh escaping her lips. Her hands stilled on the item she'd been about to fold as she regarded Max, her eyes soft and beautiful, and filled with something that looked so much like affection that Max forgot how to breathe entirely. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed like Victoria had made up her mind about something. "Close your eyes," she said.

"What?"

"Just... close your eyes," she repeated. "Come on."

Max's eyes fluttered closed before she could second-guess herself, her heart already picking up speed at the simple act of making herself vulnerable like this. She heard the whisper of fabric as Victoria gathered her designer pieces, each rustle accompanied by the soft thud of them being carefully placed back in the shopping bag. Then silence fell, stretching taut between them. Just as Max's curiosity began to overwhelm her willpower, she felt movement – Victoria shifting closer, the air itself seeming to change as her presence drew nearer. The subtle notes of her perfume grew stronger, making Max's pulse flutter when she realized how close she must be. Then came the subtle sound of fabric against fabric – Victoria rising to her knees, and Max could feel her there, above her now, so close, and it was all Max could do to keep her breathing from becoming embarrassingly erratic.

"Keep them closed," Victoria murmured, her words stirring the air against Max's face.

Max's heart thundered against her ribs with such force that words felt impossible. So she just nodded, a small, helpless movement, while her fingers twisted together tightly in her lap.

Then, there was that first whisper of silk brushing the nape of Max's neck, sending a shiver down her spine that she couldn't have hidden if she tried. Victoria's fingers were gentle as she carefully gathered Max's hair, lifting the brown waves with one hand while the other worked the scarf beneath them. Liquid-smooth, the fabric slid around the skin at the back of her neck – immediately, Max's eyes fluttered open. She found Victoria mere inches away, her face set in concentration as she threaded the scarf beneath Max's chin, the cool silk sliding against her throat like water. Max's breath came in quick, shallow pulls now, her chest rising and falling rapidly as Victoria's fingers occasionally brushed against her neck as she worked. Victoria's eyes flickered to Max's for just a moment.

"I didn't say you could open them yet," Victoria murmured, her voice lower and less steady than usual.

"I'm sorry," Max whispered, but didn't close her eyes again – couldn't, really, not when Victoria was this close. Max's breath hitched as Victoria drew one end of the scarf over her shoulder, fingers brushing against her collarbone over her jacket, before bringing the other end around to meet it. Victoria's head tilted to one side as she studied her handiwork with the same exacting attention she gave to her photography, her eyes tracing the drape of the silk like she was framing a shot.

Then: "You got practically half of them wrong," Victoria said finally, and though she'd seemingly finished arranging the scarf, her fingers still traced the light blue silk almost absently. "But you know so much more than you did a few months ago, so... consider this gift positive reinforcement."

"Gift?!" Max's hand flew up, accidentally catching Victoria's fingers as she touched the silk. "Victoria, no—" Her voice cracked slightly. "This is too much. This probably costs—"

"Don't be dramatic." Victoria's voice was sharp, her hands finally falling away from the fabric to drop to her sides. "It's just fabric."

"It's not just fabric. You've made sure I know that this isn't just fabric. This costs more than my laptop."

"Well, if you had better taste in electronics..." Victoria trailed off at Max's almost agonized expression. "Look, I have six other scarves just like this one. And this color looks really—" She cut herself off and shook her head, looking almost frustrated, or confused.

"Victoria..."

"Just... accept it, Max. It's nothing."

"But this is—"

"Nothing," Victoria repeated pointedly. "Plus, the only decent thing in your closet right now is a Tory Burch that's seasons old. This is my contribution to making Blackwell marginally more aesthetically tolerable."

Max's fingers traced the soft scarf hesitantly, her mind spinning in useless circles. A lifetime of parental lectures about not accepting expensive gifts warred against... what? The fact that Victoria Chase had just casually given her something worth more than her entire wardrobe? Or the way Victoria had leaned back slightly, her eyes darting between Max's eyes and the scarf like she was confirming something she'd already known would be true? Or maybe it was just that Max had long since lost any ability to say no to Victoria, somewhere between stargazing and late-night conversations and the way Victoria's real smile made her want to make promises she never thought she'd want to make?

"Stop freaking out," Victoria said, finally putting distance between them, shifting back to her side of the blanket. "This is basically their entry level scarf. I have ones that cost three times as much. It's not a big deal. Really. Don't be so weird about it."

But Max was being weird about it, couldn't help it. She was sitting there, overwhelmed, because Victoria Chase wanted to gift Max Hermès, and she was fidgeting with her gold bracelet, looking nothing like the confident queen of Blackwell that everyone knew. No, this Victoria was different – uncertain, almost nervous, and the affection building in Max's chest felt like it might burst through her ribs at any moment. And suddenly, Max needed more of this, more moments like these, more Victoria being just Victoria – and not just on rooftops at night, but everywhere. The thought formed before she could stop it: they could have this outside of Blackwell, couldn't they? They already had a few times. On the beach, and the football field, and Seattle...

"Hey, um," Max cleared her throat, her fingers still tangled in her new scarf. "Remember in Seattle when you wouldn't let me pay for brunch? And you said I could pay next time?" The words tumbled out before Max could stop them. "What if... what if we went to… uh, Portland? For brunch. My treat?" When Victoria didn't immediately respond, Max almost lost her mind. "I mean, only if you want. It's just that you said that thing about next time, and I remembered it just now, and you like Portland, right? I mean, you go there all the time, so I figured it would—"

"There's this place I've been wanting to try," Victoria said, thankfully stopping Max's rambling. "Their brunch is supposed to be excellent," she paused for a moment. "I can drive."

"That's— yes. Great. That sounds great."

Chapter Text

February 22, 2014

The late morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the restaurant, painting golden rectangles across their corner table. Victoria's empty plate held remnants of hollandaise sauce where her eggs Benedict had been. Max's own plate was scattered with the evidence of what she'd already decided were the most decadent Belgian waffles she'd ever tasted. The rich aroma of fresh-roasted coffee wafted through the air, mingling with the buttery undertones of fresh pastries from the kitchen. Around them, the gentle clink of silverware and the low murmur of conversations created a cocoon of white noise, enveloping them in their own private world.

Victoria, simply put, was breathtaking today. Sunlight transformed her short blond hair into threads of spun gold, catching in her eyes until they glowed from within like sun-touched sea glass. Her cashmere sweater draped perfectly across her shoulders, as if she'd materialized from a magazine spread rather than just stepped in off the street like all the other patrons. But it wasn't the clothes or the perfect hair that kept drawing Max in. No, it was this softness Victoria had about her today. It was as if the weight she carried on her shoulders, the walls Max spent each night carefully dismantling on the roof, had all fallen away somewhere along the highway to Portland.

Earlier, Victoria had actually thrown her head back and laughed – a loud, real laugh that turned heads at nearby tables – when Max had managed to drip syrup down her chin while eating her waffles. And instead of the cutting remark Max had braced for, Victoria had simply leaned across the table, napkin in hand, and dabbed at the sticky trail herself with a smile and a tenderness that had stolen Max's breath away. Not long after that, perplexingly enough, she'd insisted on sharing a bite of her eggs Benedict, her fork hovering carefully over Max's plate until Max had rolled her eyes and accepted the perfectly-composed bite. And when Max had reciprocated by offering her own fork laden with waffle and syrup, Victoria hadn't hesitated for even a moment before leaning forward to accept it.

Each time their eyes met across the table – over shared bites of food, over Max's dorky comments about the fancy menu items, over her enthusiastic praise of the waffles, over every little moment that would normally be too mundane to matter – Victoria's smile would reach all the way to her eyes, crinkling the corners in this achingly genuine way that made Max's heart feel too full to contain. And each smile seemed to feed into the next, creating an endless loop: Victoria would smile, which would make Max smile, which would only make Victoria smile more broadly, which would make Max blush and even giggle like some kind of idiot, which would make Victoria's eyes sparkle with something that looked dangerously close to adoration, and Max would find herself caught in the current of it all, helpless to do anything but keep smiling and rambling, and feeling her entire face grow warmer and warmer, and—

Now, with her stomach full of Belgian waffles and butterflies, Max let her chin rest heavily in her palm, her elbow planted firmly on the table – terrible manners, she knew. But here, in this moment, she couldn't summon even a flicker of concern about what anyone else might think. The only opinion she cared about was Victoria's, and she hadn't said a word about it. Besides, all thoughts of etiquette felt delightfully insignificant in the face of the gentle pressure of Victoria's foot against hers beneath the table. Because Victoria's thing for keeping a point of contact between them still manifested all the way here, miles away from Arcadia Bay.

When Victoria finally looked up from her empty plate, she caught Max staring. But this time, instead of her usual performative eye-roll or sharp comment, she simply mirrored Max's position, her chin coming to rest in her hand with deliberate grace. Her head tilted slightly as she regarded Max with playful eyes, and Max couldn't help the smile that slowly spread across her face – the kind that probably gave away every single one of her feelings, but she was too caught up in the moment to actually care.

In turn, Victoria's own lips twitched, fighting against the smile that threatened to break through. But her eyes betrayed her again, crinkling softly at the corners despite her valiant attempt to maintain her composure. It was a losing battle, and Victoria knew that, which probably was why her free hand drifted across the table then, fingers ghosting along the edge of Max's new Hermès scarf. She'd been doing this all morning too – these delicate, unnecessary adjustments to the silk although the scarf already lay perfectly, each fold exactly where it should be.

"You should let me dress you more often," Victoria said softly, her fingers still playing with the fabric.

Max's breath caught somewhere between surprised and amused. "Dress me?"

"Mm." Victoria's fingers stilled, but didn't retreat. "You have... potential."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Max asked, but she was grinning now, watching how Victoria's eyes sparkled with barely contained mischief.

Before Victoria could elaborate, their server appeared with the check, leather folder balanced elegantly in one hand. Max's hand shot out immediately, but Victoria was faster – of course she was faster, she'd clearly been lying in wait for this exact moment, credit card somehow already palmed like she'd been planning this ambush all along. Their fingers tangled as they both grabbed for the leather folder, Max's smaller hand overlapping Victoria's perfectly manicured one in what was rapidly becoming the world's most refined game of tug-of-war. Their server politely retreated quickly, clearly wanting no part in this battle.

"Caulfield," Victoria hissed through her teeth, her voice pitched low enough that only Max could hear. She gave a delicate tug at the folder. "We are in public. You cannot wrestle me for a check in public. There are rules about these things."

"You promised I could pay!" Max whispered back with fierce determination, tightening her grip on both the folder and Victoria's hand by extension. "That was the whole point of this brunch! I'm paying."

"The whole point of this brunch was brunch," Victoria replied, punctuating her words with a sharp tug. "And I didn't promise anything. I merely suggested the possibility."

"No, you— you asshole," Max sputtered, yanking back and trying to sound properly indignant. "It was very much implied I'd pay this time." Her fingers curled more determinedly around the leather folder, refusing to yield.

They struggled briefly, their hands still tangled around the folder while trying to maintain what little dignity remained between them. Victoria's foot suddenly hooked around Max's ankle under the table – a move so unexpected, so unbelievably unfair, that it caught Max completely off guard. In that moment of surprised distraction, her grip loosened just enough for Victoria to make her move. With the kind of grace that seemed to run in her DNA, Victoria rose from her chair in one fluid motion, somehow managing to extract both the check and her hand in a maneuver that would have made a professional dancer jealous.

She glided toward the counter with perfect poise, all long legs and confident stride, her heeled boots clicking a victory march against the hardwood. Then she turned, just enough to look back at Max, and tossed a quick wink over her shoulder. The gesture was so smug, so annoying, so rude, and yet it hit Max like a lightning strike, sending her heart into an immediate tailspin. She watched Victoria's retreating form, paralyzed, heat blooming across her cheeks and crawling down her neck, caught in a push-pull of two emotions: complete frustration at being outmaneuvered, and the kind of giddy, overwhelming attraction that made her feel like she might float right out of her chair.

Max took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing pulse and regain some semblance of composure. She was being ridiculous – it was just a wink, not... whatever Max's traitorous imagination kept suggesting with its endless parade of what-ifs. She needed to focus, to remember why she was sitting here in the first place – she was here to pay Victoria back. She was supposed to be mad right now, and she was mad. Seattle brunch, macarons (twice), artisanal chocolate, an actual Hermès scarf, and now this? It wasn't fair. Victoria was spending too much money on Max. She needed to put her foot down about this, even if that foot was still tingling from where Victoria's had brushed against it.

"Ready?" Victoria asked when she returned, a hint of satisfaction still in her expression as she slipped her card back into her purse and slung its leather strap over her shoulder with an elegant shrug.

Max stood up, fidgeting with her messenger bag. "That was really mean, you know. And unfair. I have to pay for things sometimes too."

"You make hot chocolate every single night," Victoria pointed out with an airy wave of her hand as they walked toward the exit, the gentle chime of the door bell announcing their departure. "That adds up," she added, her tone making it clear she considered the entire argument beneath serious discussion.

"The chocolate costs like three dollars and milk is two dollars," Max protested as they walked out onto the sidewalk. "And sugar is practically free. That's hardly—"

"Plus those little marshmallows you add sometimes."

"That's like... ten dollars total for weeks worth of hot chocolate. Meanwhile, you just spent—" Max gestured helplessly back at the restaurant, then at the scarf around her neck. "God, Victoria, I don't even want to think about how much you've spent on me. It's too much. I need to start paying you back somehow."

"Would you just— it's not about the money. It's never been about that. It's..." Victoria trailed off. Then sighed as if Max would never understand. "Just forget it, okay?"

"No, Victoria, it is about that," Max insisted as she strode toward the parking lot where Victoria's car waited. "Maybe money doesn't matter to you, but it matters to me, and you can't just keep spending it on me like that while I barely even—" The words died in her throat when she realized she could no longer hear Victoria's boots clicking beside her.

She turned to find Victoria had stopped several steps back, standing perfectly still with an oddly uncertain expression Max had never seen before. Her fingers twisted the strap of her purse – not the usual elegant adjustments, but something more nervous. Max felt the fight drain out of her at the sight.

"Hey, I—" Max hesitated for a moment before walking back to Victoria, her voice softening. "I didn't mean to make such a big deal about it. I really do appreciate you paying. I just—"

"I literally could not care less about you being mad about money. Like, get over it," Victoria cut in dismissively, making Max's mouth drop open in indignation. But before Max could properly work up her outrage, Victoria's posture shifted, her hand coming up to brush invisible lint from her cashmere sweater. "It's just... since we're already in Portland, and it's Saturday..." She shrugged one shoulder with careful nonchalance. "I thought we could... make a day of it?"

"Oh." Max's heart immediately did a ridiculous little flip in her chest, all thoughts of money and fairness evaporating like morning mist. "Yeah, sure," she said quickly, aiming for casual, but her voice was practically vibrating with poorly contained excitement. She shoved her hands deep into her jacket pockets, trying to anchor herself. "God, I was totally on autopilot walking to your car just now, wasn't I? But it's not that I wanted to leave! Actually..." She caught herself rambling and took a breath, but couldn't stop the smile spreading across her face. "I haven't been to Portland in ages. It would be... I mean, if you want to stay, that would be really cool."

Victoria's answering smile was soft and, for just a heartbeat, there was a flash of relief in her eyes that she quickly tried to tuck away behind her usual mask. But Max caught it, just like she caught the way Victoria's shoulders relaxed, the tension melting from them like snow in sunlight. Her back straightened quickly, though, her practiced poise sliding back into place like armor. "There's this new exhibition at Blue Sky Gallery I've been meaning to check out. Some up-and-coming photographer who specializes in urban decay," she said, her voice taking on that detached tone she wielded like a shield. "It's a little far from here, but—"

"It's such a nice day," Max offered, glancing up at the clear sky. "Maybe we could walk there?"

And that was how Max found herself falling into step beside Victoria, their footsteps echoing down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the car. The city seemed to unfold before Max like a familiar photograph, each corner triggering memories that spilled from her with surprising ease. She found herself pointing out ghosts of the Portland she'd known as a child – the toy store that had become a café, its old window displays still vivid in her mind, full of the kind of magic that only made sense to six-year-old eyes. Her hands moved animatedly as she described the street performer who'd created vast clouds of bubbles that danced down entire blocks, while her dad watched her watch them, patient and smiling. She told Victoria about her first visit to the Art Museum, that moment of revelation when she'd realized art could reach beyond the pages of books and into her very bones.

Victoria listened, really listened – she asked questions about details Max hadn't even known she remembered. She asked about the color of those magical toy displays, about how the bubbles had caught the light, about which painting had first caught Max's eye in the museum. And when their experiences overlapped – gallery openings Victoria had attended, photography exhibitions that had left their mark, her own first wide-eyed encounter with Portland – she shared them with the same careful attention to detail she demanded from Max. Their words flowed as naturally as the late morning light spilling between buildings, their stories weaving together as seamlessly as their footsteps falling into sync on the sun-warmed sidewalk.

She couldn't quite wrap her head around how right this felt. How natural it had become to exist in Victoria's space, whether they were on the roof, or class, or the car, or here now, wandering Portland's streets like they'd done it a hundred times before. In contrast to that easy comfort, there was, of course, also nervous excitement thanks to Victoria's aforementioned thing with contact – now, it wasn't just the constant scarf adjusting, or even how their arms kept brushing despite the sidewalk being wide enough for a dozen people. No, what was driving Max crazy was the way Victoria kept reaching up without warning to brush Max's bangs from her eyes, each touch growing more determined than the last, like Victoria was waging a private war against Max's perpetually unruly hair and taking personal offense when it dared to fall into her eyes. She'd do it right in the middle of a sentence too, so casually, her hand lifting to Max's face without breaking stride in the conversation. Max simply breathed steadily and kept her cool as much as she could, trying to ignore the way her skin tingled from the gentle graze of Victoria's fingernails against her forehead.

Their wandering eventually led them into a quieter part of the city where the crowds thinned and small specialty shops lined the street. Max was in the middle of explaining a joke she'd made that Victoria hadn't understood when movement caught her eye – it was her own reflection, ghosted in a shop window. She watched herself mid-gesture, Victoria's reflection beside her, and beyond them both, the wooden curves of guitars hanging like artwork against the wall. The sight made her fingers twitch involuntarily, muscle memory of strings and frets flickering through them. Her steps slowed unconsciously.

"Is that a Martin?" Victoria asked, gesturing to one of the acoustic guitars displayed behind the glass.

Max stepped closer to look, surprised by Victoria's interest. "Yeah, looks like a D-18. Pretty nice one too." She glanced at Victoria curiously. "I didn't know you were into guitars."

"I'm not," Victoria said, but she was already moving toward the shop's entrance. The bell chimed softly as she pulled the door open, looking back at Max expectantly. "But you are."

Max blinked, caught off guard. "How did you..."

"You have calluses on your fingertips, Max," Victoria said matter-of-factly as she held the door.

Heat crept up Max's neck at that – both at Victoria saying her name (which still made her stomach flip every time) and at the implication that Victoria had apparently been paying enough attention to notice details about her hands. She ducked her head and stepped through the doorway after Victoria, grateful for the shop's familiar atmosphere as the scent of wood and strings and polish wrapped around her like an old friend.

Victoria moved straight to the Martin with the kind of determined stride Max had learned meant resistance was futile, her boots clicking against the hardwood floor like she owned the place. She studied the guitar with laser-focused attention, running her eyes over every curve and detail. Then, with surprising gentleness, Victoria lifted the instrument from its stand. She turned to Max, who had naturally drifted into her orbit, and held it out to her like an offering. "Play something."

"What? No, I..." Max's eyes darted around the shop, heat creeping up her neck. There were only a few other customers browsing the aisles, but suddenly she felt like every eye in Portland was on her. Her hands fidgeted with the strap of her messenger bag. "I can't just— I mean, we can't just—" She gestured vaguely at the expensive instrument Victoria was holding out to her.

"Why not? Show me how you got those calluses."

"I— uh, I haven't really played in a while. Not since… October, you know? I don't know if I can still… I don't know if I…" Max trailed off helplessly.

How could she explain to Victoria, who had grown up with proper piano lessons and could probably tell if someone was even minutely off-key from a mile away, that the idea of playing for her felt completely different than playing for her parents or Chloe or that one time for Fernando? That she really didn't like the thought of fumbling through a song and making Victoria have to politely hold in laughter? Not that Victoria would, if it came to that – she'd laugh, and she'd judge, and what if Victoria disliked her after? When she realized the calluses didn't really mean anything, that all that time she'd spent playing was just—

Victoria's outstretched arms lowered slightly at the mention of October, the challenge draining from her expression. A flash of regret crossed her face, like she'd accidentally pressed on a bruise she should've known was there. Seeing that look – that soft, worried look that Victoria tried so hard to pretend she wasn't capable of – hit Max harder than she expected. Before Victoria could fully withdraw the guitar, Max's hand shot out to catch it, the thought of Victoria feeling guilty suddenly worse than any potential embarrassment could ever be.

"But you don't forget how to play, right?" Max managed a small smile, fingers already curling around the neck and gently pulling the instrument from Victoria's hands. "Like riding a bike?"

Before Max's brain could catch up with her sudden bravery, she sank onto a nearby stool. Her hands trembled slightly as she cradled the guitar in her lap, drawing in shaky breaths in hopes her hands would eventually steady enough to do this somewhat properly. However, much to Max's surprise, the moment her fingers found the fretboard, something shifted. It ran through her suddenly – that instinct that ran deeper than her nerves, deeper than fear, that same quiet certainty that guided her eye behind a camera lens, that knew exactly when to press the shutter. The first experimental strum resonated through her chest, and Max almost gasped – the sound was incredible. It was warm, rich, and so perfectly balanced. It did need a little tuning, though, so Max focused on that, all worries melting away as she turned the pegs with careful fingers until each string sounded exactly like it should. When she strummed again, the perfectly tuned chord made her hum in satisfaction, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

"Alright," Max said, looking up to find Victoria watching her with a strange expression, a mix of anticipation and nerves, or something else that Max couldn't quite name. "Anything in particular you want to hear?"

"Uh— no. I mean, anything is fine. Just whatever you want to play," Victoria said, almost hesitant, as she settled onto a stool across from Max. There was a subtle flush high on her cheeks that hadn't been there before, and Max figured it made sense – it was much warmer in here than it'd been on the street.

"Okay. Alright."

Max took a deep breath, her fingers moving across the strings in gentle patterns as she tried to remember how this felt, tried to find her way back to what once had been as natural as breathing. The first few chords were hesitant, uncertain, but then muscle memory took over completely. A soft, melancholic melody emerged – something by Syd Matters that Victoria would probably roll her eyes at if she heard it on her playlist, but Max knew was beautiful when stripped down to just guitar and feeling. As her confidence grew, her fingers found their rhythm, plucking out delicate arpeggios that rippled like water.

The song built slowly, each verse flowing naturally into the next, building and receding like waves against the shore. Max found herself getting completely lost in it – in the way her fingers danced across the fretboard, in how each note seemed to hang in the air before dissolving into the next. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on her fingers, on the frets, occasionally letting her gaze drift to the leather of Victoria's boots or the edge of the stool she sat on – anywhere but Victoria's face. She couldn't bear to look up, couldn't risk it, but it was getting harder not to look at her, so as the bridge approached, she let her eyes drift closed instead, not really needing to see the strings anymore. Her strumming hand drifted closer to the neck for a softer sound, fingers brushing against the body of the guitar between chord changes, feeling the way the wood vibrated with each note, Max swaying slightly with the music as the final chorus emerged, softer and more intimate than the ones before it, the notes falling away like whispers between them.

Max let out a shaky breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her eyes fluttering open slowly as the last notes faded into the warm air of the shop. She found Victoria watching her with a strange expression – green eyes fixed intently on her face, a small frown etched between her brows. Victoria's gaze immediately moved to Max's eyes when she noticed she'd opened them, and then darted restlessly from there to the scarf at her neck, then to her fingers still resting on the fretboard, as if trying to piece something together.

Heat bloomed across Max's cheeks, her fingers fidgeting with the strings to give them something to do. "So..." she managed. "Was that up to Chase standards?"

"That was..." Victoria started, then stopped. She opened her mouth, closed it again, her usual eloquence seemingly deserting her. A strand of blonde hair fell across her forehead and for once, she didn't immediately brush it away, too caught up in whatever was happening behind those green eyes. "I don't know how..." She shook her head slightly, her gaze still fixed on Max's face.

"I'm sorry, I know I'm not that good," Max mumbled, her fingers now absently tracing the wood grain of the guitar, following the patterns like she was trying to memorize them by touch. "You studied piano your whole childhood. It's actually kind of crazy to play in front of you." She ducked her head, letting her hair fall forward like a curtain between them. "Knowing you, you probably have perfect pitch or something, don't you? You could probably tell I totally messed up that bridge section–"

"For fuck's sake. You really do have to stop doing that."

Max's head snapped up at the sharp tone, so different from Victoria's earlier one. She had shifted forward on her stool, shoulders tense, a new kind of frown drawing her brows together – not confusion or whatever it was before, but something closer to frustration, maybe even anger.

"What do you mean?"

"That." Victoria gestured sharply at Max with one perfectly manicured hand, the movement cutting through the air between them like a blade. "Selling yourself short. Pretending you have no talent." Her jaw worked for a moment, teeth catching her bottom lip before releasing it, like she was trying to hold back words that wanted to spill out.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"You think playing in front of me is crazy because, what, I was forced to take piano lessons when I was a kid? Wanna know what's actually crazy? That before I knew you, I thought you were just some irritating hipster idiot who kept fishing for compliments." She took a breath that seemed to shake slightly, her hands curling into fists in her lap. "Now I know the truth – you are an irritating hipster idiot, but you're actually just too fucking blind to see how— god, how amazing you can be."

The words burst out of Victoria like they'd been fighting to escape, each one landing between them like stones in still water, ripples of silence spreading between them. Max stared at Victoria, mouth slightly agape. There was color high on Victoria's cheeks now, not from embarrassment but from anger – though Max realized with a start that the anger wasn't directed at her directly, but rather at whatever force kept making Max doubt herself, and maybe a bit at Victoria herself.

"Victoria—" Max started, but Victoria cut her off.

"Shut up." Victoria's voice was tight, controlled in a way that meant she was actually upset. "You just sat there and played something beautiful on an instrument you haven't touched in months, and your first instinct is to apologize for it?" She shook her head, a sharp, angry motion that sent that loose strand of blonde hair dancing across her forehead. "God, it's like you're allergic to your own talent. Like you think if you acknowledge it for even a second, the universe will somehow punish you for having the audacity to be good at something."

Max's fingers tightened around the neck of the guitar. "That's not—"

"You do the same thing with your photography," Victoria pressed on, her words gaining momentum like a river breaking through a dam. "Every time someone praises your work, you deflect. You minimize. You act like it's all just luck, like you just happened to trip and fall into these perfect shots by accident." She leaned forward suddenly, the movement making Max instinctively try to lean back, but Victoria's intense gaze held her in place. "But I've watched you work. I've seen how your mind works behind that camera. How you can look at something that everyone else has walked past a hundred times and just—" she made a frustrated gesture with her hands, "—somehow make everyone else see it too. Really see it. You have this… gift and— and now this?" Victoria gestured at the guitar. "That song was… it was gorgeous, Max. And I'm sitting here trying to process how many other talents you're hiding because you're too scared to admit they exist."

A heavy silence fell between them. Max became acutely aware of everything at once: the solid weight of the guitar against her thighs, the ghost of music still tingling in her fingertips, the things Victoria was saying. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears, keeping time with the gentle creak of Victoria's stool as she shifted her weight.

"I'm not scared," Max said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, but even she could hear the lie in it.

"Well, you sure as hell act like it."

They stared at each other across the space between their stools, the tension crackling like static in the air. Victoria was still leaning forward, her usual perfect composure fractured by an intensity that seemed to radiate from her in waves. Her eyes were bright with something fierce and protective, and Max could barely breathe. She had never seen her quite like this – so visibly affected, so genuinely worked up over... what? Over Max not believing in herself? The thought made something twist beneath her ribs, sharp and sweet at once.

Well, you sure as hell act like it.

The words echoed in Max's head, bouncing off all the other fears she kept carefully locked away. If only Victoria knew just how many things actually terrified her. The list seemed endless some days: failing her scholarship requirements, disappointing her parents, letting down her friends, losing control of her powers again, the constant gnawing worry that she'd made the wrong choice that week in October when she'd chosen to sacrifice—

And then there was this – this unnamed, unspoken thing between them that seemed to grow bigger and more impossible to ignore with each passing day. The way her heart would trip over itself whenever Victoria looked at her. The way she kept catching herself staring at Victoria's lips, unconsciously leaning in, wondering if her expensive lipstick tasted like anything. The electricity that danced across her skin every time Victoria touched her, casual touches that felt anything but casual as time went on. The terrifying possibility that she was reading everything wrong, seeing meaning in meaningless moments, projecting her own feelings onto simple friendship. That admitting how she felt would shatter this delicate thing they'd built, this precious equilibrium balanced on the edge of the very roof where they kept meeting every night.

As if summoned by Max's thoughts, Victoria's hand lifted to brush Max's bangs aside again. But this time, instead of the quick, efficient movements from their walk, her fingers lingered. They traced a feather-light path from Max's forehead to her temple, barely touching, like Victoria wasn't entirely conscious of what she was doing. Before Max could stop herself, before she could overthink it, Max found her head tilting into the contact, chasing that gossamer touch like a flower turning toward sunlight. Victoria's breath hitched, a small surprised sound that seemed deafening in the quiet space between them. Her beautiful green eyes widened – whether at what she herself was doing or at Max's response, it wasn't clear. Her fingers stilled against Max's temple, but didn't withdraw. The moment stretched between them and then, then, Victoria's fingers began to move again, drifting down with agonizing slowness, tracing a path toward Max's jaw that left sparks in their wake, that made Max's breathing come faster, and slower, and she actually wasn't all that sure anymore if she was breathing at all.

Max didn't know what possessed her to break that delicate silence. Maybe it was the warmth of Victoria's fingers tracing that whisper-soft path along her jaw, or the way Victoria's eyes seemed to hold entire worlds in their depths. Or maybe it was just the pure intoxication of this perfect morning, the way everything felt possible in the golden light filtering through the shop windows. Whatever it was, the words tumbled out before she could catch them:

"Is this... are you..." Max swallowed hard, already regretting the question even as it formed. "Is this better than last time you were in Portland? Are you having a better time than you did... on Valentine's Day?"

Victoria's expression shifted instantly, something almost pained flashing across her features, her fingers stilling against Max's skin. Her eyes clouded over, replaced by shadows of a memory Max immediately wished she hadn't evoked. Max's stomach dropped, regret flooding through her like ice water. But before she could backtrack, before she could stammer out an apology, Victoria spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, rough with something that sounded almost like desperation.

"Max..." Her fingers trembling slightly against Max's skin where they still rested at her jaw. "That date, that guy – it was..." She took a shaky breath, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes. "This is—"

"Hey, that was some really nice playing!" A cheerful voice cut through the tension like a knife.

They both startled, Victoria's hand dropping away as if burned. A tall guy wearing a t-shirt with the shop's logo on it approached them, grinning widely, completely oblivious to what he'd just interrupted.

"Your harmonics were particularly clean. You've got a great touch with that Martin." He gestured enthusiastically at the guitar. "She's a beauty, isn't she? Just came in last week – solid Sitka spruce top, mahogany back and sides. I could give you a really good deal on her today. We're talking about a $3,599 instrument, but for playing like that..."

Max blinked rapidly, trying to reorient herself, barely processing his words. She was acutely aware of how Victoria had straightened on her stool, her walls snapping back into place with practiced efficiency, that familiar mask of cool indifference settling over her features. The moment evaporated, leaving Max with nothing but the ghost of Victoria's touch on her skin, the familiar ache of words left unspoken, and some guy trying to sell her a guitar.

Chapter Text

February 22, 2014 – Later

Late afternoon sunlight spilled across Portland's streets, transforming everything it touched into liquid gold. On any other day, Max would have already reached for her camera, eager to capture how the light painted long shadows across the weathered brick buildings. But right now, Max was too busy wrestling with her messenger bag outside Blue Sky Gallery, her new photography book refusing to cooperate as she tried to wedge it between her camera and her wallet. The battle was getting increasingly frustrating, the worn lining of her bag truly determined to catch on every corner of the book's hardcover.

Beside her, Victoria seemed to be fighting a battle of her own – her attention completely absorbed by her phone. Every few seconds she'd let out a barely audible huff of irritation, delete entire lines of text with aggressive swipes, then start again. Max watched as Victoria's jaw clenched and unclenched, a sure sign that whoever was on the other end of that conversation was testing the limits of her patience.

Max found herself stealing glances between her attempts to reorganize her bag, drawn to the slight purse of Victoria's lips and the way she held herself perfectly still except for those rhythmic movements of her fingers. Max wondered who she was texting. Maybe her parents with their endless expectations. Or her friends with Vortex Club responsibilities. Or maybe it was someone Max didn't even know existed – yet another piece of Victoria's life that remained a mystery despite how close they'd grown these past months.

Max finally managed to force the book into place, smoothing down her bag's flap with a quiet sense of victory. But as she now stood there with empty hands, waiting for Victoria to finish texting, uncertainty crept in. The afternoon was slipping away – they'd left Blackwell at nine that morning, and now the sun was already starting its slow descent toward the horizon. A part of her wanted to freeze time right here, to stretch these precious hours with Victoria into infinity. She felt like she could spend days, weeks, maybe even years exploring Portland with Victoria. Or any other city, or town, or tiny room Victoria happened to be interested in. But reality wasn't quite like that, was it? Victoria Chase didn't spend Saturday evenings wandering aimlessly around Portland with Max Caulfield. No, she probably had plans waiting in Arcadia Bay – exclusive parties, dinners, and social obligations that Max couldn't begin to imagine. Whatever message held Victoria's attention right now was probably just the first thread of those plans unraveling, pulling her away from this moment, from Max, from whatever this thing between them was, from whatever it was that happened in the guitar shop, from whatever it was that Victoria was going to say—

"Your bangs are driving me insane," Victoria announced suddenly.

Max startled at Victoria's voice, yanked back from her spiral of thoughts as abruptly as a record scratch. Her hand flew to her hair in a nervous flutter, fingers tangling in strands that had probably been hopelessly mussed by the Portland wind and all their walking.

"What?" Max finally managed.

"Your bangs." Victoria's phone vanished into her purse with uncharacteristic carelessness as she turned to face Max, her eyes narrowing critically. "They've been falling in your eyes all day, and they're driving me absolutely insane. It's been two months since I first told you to trim them." Before Max could stammer out a response, Victoria reached out and with the now all-too-familiar movements (obvious exasperation paired with impossibly gentle fingers) she brushed the offending bangs from Max's eyes. "Lucky for you, Marie has an opening right now."

Only when Victoria's fingers had finished tracing a final, hesitant path across her forehead, her hand falling away from Max's face, did she find her voice to ask: "Who is Marie?"

"My stylist. Come on, the salon is just a block from here," Victoria said. Then, without waiting for Max to process this information, she set off down the sidewalk, each click of her heeled boots against concrete radiating purposeful authority.

"Wait, what? Victoria—" Max scrambled after her, nearly tripping over her own feet in her rush to catch up. The words tumbled out, fighting against the quick clip of Victoria's stride. "I was actually planning to trim my bangs myself soon, so this isn't—"

Victoria stopped so abruptly that Max nearly collided with her back. When she turned, the look of absolute horror on her face was so genuine, so dramatically intense, that Max instinctively retreated a step. "Absolutely not," Victoria declared, each syllable carved with the precision of someone discussing a potential crime. "You are not touching those with craft scissors or whatever other barbaric instruments you were planning to use. I refuse to let that happen." The way she said it – like the mere thought was causing her physical pain – would have been funny if Max didn't know she was being dead serious.

And then she was moving again, leaving Max to hurry in her wake, thoughts tumbling over each other. More time with Victoria sent an embarrassingly obvious thrill through her chest, but reality came crashing in right behind it. Although Max indeed needed a haircut, and had needed it for months now, she hadn't mentally prepared herself for a salon visit today – and especially not the kind of salon Victoria would consider acceptable. Which brought Max to the realization that she definitely hadn't financially prepared herself either. Though she had set aside money for brunch, which Victoria hadn't let her pay for, so maybe she could actually afford Victoria's hairdresser's rates if—

They rounded the corner and Max's fears materialized in floor-to-ceiling glass and brushed steel. The salon looked like it had been plucked straight from a luxury magazine – all clean lines and calculated minimalism, with artfully arranged orchids catching light through spotless windows. Even the staff seemed curated, moving through the space with an effortless elegance that seemed almost unreal. Max could practically see dollar signs floating in the air whenever one of them touched a client's hair.

"Look," Max started, her voice small against the intimidating facade, "we can do the bangs thing, okay? But maybe somewhere else? Somewhere more..." She gestured helplessly at the pristine windows, searching for words that wouldn't sound pathetically poor to Victoria's ears. How exactly did you tell someone who wore cashmere like it was cotton that their world was completely out of your price range?

"Caulfield." Victoria's tone could have cut glass – appropriately, given the pristine door she was now holding open. "I already booked Marie – it wasn't easy to get her in such short notice. It would be incredibly rude to cancel now." But Max remained stubbornly rooted to the sidewalk, even as Victoria let out a short, frustrated sigh. "Look, your bangs are too long now and they keep—" She stopped, her fingers tightening around the door handle. "I— I hate not being able to see your eyes properly. It stresses me out," she said, the words coming out soft and sharp at once, like she was angry at herself for admitting it even as the words voluntarily left her mouth. Then, before Max could get a word in, she added: "And bangs can completely ruin your face if they're not done right. I'm not about to trust you with craft scissors or… some random stylist." Her eyes found Max's again, something almost pleading in them. "And since I'm insisting on this specific place, I'll be paying, obviously. Because that's why you're making that face, isn't it? So… don't worry, I got it."

Max wanted to argue. She wanted to say something. Anything. But her mind was whirling. She tried to focus on standing her ground, but she found herself hopelessly distracted by Victoria's words echoing in her head. I hate not being able to see your eyes properly suddenly playing alongside you should let me dress you more often, and then she was back in that guitar shop, Victoria all but yelling at her about how talented she thought Max was and— how amazing you can be, and you have this gift, and… Victoria hadn't answered, but she was having a better time today than she had with that lawyer, Max knew it, and she would bet Victoria was going to tell her just that, or perhaps more, and… Max had been actively trying not to think about this. For her own sake.

But now the butterflies in Max's stomach were staging an all-out rebellion against her resolve. And Victoria was looking at her with those eyes, and was telling her those things, and had spent all day touching her, and apparently she didn't trust anyone except her own hairstylist with Max's hair, and… why? And how could Max ever say no to her? And what was a haircut at a fancy salon in the grand scheme of things?

"We literally just had this argument this morning," Max said, but her protest came out half-hearted at best. "About how unfair it is that you keep paying for everything."

"We can discuss your charming yet misguided ideas about financial independence later," Victoria said, her fingers finding Max's arm with a mix of authority and tenderness that made Max's stomach flutter. "Right now, we have an appointment to get to, and Marie does not appreciate tardiness. I have an image to keep."

Max sighed in defeat, not quite managing to suppress her smile when she caught Victoria doing the same. She let Victoria's hand guide her across the threshold and into what felt like another world entirely. The salon air was perfumed with notes of expensive shampoo and who knows what elegant products, layered beneath the hum of blow dryers and the musical laughter of women who probably had entire bank accounts dedicated just to their hair care. Everything gleamed with calculated perfection – the floors caught light like frozen water, the mirrors seemed to stretch into infinity, and even the chrome fixtures looked like they'd never known a fingerprint. Max felt simultaneously out of place and oddly protected, wrapped in the bubble of Victoria's confidence as she was pulled further inside the establishment.

A woman with immaculately styled silver hair glided toward them, her movements so smooth she might have been floating. Her professional smile cracked into something genuine at the sight of Victoria. Max noticed how Victoria straightened ever so slightly beside her.

"Miss Chase," the woman greeted. "Right on time. And this must be...?"

"Max," Victoria supplied, her hand still steady against Max's arm like she suspected flight was still possible. "She's the one I mentioned in my messages. She needs..." Victoria's free hand made a vague gesture at Max's general head area.

"Yes, I certainly see that," the woman said, studying Max's hair with the keen interest of an artist assessing a blank canvas. "Let's get you started then, Max. I'm Marie."

Before Max could process what was happening, she found herself being led to a sleek styling chair. She obediently sank into the cushioned seat, trying to appear more confident than she felt. Her eyes quickly found Victoria in the reflection, hovering behind her chair with an expression that mixed satisfaction and anticipation. Max smiled at her. Because apparently that's just what she did now. Victoria's reflection huffed in amusement.

Then: "You should take that off," Victoria said.

And suddenly Victoria was stepping closer, her reflection moving beside Max's chair in the pristine salon mirrors. She leaned down slightly, and Max's world narrowed to nothing but Victoria – her perfume, the soft rustle of her cashmere sweater, the way her breath ghosted against her skin. Victoria's fingers found the edges of the Hermès scarf, unwinding it with the same reverent attention she'd used to arrange it that night she'd given it to Max. The silk whispered across her skin as Victoria finally drew the fabric away, leaving behind bare skin and a rush of cool air. Unbidden, Max's treacherous mind went right back to brunch – except this time, Victoria's suggestion about letting her dress Max more often transformed into an unmistakable undress, sending heat flooding to her cheeks and making her grip the armrests just a little tighter.

As Victoria casually folded the scarf and set it into a nearby seat, Marie returned, wheeling a sleek chrome cart laden with an intimidating array of professional tools. With practiced movements, the woman's fingers slipped into Max's hair, gently spreading the strands, assessing the texture and fall of it.

"So, while your hair's still dry," Marie started, "what are we thinking?"

Though still reeling from the scarf thing, Max opened her mouth to respond. Victoria was faster though – she'd already stepped forward, positioning herself right beside Marie. "The bangs need trimming, obviously," she said, her voice carrying a blend of authority and careful consideration as her eyes traced Max's reflection intently. "But I think there's more we could do. I think that her hair..." She trailed off suddenly, her usual confidence fracturing for just a moment. Her fingers found her gold bracelet, twisting it once, then again. Their eyes met in the mirror, and something flickered across Victoria's features, soft and uncertain. "Only if you… I mean, I have some ideas," she said, but the words came out gentler than usual, almost like a question.

An extremely rare sight – Victoria Chase actually worried about crossing a line. And god, Max should have been annoyed. Every rational part of her knew she should be. Victoria had all but dragged her to this salon and, on top of that, was now trying to dictate her haircut without so much as asking what Max wanted? It was classic Victoria Chase – spoiled, presumptuous, controlling, brooking no argument. The kind of behavior that should have made Max's teeth grind and her stubborn streak flare to life. And it did stir something, alright, something that made her pulse quicken and her fingers fidget – but it wasn't irritation. Not even close. And watching Victoria wrestle with her own forceful nature, seeing her actually pause to check Max's reaction... well, it did something to her too, it made that familiar warmth bloom in Max's chest, made it spread outward until she could feel it even in her fingertips.

"What would you do with it?" Max surprised herself by asking – both because of how easily it came and because of the twin desires behind it. One, if anyone knew how to make her hair look good, it was probably Victoria, so she genuinely wanted to know her thoughts. And two, the thought of looking the way Victoria wanted her to look, of being someone Victoria found…

Max's question seemed to unlock something in Victoria – she watched as certainty flowed back into her spine, watched her settle back into this world that she knew so well. "Layers," Victoria said, her voice gaining momentum. "Soft ones, here and here—" Her fingers sketched delicate arcs in the air beside Max's face, never quite touching but close enough that Max could feel the phantom warmth of them. "They'll frame her cheekbones, bring out her—" Victoria caught herself. "And the ends need..." She made an elegant, dismissive gesture that somehow managed to convey entire textbooks of hair care knowledge.

"Yes, I see exactly what you mean," the stylist said, her fingers still moving through Max's hair and doing something to it that made Victoria hum in agreement. Max watched in the mirror as Marie and Victoria exchanged a look and nodded – subtle communication that made Max feel like she was watching a foreign film without subtitles. Then, looking at Max, Marie added: "The shape suits you naturally. It just needs some refinement."

Marie and Victoria kept checking with Max as they discussed techniques and products, and she found herself nodding along – partly because their ideas sounded perfect, and partly because she was distracted by watching Victoria in the mirror. Because Victoria was being so intensely Victoria about the whole thing, wrapping what was obviously genuine concern in that familiar armor of sharp edges and indifference. But Max could see right through it now, could read the softness beneath Victoria's careful mask like a book she'd memorized. It was there in how she spoke to the stylist – precise and demanding but with an underlying current of 'this has to be perfect.' It was in how she kept leaning forward, in that slight tension in her jaw, in that barely-contained, somewhat nervous—

"Alright, Max. Let's wash your hair," the stylist announced. "Then we can start with the cut."

A few minutes later, Max was back in the styling chair, her hair damp and smelling of expensive products she couldn't name. As Marie draped the cape around her shoulders, Victoria drew a chair closer. She settled with Max's scarf spread across her lap, her fingers worrying at its edges, smoothing and re-smoothing the silk. Her reflection watched Max with a new kind of intensity, not Victoria's usual scrutiny, but something else. Her eyes kept darting between Max's reflection and Marie's hands, tracking every minimal movement like a hawk, though the stylist hadn't even started doing anything.

"The layers need to be subtle," Victoria repeated, then immediately added, "very subtle," as if the first statement wasn't emphatic enough. "Just enough to bring out her bone structure without overwhelming her face."

"Got it, Miss Chase," Marie said, a hint of amusement coloring her professional tone.

"And remember," Victoria continued, her voice authoritative and confident on the surface, but barely concealing the anxiety that Max was starting to recognize, "the length is good – we don't want to go too short, just clean up the ends. Three inches maximum." Victoria's chair scraped against the polished floor as she edged closer, the sound sharp enough to draw glances from other stylists and clients. Her eyes hadn't left Max's reflection since Marie had picked up her scissors, tracking each minute movement like she was personally responsible for ensuring perfection. "And the bangs—"

"Victoria," Marie cut in, her tone gentle but firm. "Back up. I literally can't move properly if you're sitting so close." She gestured with her scissors at the cramped space Victoria had created between them.

Victoria retreated without argument, though Max caught the slight clench of her jaw in the mirror. She settled back into her chair with practiced grace, but her posture remained rigid. And then, finally, the scissors started their work, making precise snips near Max's ear. The first lock of hair fell, and Max swore she could feel Victoria tense from across the space between them, as if each cut was being made to her own hair instead of Max's.

Max tried to stay still as Marie worked, but she kept finding her eyes drawn to Victoria's reflection. Victoria sat with perfect posture, looking so focused, so intensely invested in each movement of the scissors, as if Max's haircut held some deep importance she couldn't quite voice. And maybe it did. Maybe this was Victoria's particular way of showing she… cared – the carefully selected restaurants, the thoughtfully chosen macarons and chocolate, the designer scarf, and now this exclusive salon with its perfect haircut. Max found herself wondering if this was what Victoria understood best, having grown up in a world where affection came wrapped in designer paper and tied with silk ribbons. Maybe Victoria was trying to speak to Max in the one language she truly knew, translating emotions through the objects and experiences she gifted her.

But Max was probably reading too much into it, as usual. She kept building these elaborate meanings around simple actions, turning ordinary moments into something deeper just because she wanted them to mean more. And yet... watching Victoria now, her eyes never leaving Max's reflection, her whole being focused on ensuring every detail was exactly right... well, a girl could dream.

"So," Marie said as she worked, her voice carrying the practiced casualness of someone used to making salon small talk, though there certainly was a hint of genuine curiosity beneath the professional veneer. "How do you two know each other?"

Max caught the change in Victoria's reflection immediately – the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the way her fingers tightened in the scarf with an almost unconscious urgency.

But before either of them could piece together a response, Marie continued, her scissors never pausing in their rhythm: "It's just that Miss Chase here doesn't usually bring friends." Her eyes flickered between them in the mirror. "In fact, I think this is the very first time."

"We go to school together," Victoria said quickly, her voice carefully smooth.

"Blackwell, right? Do you also study photography, Max?"

Max nodded slightly, mindful of the scissors near her ear. "Yeah, we're in the same class."

"How wonderful," Marie said warmly. "It must be nice having someone to share that passion with. Especially someone so observant." She paused her cutting to look at Victoria, her eyes twinkling with fond amusement. "You know, Victoria has the most sophisticated eye for detail. She once spent twenty-five minutes explaining to me exactly why my geometric bob wasn't quite symmetrical enough." Marie's hands stilled completely as she turned to Max, a small smile adorning her face. "She didn't quite care that I was working on another client at the time. Just stood there with a hand mirror, pointing out every microscopic inconsistency. She must've been fourteen or fifteen years old."

Max couldn't help but chuckle, affection filling her chest as she pictured a younger Victoria in this same salon, wielding that unwavering confidence even then. She turned her head to look at Victoria directly and found pink dusting her cheeks, her eyes uncharacteristically darting away the moment they met Max's.

"That's because your bob wasn't symmetrical," Victoria muttered.

"So particular," Marie said fondly, gently turning Max's head forward again before resuming her work. "But always right. I adjusted that bob exactly as she suggested, and suddenly it was perfect." Her scissors moved with delicate precision as she met Max's eyes in the mirror, her gaze suddenly carrying more weight than Max expected. "She notices everything. You're in good hands with her."

The woman was clearly trying to communicate something to Max, an almost protective energy about her that Max wasn't quite sure was real or just her imagination. She automatically found Victoria's reflection again, but the girl was looking down at the scarf in her lap, the soft flush across her cheeks still very much there. Max felt the words rise in her throat, honest and unplanned: "Yeah, I know I am. I feel really lucky to have her."

Victoria's eyes snapped to Max's in the mirror, startled and searching. The blush that had started as a faint pink deepened across her cheeks, spreading to the tips of her ears, and Max had to look away then, her own face burning.

The stylist worked in focused silence after that, her movements quick and efficient, dark strands falling to the floor with each snip. Max kept her eyes firmly down – studying the cape, counting snippets of hair on the floor, watching Marie's shadow move across the tiles – anything to avoid looking in the mirror and catching Victoria's gaze again. Her cheeks were still burning, and she knew one more loaded look would only make it worse.

Hours later, or maybe it was just minutes, the stylist finally stepped back, tilting her head as she studied Max's hair from different angles. Her hands made a few last, delicate adjustments before she announced with quiet satisfaction: "There. What do you think?"

Max finally looked up and stared at her reflection, genuinely surprised by what she saw. Her hair looked... different. Max looked different. The bangs fell perfectly across her forehead now, and subtle layers fell in soft, deliberate tiers around her face – the shortest pieces grazing her cheeks, longer pieces sweeping just past her jaw, all of it working together to make her cheekbones look somehow more defined, her features more delicate. It wasn't a dramatic change, but it was like someone had finally adjusted the focus on a blurry photograph.

"I..." Max started, then stopped, caught off guard by how much she actually liked it.

"It's perfect," Victoria jumped in, her eyes meeting Max's in the mirror, something excited and satisfied flickering in their depths. "The bangs. And the layers... perfect, Marie. As usual."

Later, the argument over who was paying lasted all of ten seconds before Victoria shut it down with a look that somehow managed to be both terrifying and exasperated. Still, Max had tried. But she'd barely opened her wallet when Victoria's card materialized in Marie's hand.

"Max," Marie said as she processed the payment, her eyes twinkling with knowing amusement, "do make sure to maintain those layers. And perhaps we'll see you again before they grow out?" She glanced at Victoria, who was suddenly very interested in adjusting her bracelet. "But I imagine Miss Chase won't let your hair get quite so unruly this time."

Victoria's "She certainly won't" overlapped with Max's awkward "Thank you," creating a moment of flustered silence that made Marie's smile widen, her eyes moving between them with the wisdom of someone who had seen countless stories unfold in her mirrors over the years.

"Victoria," Marie called just as they started heading to the door, her voice dropping to something more personal, less professional. When Victoria turned, Marie was holding out a small bag of products. "For Max's hair type. On the house." She pressed the bag into Victoria's hands before she could protest. Then, she leaned closer and whispered something in her ear, something that Max couldn't make out, something that made a dark blush flood her cheeks almost instantly. Victoria clutched the bag, managing a quick nod before practically dragging Max toward the door.

They walked in silence through the darkening streets after that, the sharp click of Victoria's boots against pavement more erratic than their usual confident rhythm. Max wanted to ask what Marie had whispered that made Victoria so flustered, about why she'd give her products for free, about their history together that clearly ran deeper than Max had initially thought – but one look at Victoria's face told her this wasn't the moment. Victoria moved with an almost feverish energy, her usual grace replaced by something raw and unsettled, and Max found herself half-jogging to keep up.

As they turned onto a quieter street, Victoria's pace finally began to falter. Her steps grew shorter, less urgent, until she was nearly matching Max's natural rhythm. The evening air had cooled, carrying the first hints of night, and in the gentler darkness between streetlamps, Victoria seemed to let some of that nervous energy dissolve, her shoulders loosening almost imperceptibly with each step.

"So, now that we've successfully escaped… can I have my scarf back?" Max asked eventually, aiming for playful.

Victoria startled at her voice, her eyes dropping to the light blue Hermès scarf draped over her arm like she was seeing it for the first time. "Oh. Yes, of course." She set the salon bag down beside her feet, the rustle of paper against concrete suddenly loud in the evening stillness.

Max reached for the scarf, but Victoria was already there, lifting the silk with both hands and a perfectly raised eyebrow, clearly signaling she intended to put it on Max herself. Max fought a smile, dropping her outstretched arm as Victoria stepped closer. The scarf floated between them for a moment before Victoria draped it carefully around Max's neck, letting the ends fall gracefully against her chest. Then, she folded one end over the other until she created a loose, asymmetrical drape, her hands moving to adjust the fabric carefully, smoothing it against Max's collarbones, her touch feather-light yet burning everywhere it landed. Her fingers then deliberately traced the edge where scarf met skin, so very slowly, like she was memorizing the boundary between silk and warmth, and Max found herself holding perfectly still, afraid that even breathing might break whatever spell had fallen over them.

Victoria took a small step back, but not far – just enough to properly see Max in the gentle wash of streetlight. Her eyes traveled a slow path: from the expertly draped scarf, up to the soft fall of Max's freshly trimmed hair, and finally settling on her eyes. Something shifted in Victoria's expression then, her edges melting away as a smile spread across her face, slow and achingly genuine.

"So," Max said, returning the smile, "you can see my eyes properly now, huh?"

Victoria's smile shifted into something softer, almost shy, and her gaze dropped for a heartbeat before finding Max's eyes again. "Yes, I can see your eyes properly now," she said quietly. "Finally."

Something warm and electric unfurled in Max's chest, a surge of affection so intense it made her dizzy. Maybe it was the way Victoria had said finally or how the streetlight made her eyes look a shade of green she'd never seen before, or how ridiculously good today had been. Whatever it was, it filled her completely, and it made her braver, bolder.

So before she could think better of it – before her usual hesitation could catch up with her racing heart – Max leaned forward and pressed her lips to Victoria's cheek, firmly, her free hand coming up to cradle Victoria's other cheek, holding her there. "Thank you," she murmured against Victoria's skin, feeling the slight catch in Victoria's breath, the way she went perfectly still beneath Max's touch. "For the haircut. For today. For everything. You made this day so perfect."

Victoria made a strangled sort of sound, but before Max could pull away to look at her, Victoria surged forward, wrapping her arms around Max's waist, pulling her into a fierce hug, the urgency of it stealing the breath from Max's lungs. The movement was almost desperate, her hands finding purchase against Max's back, fingers curling into the fabric of her jacket. Victoria was just tall enough in her heeled boots that Max's face tucked perfectly into the curve where Victoria's jaw met her neck, skin warm against skin, and Max was aware she'd just made an embarrassing noise, but she couldn't actually care. Because Victoria was hugging her.

The hand that was still cradling Victoria's cheek now slid to cup the nape of Victoria's neck, the soft brush of her perfectly styled hair tickling Max's palm, just as silky as she'd always imagined it, and she was so close that her perfume – so familiar and so uniquely her – mingled with something warmer, something better, something that couldn't be anything but Victoria herself. Max's other hand immediately pressed between Victoria's shoulder blades, fingers spreading against soft cashmere, trying to draw her even closer, a new sort of desperation overcoming her.

"Max," Victoria breathed against her hair, and the way she said it – soft and reverent and a little bit broken – made Max's chest ache with something too big to name. Max's arms tightened and so did Victoria's, both trying to eliminate even the possibility of space between them. "You…" Victoria's fingers curled harder into Max's jacket. "Today was so much better than Valentine's Day," she finally answered the question Max had asked in the guitar shop. "That wasn't even a real date. I never wanted it. I didn't want to be there with him. I—" she stopped herself abruptly, and Max could feel the way Victoria's jaw clenched.

Then, as quickly as it all had started, Victoria stepped back. Max's hands fell away as Victoria retrieved the forgotten salon bag, her movements sharp and rushed.

"Victoria—"

"It's an hour and a half drive back to Arcadia Bay," Victoria said, her voice slightly unsteady despite her obvious attempt to sound composed. "We should go."

Max blinked, nodded, tried to regulate her breathing, tried to slow her racing heart. "Yes," she managed. "Okay."

Victoria straightened, bag clutched in her hand like an anchor, and looked at Max. Really looked at her. And for the first time since Max had known her, she was sure that there really was absolutely nothing between them – no walls, no edges, no armor, nothing. Just Victoria, real and present and terrifyingly honest, looking at Max like she was seeing something she never thought she'd see.

"We're still..." Victoria started, then swallowed hard. "We're not breaking our streak of consecutive nights tonight, right?"

The question carried so much more weight than its simple words suggested. Max felt the full force of it, knew it meant Victoria actually wanted her on the roof tonight for some reason. And something about it felt particularly significant, and the butterflies in her stomach hadn't stopped fluttering since they left the salon, and that dangerous hope still burned so hot and bright inside her, except right now it was feeling a lot less like hope and a lot more like certainty. And that was infinitely more dangerous, but Max couldn't find it in herself to try to convince herself to stop feeling it, so:

"I'll be there, Victoria," Max promised. "Of course I'll be there."

Chapter Text

February 22, 2014 – Even later

The whole day kept replaying in Max's mind like a highlight reel she couldn't pause – Victoria's foot pressed against hers under the table at brunch, casual but deliberate, never breaking contact. The moment in the guitar shop after Victoria's fierce defense of Max's talent, when her hand had drifted to Max's face with such tenderness it made breathing feel optional. The way they'd gravitated toward each other in every room of the gallery, shoulders brushing as they studied each photograph, Victoria leaning in close to whisper observations in Max's ear. That hug on the darkened Portland street, initiated by Victoria, so intense and almost desperate, and just… so much that Max was really trying not to think about it, trying not to think about Victoria's hands gripping her jacket, or her heartbeat thundering against Max's own chest, or... And even the drive back, though comfortably quiet, felt magical in retrospect: how Victoria had wordlessly handed Max her phone, a gesture of trust that felt weightier than it should have, her lips curling into that particular half-smirk whenever Max queued up another obscure indie track, Victoria rolling her eyes dramatically but never skipping a song, her shoulders loose and easy against the leather seat.

It hadn't been a date. Max kept repeating this to herself like a mantra, even as her heart refused to listen. She wasn't naive enough to label it that way... but god, if it had been a date, it would've been the kind that made every romance movie feel hollow in comparison. The almost eleven hours had slipped away like minutes – her cheeks still ached from smiling, the memory of Victoria's laugh, real and unguarded, kept replaying in her mind, along with a hundred other perfect moments she was trying desperately not to overanalyze. But trying not to think about it only made her think about it more, and…

And now, on the roof, it was as if that not-a-date hadn't really ended at all. The couple of hours they'd spent apart since returning to Blackwell felt like nothing more than a brief intermission. Because the moment Max pushed open the heavy door, Victoria's carefully reconstructed composure, the mask she must have put back on during their time apart, fell away instantly and completely the second her eyes landed on Max's post-shower outfit choice. Blue jeans and, more importantly, most importantly, her ratty gray hoodie that she'd deliberately left visible under her open jacket. Victoria, of course, had shaken her head in exaggerated disappointment, but it did absolutely nothing to hide the genuine smile that spread across her face. When Max had pulled the hoodie from the back of her closet – she hadn't worn it in months – she'd known exactly what reaction it would get, and so when Victoria had deadpanned "the worst crime against fashion has returned from the dead," Max had just smiled, the butterflies doing their usual thing in her stomach.

After that, Victoria didn't waste any time before turning her attention to the hair products Marie had given them, arranging them between them on the blanket with the same care a curator might use with priceless artifacts. The bottles caught the security lights, their minimalist French labels gleaming with quiet luxury, and Max found herself wondering again why that lady would just give away products that probably cost more than her entire photography kit. But she kept that thought to herself, mesmerized by the way Victoria handled each bottle with such reverence, her movements precise and deliberate as she began the lesson she'd apparently planned for tonight. The pre-wash treatment came first ("It prepares your hair to actually accept the other products"). Then the shampoo, which apparently required two applications ("The first removes surface debris, the second actually cleanses"), followed by the conditioner ("Let it sit for at least three minutes, longer if you can"), and finally the oil, which Victoria held up like it contained liquid gold ("Just three drops, no more – this isn't some drugstore serum").

Max tried to focus on the technical details, she really did. But Victoria looked impossibly soft in what had to be the world's coziest (and fanciest) t-shirt, her coat draped around her shoulders like a cape against the night air. Her hair was still damp from her shower, falling in perfect pieces around her face, and without her usual flawless makeup, her bare skin seemed to glow in the security lights, her natural eyelashes somehow more striking than with mascara. The scent of her shower gel mingled with her signature perfume in the midnight air, creating something intoxicating that made Max's head spin. Or maybe what made her head spin was the way Victoria's fingers kept trailing over each bottle as she spoke, or how her eyes would find Max's every few seconds to ensure she was paying attention, or just... everything about her, really. Max couldn't remember the last time Victoria Chase hadn't made her head spin.

"Are you even listening?" Victoria asked, though her tone held more amusement than annoyance.

"Of course I am," Max insisted, her eyes snapping back to the bottles from where they had definitely not been staring at Victoria's face. "Pre-wash, then shampoo twice, then leave conditioner for at least three minutes, and then oil. Three drops."

Victoria studied her for a long moment, eyes narrowed playfully as she searched Max's face for any hint of deception.

"And this is, uh, pre-wash, shampoo, conditioner, oil," Max pointed out each bottle as she named them. Victoria's lips twitched slightly before giving her the barest nod of acknowledgment. "See? Some of us can actually listen and space out at the same time. It's called multitasking."

"Space out," Victoria echoed. "Is that what we're calling staring now?"

"I was not staring," Max protested.

"You're always staring," Victoria countered. "Every time I look up, there you are. In class, in the car, here. Always staring."

And Max should've been embarrassed, and she opened her mouth to argue, but ironically enough, she found herself lost in the way the security lights caught the green of Victoria's eyes from this angle. It'd been a long day, and it was late, and she was tired, and… "Yeah, well..." she managed eventually, trying to ignore Victoria's growing smile. "Whatever you say."

Victoria let out a quiet laugh at that. "God, you're so..." She shook her head, something soft in her expression. But then Max saw it – a shift, in her eyes, her face, her body. Max couldn't name what it was even if she tried, it was as if Victoria had surrendered to some inevitable decision. Her eyes found Max's again, and this time there was nothing uncertain about the way she looked at her, nothing hesitant in her voice when she said: "Turn around."

"What?"

"Turn around," Victoria repeated, already gathering the products with careful precision and setting them aside, removing the barrier between them. "I need to show you how to apply these properly. Otherwise, you won't do it right, and these are too nice to waste."

Max's heart immediately kicked into overdrive as she processed what Victoria was asking. But she found herself turning before she could overthink it, shifting on the blanket until her back faced Victoria. She drew in a deep breath, trying to steady herself – after everything today, after kissing her cheek, after that desperate hug, after months of midnight conversations on this roof that kept pulling them closer and closer. After all of it, Victoria was still here, still choosing to be here, and something in the air felt different tonight, didn't it? She felt it after the salon, she felt it when Victoria asked her if she'd be here tonight, she felt it when—

Max could hear movement behind her – Victoria adjusting her coat, then the whisper of denim against the fabric of the blanket as she shifted closer to her, so close that her crossed legs settled against Max's lower back.

"Okay," Victoria started, her voice suddenly right by Max's ear, "so with the pre-wash, you want to section your hair first. Like this."

Her fingers slid into Max's hair and everything else ceased to exist. Her breath caught audibly in her throat as rational thought evaporated, replaced entirely by the sensation of Victoria's touch against her scalp.

"You separate it," Victoria continued, seemingly oblivious to Max's internal meltdown. Her fingers traced a line from somewhere near the crown of Max's head to the nape of her neck, then gathered one section of hair and let it fall. "Then you apply the product starting here." Her fingertips pressed lightly just behind her ear, before dragging slowly downward through her hair. "Work it through each section thoroughly."

Max tried to nod, tried to indicate she understood the instructions, but she wasn't sure she managed it. Her entire nervous system seemed to have short-circuited, every gentle tug of Victoria's fingers as she ran them through her hair made her breath catch. Max's own hands searched blindly for something to hold onto, anything to ground herself, finally finding purchase in the blanket beneath them. She twisted the material between her fingers with each new sensation, gripping tighter every time Victoria did something that made coherent thought impossible.

"Then for the shampoo," Victoria's voice had gotten softer. "You want to massage it in like this."

Her fingers began tracing slow circles against Max's scalp, the pressure perfectly balanced between gentle and firm. Each methodical touch sent waves of pleasure coursing through her as Victoria worked her way across her head with devastating precision. It felt almost overwhelmingly good, so Max's fingers twisted harder in the blanket.

"You start here," Victoria said, her fingers working in slow, deliberate circles near Max's temples. "Then move backward, keeping consistent pressure."

Her fingertips pressed just a bit more firmly then, and a small, embarrassing sound escaped Max's throat before she could stop it – something between a sigh and a whimper. Victoria's hands froze for just a moment, and Max felt her face burn hot with mortification, certain that her blush had spread all the way down her neck. But then Victoria's fingers resumed their movements, somehow even more deliberate than before.

"For the second wash," Victoria continued, her voice dropping to a velvet whisper that seemed to caress Max's skin, "you want to be even more thorough." Her fingers found their way to the base of Max's skull, applying a pressure that sent sparks of electricity down her spine, the circular motions becoming slower, each touch lingering with an intent that had nothing to do with hair care instruction.

Max found herself gravitating backward as if pulled by an invisible thread, her body instinctively seeking Victoria's touch before her mind could catch up to what was happening. She felt Victoria shift behind her, movements careful but purposeful – and though the pressure of Victoria's crossed legs against her lower back disappeared, Victoria's fingers never stopped their mesmerizing patterns against her scalp. Then suddenly Victoria's legs were there, bracketing her like parentheses, and the solid warmth of them pressed against her sides sent a shiver down Max's spine, and it felt good, so good, and Victoria shifted closer still, until Max was nestled between her legs, and every slight movement now caused them to brush against each other, fabric whispering secrets against fabric. Victoria's breath ghosted against the back of Max's neck, slightly uneven now, betraying that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as composed as she was pretending to be. Max's fingers twisted into the blanket with such desperation that they were beginning to actually feel sore, but she didn't care, couldn't care.

"This second wash," Victoria murmured, her voice holding a slight tremor she couldn't quite hide, "helps ensure everything is..." Her fingers pressed just slightly harder against Max's scalp, drawing another shaky whimper from her, "...clean. This part is really important." The pretense of instruction was slipping away with each passing moment, her movements becoming less educational and more exploratory. Each circle of her fingers lingered longer than the last, as if she was cataloging every tiny reaction she drew from Max. "And the conditioner..." Victoria's fingers drifted to the nape of Max's neck with devastating slowness, gathering her hair with a gentleness that made Max's heart stutter. "You apply it from here..." Her touch traced an electric path upward. "To here." Her fingers spread through Max's hair like water, combing through it with such measured tenderness that Max felt herself melting backward even further. "But never directly on the scalp."

Max should probably say something. Anything. She should definitely apologize for the embarrassing sounds she kept making – god, she was making this so weird, wasn't she? But the words wouldn't come, refused to form in her mind as Victoria's fingers continued their mesmerizing dance through her hair. Max's entire body felt like it was humming, vibrating at a frequency that made coherent thought impossible. She should move away, should laugh it off, should do literally anything other than just sit here. When Victoria's nails scratched lightly against her scalp in slow, deliberate patterns, an even more embarrassing sound escaped her throat before she could stop it – something that sounded way too much like a strangled moan.

The apology was right there on the tip of her tongue – 'sorry, I'm making this weird, we should stop' – but then Victoria's fingers hit a particularly sensitive spot near the base of her skull, and the words dissolved into another helpless sound that she couldn't swallow back.

"I thought," Max managed, her voice coming out embarrassingly breathless, barely above a whisper, "conditioner wasn't supposed to touch the scalp?"

"It isn't," Victoria said, her voice dropping to a register Max had never heard before, low and rich like honey. "But you're smart enough to figure out conditioner without me demonstrating every little thing."

One of Victoria's hands slid down to Max's shoulder, applying the gentlest pressure, encouraging Max to lean back until she was resting more fully against Victoria's chest. The new position made Max's entire body simultaneously freeze over and burn up – the solid warmth of Victoria behind her, the way she could feel every slight movement, every breath Victoria took. Max's fingers finally released their death grip on the blanket, only to grab hold again even tighter as Victoria's hand drifted from her shoulder up to her neck, nails dragging feather-light against the sensitive skin. The touch drew a muffled whimper from Max, who hadn't even realized she'd been biting her lip – hard enough to leave marks, probably – until Victoria's breath ghosted against her ear.

"Don't hold back. I want..." Victoria whispered. "I want to hear you. Please."

Max released her lip immediately, drawing in a shaky breath that caught in her throat as Victoria's nails traced another soft path along her neck. Then, both of Victoria's hands moved to gather Max's hair, carefully sweeping it aside to expose one side of her neck. The cool night air ghosted across her newly exposed skin for just a moment before Max felt something impossibly soft press against her neck, just below her ear. The contact was so gentle, so tender and perfect and warm, and her mind caught up with her body's reaction, and oh – Victoria's lips. The sound that escaped her mouth seemed to shatter the midnight silence – a soft, desperate gasp that felt like it could wake the whole town, even though it was really just a whisper of breath into the dark.

"Is this okay?" Victoria whispered right against her skin.

Max nodded her head immediately, maybe too eagerly, but she couldn't bring herself to care. "Yes," she managed to breathe out, her voice catching on even that simple word. Then, because it felt important that Victoria understand exactly how okay this was: "This is perfect. Perfect."

Victoria made a soft sound in response – something between a sigh and a hum that vibrated against Max's skin – before nuzzling closer into the curve of her neck. "You smell so good," Victoria murmured like she'd been waiting years to admit it, the words pressed directly against Max's pulse point where her heartbeat was surely giving away exactly how affected Max was. Victoria's lips brushed against it, lingering there as if memorizing the sensation. "You always smell so good," she breathed out.

Victoria's hands began a torturously slow journey from Max's shoulders, fingertips trailing down her arms, the pressure perfect even through the worn fabric of her jacket. Each point of contact left sparks in its wake, so gentle it almost hurt, her fingers tracing every wrinkle and fold of the material until they found Max's hands, still desperately twisted in the blanket beneath them. Victoria's fingers covered hers, thumbs stroking across her white-knuckled grip. "You're going to hurt yourself," she whispered, Victoria's breath sending shivers across her skin. "Let go."

Max's fingers unclenched immediately, surrendering to Victoria's touch as if they'd been waiting for permission. Victoria rewarded her with another kiss, this one placed with devastating precision right against her pulse point. It drew a soft, broken sound from Max's throat. "Victoria," Max breathed out, barely recognizing her own voice. The name fell from her lips like a plea, or a prayer, though she wasn't even sure what she was asking for.

Victoria's fingers slid between Max's, threading them together, and Max found herself tilting her head to the side almost unconsciously, silently offering better access to her neck. Victoria's kisses were different now – gone was any pretense of hesitation. Each press of her lips was firm and certain, starting at the junction where neck met shoulder and working their way up with a confidence that made Max's mind go blank. Victoria approached this like she did everything that mattered to her: with absolute focus and meticulous attention to detail. She seemed to be creating a map of Max's sensitivity, each press of her lips an experiment in pressure and placement, carefully noting which spots made Max's breath catch in her throat and which ones made her fingers tighten desperately against Victoria's own.

Victoria released one of Max's hands then, and before Max could mourn the loss of contact, Victoria's arm was sliding around her waist with sudden urgency. She pulled Max closer against her with surprising strength, eliminating what little space remained between them until Max's back was pressed firmly against her front. The newfound closeness drew shaky breaths from both of them – Max could feel Victoria's heart thundering against her back, matching her own frantic rhythm. But before she could process any of it, Max's own freed hand was already moving of its own accord, reaching back to thread through Victoria's hair.

The silky strands slipped between her fingers like water, impossibly soft and perfect – because of course Victoria Chase's hair would feel like this, of course it would be just one more flawless thing about her. Max couldn't focus on it as much as she would've liked though. Instead, she found herself guiding Victoria's head more firmly against her neck. Victoria responded immediately, pressing her lips harder against Max's skin, and then – oh god – there was the warm, soft, wet brush of her tongue against her pulse point. The sensation made Max's fingers tighten reflexively in Victoria's short hair, which in turn drew out a low groan from Victoria that Max felt more than heard, the vibration of it traveling straight through her body to settle low in her stomach.

"Victoria," Max breathed out.

Victoria's arm tightened around her waist, fingers pressing into Max's hip with just enough pressure to make yet another gasp escape Max's throat. "After the conditioner," Victoria's voice had gone hoarse, barely audible above their uneven breathing, "you finish with the oil. Just three drops. Work it through the ends of your hair, focusing on—"

"Victoria," Max repeated, her voice soft but firm as she turned in Victoria's arms, rising to her knees. The movement was graceless, uncertain, but it didn't matter.

Victoria's arm remained around Max's waist, steady and grounding, while her other hand fell away, coming to rest uncertainly on her own knee. Her hair was beautifully disheveled where Max's fingers had grabbed it, and a deep flush had spread across her cheeks, coloring her skin down to where it disappeared beneath her collar. But it was her eyes that made Max's heart stutter – they were almost black in the dim light, pupils blown so wide that only a thin ring of green remained. Those eyes dropped immediately to Max's lips with such undisguised hunger that Max felt it like electricity in her veins, and the naked want in that gaze made Max's hands tremble as she reached for Victoria's face.

She cradled Victoria's jaw, thumbs brushing reverently across her cheekbones as if mapping something precious. And how many times had she dreamed of this? How many nights had she laid awake wondering what Victoria's skin would feel like under her fingers, if Victoria would ever let her close enough to find out? And now here they were, and Victoria was not only letting her – she was melting into the touch, eyes fluttering closed at the contact, her lips parting on an unsteady breath that Max felt against her own skin.

Time seemed to slow as Max leaned closer, her heart thundering hard against her ribs. Victoria remained perfectly still under Max's touch, but her breathing grew heavier, more ragged with each passing second. Max could feel it against her own lips now, could taste the mint of Victoria's toothpaste on each exhale, could feel something molten and urgent building in the narrowing space between them. Her own thoughts were a dizzy symphony of it wasn't just in my head, and finally, and please, and holy shit, tumbling over each other in a rush.

Both of Victoria's hands found Max's waist then, fingers pressing into her sides with desperate certainty as she pulled her closer. "Max," she breathed out, and the way Victoria said her name – like a confession, like surrender, like months of rooftop meetings and lingering touches and unspoken words – shattered any last remnants of hesitation between them. They crashed together like stars colliding, inevitably, countless and countless hours of careful distance and tension dissolving in an instant as they finally, finally closed the space between them.

The first brush of Victoria's lips against hers was soft, almost tentative, and it hit Max like a train at full speed. All Max could think about was Victoria, Victoria, and how soft her lips felt against hers. Max made a small, relieved, almost pained sound in the back of her throat, and Victoria's fingers tightened on her waist in response, and suddenly there was nothing tentative about it at all. Victoria kissed her like she'd been thinking about this, like she'd memorized exactly how she wanted to do it, like she was hungry, starving, and had been her entire life. Her lips slid against Max's relentlessly, selfishly stealing all of the air right out of Max's lungs, each press and retreat deliberately crafted to draw out the soft, desperate sounds Max couldn't seem to hold back.

One of Victoria's hands slid up Max's back to tangle in her hair, while the other stayed firmly at her waist, fingers pressing into her skin through her jacket like she needed something to anchor herself. Max's hands were still cradling Victoria's face, but now her fingers slipped into her ridiculously soft hair, drawing a low hum from Victoria's throat that Max could feel against her lips. Victoria pulled back just enough to change the angle, and when their lips met again the kiss was deeper, more demanding.

Max found herself shifting forward until she was straddling Victoria's lap, and she might be the more inexperienced one here – might never have kissed anyone quite like this before – but right now she couldn't bring herself to care. She let instinct take over, taking full advantage of her newfound height to kiss Victoria with everything she had, months of wanting poured into each press of her lips. When Victoria made a soft, desperate sound against her mouth, and then kept making them, Max felt a surge of intoxicating confidence rush through her. She tugged at Victoria's hair, drawing out more breathy gasps that made her head spin, and made her want to keep kissing her, maybe forever, because Victoria's hands were back on her waist, pulling her impossibly closer as she met Max's intensity with her own.

When they finally broke apart, Max rested her forehead against Victoria's, the both of them gasping for air. Her fingers were still buried in Victoria's hair, and Victoria's hands were still on her waist, and—

"Fuck, I've wanted to do that for so long," Victoria breathed, her voice rough, her fingers tightening on her waist.

"Me too," Max breathed out in response. "God, me too."

Victoria's response was to pull her back down into another kiss, and this one felt like falling, like flying, like finally coming home.

Chapter Text

February 23, 2014

The early morning light washed across Blackwell's campus like a watercolor painting coming to life. The late February sun was finally coaxing the first hints of spring, though the air still held enough bite that Max was grateful to be wearing both her hoodie and her winter jacket.

Through her Polaroid's viewfinder, Max tracked a bold squirrel as it crept toward the crumbled granola bar she'd scattered beneath an ancient oak. Her camera was already focused, poised for that perfect moment when the animal's curiosity would finally overcome its caution. Normally she'd be thrilled to capture these first tentative ventures of wildlife emerging from winter hibernation – there was something magical about documenting their return to the world. But right now… her heart just wasn't in it.

Truthfully, Max shouldn't have been out here at all – every part of her body ached for her bed, every cell weighted with exhaustion. She should've been in her room. She should've been sleeping. But that had been impossible. Sleep, that was. She just couldn't do it, not when her lips still tingled with phantom sensations and her skin still burned everywhere Victoria had touched her. And god, had Victoria touched her – her fingertips had traced paths along her neck, trailed down her shoulders, slid along her arms. Her palms had skimmed Max's waist, her fingers had pressed into her hips, her hands had held Max's face so very gently as her mouth had lingered on Max's neck, behind her ear, along her jaw…

And their lips had pressed together, and pressed together, and pressed together, and moved against each other, and slid, and pressed, and the urgency of it never seemed to stop growing, and when Victoria had bitten Max's lip just hard enough to make Max gasp, and Victoria took full advantage of it by sliding her tongue into Max's mouth, and their tongues finally met for the very first time… the sound that had escaped Victoria's throat then – a mix of a whimper and a moan – combined with the sensation of Victoria's tongue against her own, it had all nearly undone Max so completely that she found herself echoing the sound almost identically, immediately, repeatedly, hands desperately trying to find purchase anywhere, everywhere, so long as it was on Victoria's body.

Max's veins had been buzzing, her entire body vibrating with the knowledge that Victoria Chase – brilliant, sharp-tongued Victoria who occupied Max's every waking thought for almost five months – actually wanted her back. Wanted her enough to kiss her like that, to pull her close like that, to whisper her name against her skin like that. For hours. Until it was so cold on the roof that their shaking could actually be attributed to something other than the way they were making each other feel.

So, sure, Max had tried to sleep, she really had, but all she'd managed was restless tossing that left her sheets tangled around her legs while her mind raced in endless circles of Victoria, Victoria, Victoria, Victoria, Victoria.

Fortunately, the squirrels made for a convenient excuse to be out at this impossible hour, when her mind was too wired to stay in her room but too scattered to do anything truly productive. Her finger pressed the shutter release without conscious thought when the squirrel darted forward to investigate the granola pieces, the familiar whir of her Polaroid mixing with the morning quiet. Max watched the animal sniff cautiously at the offering, its tiny paws gathering crumbs with surprising delicacy, and some responsible part of her brain whispered that she probably shouldn't be teaching campus wildlife to trust humans, but she honestly couldn't muster the energy to care about ecological ethics right now. When her camera finally spat out its latest creation, Max absently slipped the developing photo into her messenger bag without even glancing at it.

Taking a shower hadn't helped clear her head either. If anything, it'd just made everything worse. When she'd first looked in the mirror earlier, her hair a disheveled mess, Marie's careful styling completely undone, her heart had raced – it was tangible and irrefutable proof of what had happened, of what Victoria had done, of how her fingers had run through her hair, and tangled in it, and twisted, and pulled. And then in the shower, trying to follow Victoria's meticulous instructions on how to use her new hair care products, every touch to her own scalp had only brought back those memories with vivid clarity, the ghost of Victoria's touch making her skin burn all over again. She'd emerged from the bathroom remarkably more awake and infinitely more aware of her own skin than she'd ever been.

Max halfheartedly trailed after the squirrel as it scampered closer to the dorms, now seemingly more interested in exploration than the scattered granola. They hadn't really talked about anything last night, she and Victoria. But she supposed they hadn't needed to. No, they certainly hadn't needed words to make it clear they'd both wanted what was happening. But now, in the harsh light of morning… well… was their friendship thing going to be okay? Would things be weird between them now? Would Victoria regret it? And most importantly – would Victoria disappear like she used to whenever they got too close? And if so, how long would she be gone for? Because Max already knew with terrifying certainty that if Victoria disappeared for long, especially after last night, Max would actually lose her mind.

The sound of a door opening somewhere behind her barely registered in her mind, marking the third student to venture out of the dorms since Max had taken up her position here. She remained focused on her furry subject, watching as it scampered back toward the granola, apparently deciding breakfast was more interesting after all. Her finger hovered over the shutter release, waiting for the right moment as her mind wandered again (as it had for hours) to last night, to Victoria's lips trailing fire down her neck, to their fingers intertwined on the blanket, to—

"Seriously, Caulfield?"

Max's entire body jerked at the sound, her camera nearly slipping from her fingers at the sudden intrusion into her thoughts. But then recognition hit her like a wave – that voice, Victoria's voice – and suddenly butterflies were erupting in her stomach, excitement coursing through her veins like electricity. Her heart launched into a frantic rhythm that was equal parts lingering surprise and pure joy at Victoria's presence, at the fact that she was here right now, that she was talking to her, that she hadn't disappeared or started avoiding her after last night, that she—

"You're seriously taking photos of squirrels? Right now?" Victoria continued, voice dripping with amused disbelief. "This is what you've chosen to do with your Sunday at six thirty in the morning?"

When Max finally turned to look at her, time seemed to slow, every nerve ending in her body sparking to life at once. Victoria stood there in casual (yet obviously expensive) workout clothes – running shoes, leggings, a cropped jacket, a thin headband that pulled her short hair back. She still wasn't wearing any make up and she looked so utterly, breathtakingly beautiful that Max genuinely didn't know what to do with herself. And so her eyes betrayed her as they drifted down to her clothes again, caught by how Victoria's tiny jacket strained slightly across her chest with each breath, the expensive fabric doing little to hide the swell beneath. Max's mouth went dry at the sight, her mind unhelpfully supplying memories of how that same chest had felt pressed against her back just hours ago, how she hadn't let her hands wander there, but she had wanted to, she had wanted— Her gaze continued its journey downward, drawn to where the jacket ended, revealing a strip of perfectly toned stomach, the morning air cold enough that goosebumps rose on the exposed skin, and suddenly Max found herself wondering how they would feel under her lips, under her tongue, and what Victoria would do, how she'd react, what sounds she'd make, and god, those leggings didn't help her composure either – the fabric clung to Victoria's body like it had been painted on, following every curve of her hips, every line of her thighs, and Max had to physically stop herself from casually stepping to the side, knowing that if she did, she'd be able to see the back, she'd be able to see how perfectly those leggings must make Victoria's ass—

"My eyes are up here, Caulfield." Victoria's voice wavered between amusement and disbelief.

"Oh, Victoria, sorry—" Max's eyes snapped up to Victoria's face, and then immediately to the ground, mortification flooding through her as she realized that she'd really just gotten caught brazenly checking Victoria out like some kind of animal. "I'm so sorry," she stammered, heat blazing across her cheeks as she abruptly spun back toward where the squirrel had been, nearly dropping her camera in the process. "I didn't mean— it really wasn't what it looked—"

"Relax," Victoria cut her off dismissively. "I don't care if you look. Being looked at is actually the whole point of wearing good clothes." Max dared to glance back at Victoria then, catching the hint of a smirk playing at her lips, though there was an unmistakable pink flush coloring her cheeks. "It was just surprising that you were being so obvious about it."

"I wasn't being—" Max turned back toward the squirrel, fumbling with her camera, fingers tightening nervously around the worn material as she became intensely interested in a nearby tree. "I just spaced out. You know, sleep deprivation and all that. My brain isn't really... working right now. I wasn't looking at anything in particular."

"Again with the 'spacing out' thing. It's called staring," Victoria teased, moving deliberately to stand in front of Max, placing herself directly in her line of sight again, demanding Max's attention. And who was she to deny her? Max looked up at her, and offered her a small, awkward shrug and an embarrassed smile, wordlessly admitting that yes, she'd kind of been staring. Victoria huffed out an amused breath, her expression softening slightly as her eyes drifted over Max's face, clearly taking note of the dark bags under her eyes. "Is that why you're out here so early? Didn't get much sleep?"

"I didn't get any sleep," Max corrected sheepishly.

Victoria was quiet for a long moment after that, seemingly processing Max's words as she continued to study her face. Then: "I couldn't really sleep either," Victoria admitted, her hands smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her clothes, the words hanging heavy between them, the reason why they couldn't sleep obvious to the both of them. "But I'm always up around this time anyway, so..." she added quickly, "it doesn't make much of a difference to me."

Max managed a small nod and a quiet hum of acknowledgement, quickly stepping to the side and lifting her camera back up to take photos of the squirrel, partly to distract herself from the fact that Victoria had somewhat referenced last night, and partly to have somewhere else to look besides Victoria. But through the viewfinder, Max could only find scattered granola pieces lying lonely on the grass. No furry friend in sight. She swept her camera across the empty scene, following the path where the animal had been, before slowly lowering it to search the oak's sprawling branches above.

"Looks like your rodent made its escape."

"Can't really blame it, I guess," Max sighed, defeatedly letting her camera drop back against her chest. "I probably wouldn't stick around to watch me embarrass myself either."

"Shame. Watching you embarrass yourself is really entertaining. You should reconsider."

Max glanced back up at Victoria at that, a small smile tugging at her lips. Victoria's own lips curved into that particular soft smile that seemed to be reserved for moments on the roof, or Portland, or apparently here too, on a Sunday at six thirty in the morning in front of the dormitory building, and it sent butterflies erupting in Max's stomach because Max really liked Victoria, and despite her best efforts, she'd really hoped that Victoria liked her back, and Victoria… maybe actually did like her back, right? After yesterday? After last night?

And then, suddenly: "Want to come running with me?" Victoria asked, the question falling between them as naturally as if they'd been doing this for years.

Max blinked. "Running?" she echoed.

"What, afraid you can't keep up?" Victoria's voice carried a blend of challenge and teasing, but there was something softer underneath too, maybe nervousness.

"I know I can't keep up. Not with you. I mean..." Max said, gesturing vaguely at Victoria's perfectly coordinated workout attire, fighting to keep her eyes from tracing her curves again. "I only run when I'm late for class. And even then, not very well."

"Right, yes. Of course." Victoria rolled her eyes, but the gesture held no annoyance whatsoever, looking more like habit than anything else. "If the issue is running then we could just, I mean..." Victoria hesitated for a moment, shifting her weight in a rare display of uncertainty. "We could just... walk?" The suggestion came out softer than she probably intended, her voice carrying a fragile kind of hope.

"Yes," Max heard herself say immediately, long before her brain could catch up with her mouth, her fingers already fumbling with her camera as she hurried to pack it into her messenger bag. "Yes, okay. Let's walk."

They fell into step together after that, at first maintaining a careful bubble of space between them, the kind of distance that spoke of Max Caulfield and Victoria Chase existing in entirely different social stratospheres. But as Blackwell's shadow retreated behind them, that invisible barrier seemed to dissolve with each step. The sounds of civilization fading behind them and replaced by birdsong and the distant whisper of waves, their shoulders began to brush – accidentally at first, then with a frequency that couldn't quite be blamed on the narrow path. Each point of contact sent electricity racing across Max's skin, little jolts of awareness that made her hyperconscious of every movement, every shared breath, every moment when Victoria's hand swung just a little closer to hers.

"You take this path a lot when you run?" Max asked, because she was genuinely curious about this morning ritual of Victoria's she'd never known about, but also because she needed something to focus on besides the maddening way their hands kept almost touching.

"Yeah," Victoria replied, her eyes on the path ahead. "Usually I run down to the beach and back. Sometimes I'll do it twice if I'm feeling particularly masochistic."

"That's... actually a lot." Max tried to picture running that distance and felt tired just thinking about it. "I mean, I already knew you were in good shape, but that's impressive."

Victoria's lips quirked into a smirk. "Yeah, well, someone keeps trying to fatten me up with hot chocolate every night," she said, shooting Max a pointed look that held no real accusation. "Have to work it off somehow."

"Oh, I can stop making it, if you want," Max offered.

"Don't you dare," Victoria said immediately, looking at Max like she'd said something truly evil and outrageous. "I like the hot chocolate, thank you very much. And I don't mind the extra cardio."

"Okay, then. If you insist," Max drawled playfully, feeling bold enough to reach out and catch Victoria's hand in hers, giving it a quick squeeze. "I'll keep enabling your hot chocolate addiction," she promised, and reluctantly let go of Victoria's hand – but then her hand was somehow right there again, Victoria deliberately brushing her fingers against Max's.

"It's hardly an addiction," Victoria scoffed dismissively, but her fingers kept finding Max's, tangling with them for brief moments before separating, and then seeking them out again, and then separating again, rinse, repeat.

Max's eyes moved to Victoria, unable to contain the giddy smile spreading across her face, absolutely loving whatever it was that Victoria was doing with their fingers. Her stomach was doing that swooping thing, like she was perpetually missing the last step on a staircase. Victoria caught her looking, and right then, as if making a decision, she hooked her pinky firmly around Max's, and suddenly the butterflies in her stomach multiplied tenfold.

"You know, I can't stop thinking about you playing guitar yesterday," Victoria said eventually, casually. "Were you ever going to tell me you could play like that?"

Max opened her mouth to protest that she wasn't really that good, but caught herself just in time, remembering Victoria's frustrated lecture about how she needed to stop undermining her own talents. She swallowed the self-deprecation and instead said: "It just never came up before."

Their joined pinkies swung gently between them as they walked. Victoria hummed thoughtfully, the sound somewhere between skeptical and teasing. "I do find it a little bit selfish of you, to be honest."

"Selfish?" Max chuckled, glancing sideways at Victoria. "How exactly am I being selfish?"

"By keeping your musical talents a secret," Victoria said, her tone carrying that particular blend of accusation and playfulness that only she could manage. "I had to find out by accident."

"I wasn't keeping anything secret," Max protested, but she couldn't help smiling. "Like I said, it just never came up."

"Oh please. We've talked about my piano lessons at least half a dozen times. You had plenty of opportunities."

"That's different," Max said, her free fingers drifting up from where their pinkies were linked, brushing across Victoria's palm. Victoria's eyes darted down to their hands, and she drew in a slow, steadying breath, her lips pressing together as though physically holding back a smile. "Besides," Max continued, watching Victoria's failed attempt at composure with growing warmth in her chest, "I've still never actually heard you play piano."

"Find me a piano and I will. Right now."

Max laughed, the sound carrying on the morning breeze. After a moment, she ventured softly: "You know... I do have my guitar in my room." She hesitated for a moment. "If you wanted, I mean... I could play for you again sometime."

"Whatever," Victoria said with practiced disinterest, but her pinky tightened around Max's, giving her away completely. "If you're offering."

They finally reached the beach as the sun climbed higher. The rhythmic sound of waves filled the morning air as they walked along the shoreline, their linked pinkies finally separating as they both took in the vast expanse of ocean before them. The water stretched endlessly toward the horizon, waves catching the light like scattered diamonds, and Max found herself drawn to a spot where the sand looked particularly soft. She sat down without ceremony, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. Victoria stood beside her for a moment, looking down with an expression caught between horror and resignation, before letting out a small sigh.

"Is the sand wet?" Victoria asked, and Max could hear the unspoken concern for her leggings in her voice.

Max reached out, pressing her palm against the sand. "No," she said, looking back up at Victoria. "A bit cold, but not wet." The 'I promise' went unsaid, but Victoria seemed to hear it anyway.

Victoria hesitated for just a second longer before gracefully lowering herself to sit beside Max, mirroring her position with knees pulled to her chest. Max tried not to focus too much on how her legs were longer than Max's, or how good they looked in those sleek black leggings that disappeared into her expensive running shoes, or how Victoria, as usual, had firmly pressed their shoulders together as she settled.

Instead, Max looked at the ocean, the both of them sitting in peaceful quiet, watching the waves paint endless patterns across the shore. The ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and seaweed, ruffling Max's already messy hair and making Victoria's pristinely styled strands dance slightly. Max found herself thinking about the last time they'd been here together – it couldn't have been more than two weeks ago, but it felt like another lifetime entirely. She could still see Victoria that day, hair catching the golden hour light as she'd flung sand at Max. Max had lifted her camera instinctively, catching Victoria's face lit up with laughter, designer clothes dotted with sand. That photo now lived in Max's nightstand drawer, and she wondered, not for the first time, what Victoria would say if she knew how many times Max had pulled out that picture late at night to study the way sunlight played across Victoria's features, to look at the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, and to marvel at how ridiculously beautiful she was.

A slight tremor ran through Victoria's shoulder where it pressed against Max's, immediately snapping her out of her memories. And how had Max not noticed sooner? Victoria was practically shivering beside her, and of course she was – the morning air was biting, the ocean breeze relentless, and Victoria was wearing thin workout clothes meant for generating heat, not preserving it. Those leggings and that tiny cropped jacket might look amazing, but they were absolutely useless against the chill coming off the water.

"Here," Max said, already unzipping her winter jacket and shrugging out of it. "Take this."

"No, thanks." Victoria's refusal was immediate and predictable, though her arms wrapped tighter around her legs. "I'm fine."

"Victoria, you're literally shivering."

"I said no." But another shiver betrayed her words. She clenched her jaw stubbornly, her eyes first flicking to the winter jacket Max had in her hands, the jacket she was offering, before drifting to the well-worn hoodie Max had been wearing underneath. Something shifted in Victoria's expression as her gaze lingered there – like a realization, and then like she was wrestling with something, like she was caught between pride and something else entirely. Victoria drew in a small breath then, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her workout jacket, before finally looking up to meet Max's eyes. "Maybe…" she started, then stopped, yet another internal battle playing across her features.

"What is it?" Max prompted gently.

"Could I have your hoodie instead?" Victoria's words came out in a rush, clearly hating to have to say them at all. "Instead of the jacket, I mean."

Max felt her heart do a complicated flip in her chest. She tried to contain her smile, tried not to show just how much that simple request affected her, but she knew she was failing miserably. Still, she kept her movements casual as she set the jacket on her lap, and then pulled her hoodie over her head. She handed it to Victoria, who took it with careful fingers, like it was something precious rather than a ratty piece of clothing Max had owned since she was, like, fifteen years old.

Max quickly shrugged her winter jacket back on, then watched as Victoria pulled the hoodie over her head. And, oh, the sight of Victoria Chase wearing it did something to Max. The hoodie was clearly a little small on her – the sleeves ending just above her wrists – but Victoria didn't seem to mind, immediately tugging the too-short sleeves down over her fingers anyway. The way the soft, faded fabric clung to her frame, the way she seemed to unconsciously nuzzle into the collar, looking like she was trying to burrow into its warmth, looking like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders – it made Max's heart feel too big for her ribcage, it made her feel dizzy with something that felt dangerously close to certain words she didn't want to think about yet. And then there was this other thing, this other feeling, hot and intense in her stomach, watching Victoria wear her clothes, something wanting and possessive and—

"Oh," Max breathed out, the word falling from her lips before she could catch it. "Now I get it."

Victoria looked up from where she'd been adjusting the hoodie's drawstrings, her usual grace momentarily forgotten as she played with the worn cord. "Get what?"

"Why you wouldn't stop looking at your scarf after you gave it to me."

Victoria's eyebrows rose, an amused yet somewhat confused smile painting her lips. "Is this you trying to tell me that you like seeing me in your clothes?"

"Yes," Max said simply, not bothering to hide it.

Victoria seemed surprised for a second, a blush creeping across her cheeks, but a smile bloomed soft and genuine quickly enough, even as she coyly looked away from Max and back toward the ocean. "The scarf thing is... different," Victoria said, tugging at the hoodie's sleeve again. "It wasn't mine, exactly."

Max tilted her head, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—" Victoria's fingers twisted in the fabric. "Obviously it was mine in the sense that I owned it, but... I was never going to wear it," she said, still looking out at the waves. "I mean, I actually... well, I bought it for you. I saw it and that shade of blue..." Her voice grew quieter. "It matches your eyes perfectly. I knew right away how it would look on you, how it would make your eyes— uh, yeah, so I just..." She shrugged, trying to make the gesture seem casual even as her cheeks darkened further. "So, I just got it. I didn't know how to actually give it to you. But then you recognized the brand and, well, you know the rest."

"Oh," Max breathed, warmth flooding through her chest at the admission. She felt her own cheeks heat up as the full meaning of Victoria's words sank in. When Victoria was supposed to be getting ready for her Valentine's Day date, she'd actually been thinking about Max's eyes, about their color, and then she'd picked out a scarf specifically because she thought it would go with her eyes, and she'd paid an absurd amount of money for it too, and… "Oh wow, I... thank you. And I'm sorry I'm not wearing it today. I love it, I really do, I was just so tired when I left my room today, I didn't really think about—"

"You don't need to apologize, Max," Victoria cut in, looking pointedly at Max's winter jacket, her lips quirking into a small smirk. "Plus, it wouldn't go with this jacket anyway."

Neither of them said anything else after that. Victoria simply burrowed deeper into the hoodie's collar, contentedly breathing in the worn fabric, gazing out into the ocean, the sound of waves filling the space between them. Max found herself sneaking glances at Victoria, unable to help herself. The morning light made her hair glow golden and turned her eyes into such a beautiful shade of green, and the way she kept nuzzling into Max's hoodie, hands playing absently with the drawstrings... she looked so soft, so different from her usual composed, perfect Queen of Blackwell self, and god, they'd kissed a lot last night, hadn't they? The two of them. Together. Their lips had touched.

Before Max could stop herself, she was reaching down, her finger dragging through the dry sand in front of them. The grains shifted reluctantly under her touch, not as cooperative as wet sand would've been, but she managed to scratch out a clear enough 'V'.

She nudged Victoria's shoulder gently, drawing her attention away from the ocean. Victoria turned to look at her, eyebrows raised in question, and Max gestured toward the letter she'd drawn. Victoria's eyes followed the motion, landing on the 'V' in the sand. Max bit her lip, fighting back a smile as she added a '+' next to it.

"Do not," Victoria warned, but her voice held no real threat, especially not when she was still curled up in Max's hoodie, fingers twisted in its worn sleeves, the hint of a smile playing at her lips. "I'll actually throw you into the ocean."

Max's own smile grew wider, but she held up her hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay." She let her hands drop back to her lap, leaving the unfinished equation in the sand.

Victoria stared at the letters for a long moment, then looked back at Max with a single eyebrow raised. Before Max could react, Victoria was leaning forward, her own finger dragging through the sand to add an 'M' after the plus sign. Then, with deliberate strokes, she drew a heart around both letters.

"If we're going to be disgustingly cliché," Victoria said, sitting back up and adjusting the hoodie around her shoulders, "we might as well do it right."

Max stared at the heart Victoria had drawn, her smile growing impossibly wider, warmth blooming in her chest. A giggle – an actual honest-to-god giggle – bubbled up from her throat, and Max should've been embarrassed, but Victoria was smiling now too, watching her, and Max found she didn't really care.

Victoria reached out then, tucking a strand of hair behind Max's ear, her touch lingering as her fingers traced the shell of her ear before sliding down to cup Max's cheek. "I can tell you used the hair products today. Looks like you applied them properly too," she said softly, her thumb brushing across Max's cheekbone, her eyes roaming over Max's still smiling face. "God, you're so fucking..." she trailed off, shaking her head slightly. "I love your smile, Max."

"I love yours," Max breathed out, the butterflies going absolutely insane in her stomach, and her heart racing at how close Victoria suddenly was, at the way Victoria's eyes dropped to her lips. "I really, really do. Your smile drives me—"

Max didn't get to finish the sentence because Victoria was making this small sound in the back of her throat, and then she was leaning in, and she was finally closing the distance between them. Their lips met softly at first, just the gentlest press, but then Max shifted closer and Victoria's hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, and the kiss deepened. Max's hands found purchase on Victoria's waist, fingers curling into the soft material of her own hoodie, and she couldn't help but smile against Victoria's lips at that, at the fact that Victoria was wearing her clothes, that Victoria had drawn a heart around their initials like they were in middle school, except this was so much better than anything Max could have imagined in middle school because this was Victoria, and she was real, and she was here, and she bought Max a scarf, and they spent a whole day in Portland together, and she kissed Max last night on the roof, and she was kissing Max right now, and she was doing it like she never wanted to stop, and she was smiling against Max's lips too, and oh – there was a real possibility that Max was in love with Victoria, and it was possible that she'd been in love with her for a while now, and what was she supposed to do with that information now that—

Victoria pulled back from Max's lips just enough to speak, her words warm against Max's mouth. "I can't believe you were taking pictures of squirrels at 6 AM," she murmured, her fingers still tangled in Max's hair.

Max barely heard what Victoria said, she was far too busy chasing Victoria's lips for another kiss. "More."

"More?" Victoria repeated, and Max could feel her teasing smirk against her own lips. "Someone's eager." But Victoria captured Max's lips again anyway, humming contentedly into the kiss before whispering against her mouth: "What happened to that shy hipster who could barely look me in the eye?"

"You," Max breathed, hands sliding from Victoria's waist to her back, pulling her closer until there was barely any space between them.

"Mm?" Victoria murmured against her lips, her own hands tightening in Max's hair.

"You. You happened," Max whispered, and Victoria surged forward to kiss her harder, pressing Max back slightly with the force of it. Max's fingers curled into the fabric of the hoodie as Victoria's tongue slid against hers, and Max couldn't help but whimper right into Victoria's mouth.

"Look who's so smooth now," Victoria murmured, but her voice was shaky, breathless in a way that betrayed just how affected she was. She pressed another kiss to Max's mouth, then pulled back just enough to add, "Using lines on me this early in the morning. Who would've thought." But she was already leaning in again, unable to maintain even that small distance, her teasing dissolving into another kiss.

"Not lines," Max managed to breathe between kisses, her fingers trailing down Victoria's spine. "Just truth."

"Fuck," Victoria whispered hotly against her mouth. "Max."

"Since the moment I saw you. You just—" Victoria crashed their lips together again, roughly, effectively shutting Max up, and kissing her like she was trying to pour everything she couldn't say into her mouth.

They stayed like that, trading kisses and the occasional teasing comment (always courtesy of Victoria), for what felt like hours, the morning sun climbing higher in the sky, warming their skin even as the ocean breeze continued to tug at their clothes. Every time one of them would pull back, the other would lean in again, neither quite ready to let this moment end. Victoria's thumb kept tracing patterns on Max's cheek, her hands kept tangling in her hair, and Max's fingers kept finding new places to touch – Victoria's waist, her shoulders, her neck, anywhere she could reach, anywhere Victoria would let her.

Eventually though, reluctantly, they had to stop, and so they began the walk back toward campus. The heart they'd drawn in the sand remained behind them, waiting to be scattered by the wind, but Max found she didn't mind – not when Victoria smoothed Max's disheveled hair where her own fingers had messed it up, not when Victoria's pinky kept finding hers as they walked, not when Victoria kept stealing glances at her with that soft smile playing at her kiss-swollen lips, not when Max could still feel the phantom press of Victoria's mouth against hers with every step.

But as they drew closer to Blackwell, Victoria's steps started to slow. The space between them gradually grew wider, their hands no longer seeking each other out. Max noticed the change immediately – the way Victoria's shoulders tensed slightly, how her eyes began darting around more frequently, scanning their surroundings. Max felt her own smile fading as she watched Victoria withdraw, watched her expression shift from open affection to something more guarded, more controlled. As they rounded the corner that would bring the campus into view, Victoria's steps stopped altogether. Her fingers found the edge of Max's hoodie, and Max could see the internal battle playing across her features even before she started to pull it off.

"Here," Victoria said softly, holding out the worn gray fabric. "Thanks for letting me borrow it."

Max felt something twist in her chest as she looked at the hoodie in Victoria's outstretched hand. She knew this would happen. Of course she knew. Victoria Chase couldn't exactly walk onto campus wearing Max Caulfield's old hoodie. And it really shouldn't hurt. But it did anyway, just a little.

"You can keep it," Max heard herself say. "If you want to, I mean." She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, trying to appear casual. "It looks better on you anyway."

Victoria's fingers tightened in the fabric, and Max watched as she pulled it back towards herself unconsciously, almost protectively. "Are you sure?" Her voice was quiet, uncertain, even as she clutched the hoodie to her chest.

"Yeah." Max smiled. "Besides, it touched your fancy designer workout gear. It's contaminated now."

Victoria rolled her eyes, but her arms tightened around the bundle of fabric. "That was a ridiculous joke."

When they finally arrived at the edge of campus, they came to a stop, that invisible line bursting their bubble as it collided with reality. Victoria shifted her weight from one foot to the other, eyes fixed on the brick buildings of Blackwell rising before them.

"You should go ahead," Max said, already reaching for her camera. "I want to get some morning shots while the light's still good."

Victoria hesitated, her eyes searching Max's face. "Max, I..."

"It's okay. Really," Max said quietly. "It's not a big deal. Go on."

Victoria took a few steps toward campus before stopping. She looked back at Max, and for a moment it seemed like she might say something else. But then she just nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips, before turning and walking away. Max watched her go, watched her spine straightening into that perfect private school posture, her chin lifting slightly, her walk shifting from casual to precisely measured steps that spoke of years of etiquette training. Even without makeup, even in workout clothes, Victoria was reconstructing her armor piece by piece, becoming once again the Victoria Chase that ruled Blackwell's social hierarchy, each step radiating the kind of entitled grace that made freshmen scramble out of her path. Despite all that, though, Max couldn't help but notice how she never loosened the protective grip she had on her hoodie.

Max turned her back to Blackwell and lifted her camera, absently framing a shot of the morning light streaming through a tree. There, on the rough bark, she spotted two squirrels cautiously making their way down the trunk – different ones from earlier, she was sure, but still part of that same gradual emergence from winter that had drawn her original squirrel out here in the first place. As she watched through her viewfinder, one squirrel paused to investigate something in the bark while the other continued its careful descent. The morning light caught their fur just right, turning it to bronze. Max pressed the shutter, capturing the moment.

Chapter Text

February 24, 2014

The clouds hung low over Blackwell, heavy and dark with the promise of rain. Max paced back and forth across the roof, her footsteps creating a steady rhythm against the concrete as she walked the familiar path between the access door and the ledge. Every few steps, she glanced up at the threatening sky, anxiety building in her chest with each pass of angry clouds. It couldn't rain tonight. Not yet. Not before Victoria made it up here.

They'd met in the rain before, of course. Plenty of times. This was Oregon, after all – it rained more often than not. But still Max found herself irrationally convinced that if it started raining before midnight, Victoria wouldn't come. That she'd text some excuse about not wanting to ruin her hair or her clothes or... or maybe she wouldn't text at all. Maybe she'd just not show up, and Max would be left standing here alone, rain mixing with the kind of pathetic tears she just knew would immediately start forming the second she was sure Victoria wasn't coming.

And god, it was just that Max really needed to see her tonight. She needed it in a way that caught her off guard, in a way that made her heart race and her stomach twist with something like giddy anticipation and crushing, mind-numbing, all-consuming uncertainty. Because Max really had thought she had this thing under control, this careful balance of Victoria's two worlds. She'd thought she'd gotten good at it, even – at separating Blackwell's Victoria from roof Victoria, at understanding how the Queen Bee couldn't acknowledge her in daylight, at treasuring their private midnight world where masks could fall away. She'd convinced herself that she understood the rules, and she did, really. But today had been... complicated. Not because anything had changed, but because everything had stayed exactly the same. And after this last weekend, Max hadn't exactly expected a difference, but she kind of hadn't expected not a difference either, and…

In photography class, Victoria had sat in her usual spot, had answered Mr. Carson's questions with her usual perfect blend of knowledge and carefully crafted disinterest, she'd rolled her eyes at Alyssa's stumbling attempt to explain depth of field, and had smirked when Taylor whispered something in her ear. She'd been completely, utterly normal. And she hadn't looked at Max even once. It had been the same in English, their only other shared class on Mondays. Victoria had Taylor on one side and Courtney on the other, and she'd dissected The Great Gatsby with that particular brand of casual brilliance that made their teacher beam, all while never glancing in Max's direction. In the cafeteria, she'd held court at the Vortex Club table, her characteristic public laugh carrying across the room as she'd tossed her head back at something someone had said. Not much later, Logan and his football crew had walked past Max's table, elbowing each other and making exaggerated kissy faces at Warren and Brooke. The commotion had drawn half the cafeteria's attention, but Victoria hadn't seemed to notice. She'd been too absorbed in whatever some cheerleader was saying to her, her perfect profile turned just so, as if the rest of the cafeteria – as if Max – didn't exist.

But Max did exist. And they, Victoria and Max, existed too. They had to, because Saturday had happened. And Sunday had happened. All of it had happened. It'd been real, Max had checked. They'd really spent an entire day together in Portland, and Max was now almost certain that it could actually be classified as a date. It checked every box: the fancy brunch where Victoria had insisted on paying, the way Victoria's foot had pressed against hers under the table, how Victoria had practically glowed when Max played guitar, the way Victoria had kept finding excuses to lean closer to Max at the gallery, Victoria's whole… thing during that salon visit, followed by that hug on the street… and then when they'd finally come back here, to this very roof, and she'd taught Max how to use those hair products – that had been just an excuse, right? An excuse to touch her, to run her fingers through Max's hair, to press closer and closer until finally, finally kissing her.

And then the beach yesterday morning, with smiling and teasing and almost hand-holding and even more kissing and that heart Victoria had drawn in the sand, like something out of a movie Max would've been too scared to even dream about.

But then Victoria had walked onto campus without her, clutching Max's hoodie like it was both precious and shameful at once. And sure, last night Victoria had come to the roof again, but she'd been exhausted, dark circles under her eyes that even her perfect makeup couldn't quite hide. Max had caught a nap that afternoon, but apparently Victoria hadn't, and when Max suggested they cut their meeting short so that Victoria could get some sleep, she had agreed with a tired little smile. There had been no kisses, no touches, nothing but that smile and a quiet goodnight. And now today... today Max didn't exist, and—

Thunder rolled in the distance, drawing Max's attention back to the present, to the roof that was empty save for her, Victoria's expensive blanket they left hidden up here every night, and the two thermoses of hot chocolate Max had brought and placed near the ledge. Max just kept pacing, each step matching the anxious rhythm of her heart as she glanced between her phone and the sky. The clouds were getting darker, hanging so low now she could almost touch them, and it was obvious that it was going to start raining any minute now. She checked her phone again – 11:34 PM, and god, it was still so early. Victoria wasn't late at all. She could still show up, she always showed up, she'd been showing up for fifty-one nights straight. Nothing had changed, everything was the same, Victoria always acted that way in public, it was normal, and she could still come tonight, and she could still—

As if on cue, the door creaked open.

Max turned, her heart instantly launching into an erratic rhythm at the sight of Victoria stepping onto the roof. Relief flooded through her so intensely it made her dizzy – and then, immediately after, a wave of bone-deep fear hit her harder than anything else she'd been feeling today. And that was the thing, wasn't it? Deep down, Max had always known Victoria would come – that girl was a creature of habit, a perfectionist, so very meticulous with all her routines, so of course she'd be here, like clockwork, precise as ever. No, what had actually been scaring Max was the possibility that Victoria would indeed show up, but she'd act exactly like she'd had all day: indifferent, distant, uncaring, frivolous, untouchable.

That she'd look at Max with the polite disinterest she'd wielded in the hallways, would talk about homework or weather or anything except the way she'd kissed Max two nights ago, the way she'd kissed Max on the beach yesterday. That she'd act like Portland hadn't meant anything, like they hadn't shared something real over brunch and in guitar shops and gallery walks and salon visits. That she'd pretend she hadn't felt the way Max's heart raced when her lips were on her neck, that she'd pretend she hadn't noticed Max's hands shaking when they'd cupped her face, that Max would have to keep acting like she hadn't somehow, stupidly, completely fallen in love with her. That Victoria would take the last two days and lock them away behind that perfect mask like none of it had ever happened at all.

Victoria stood perfectly still by the door with her usual pristine uniform – designer everything, perfectly styled hair, and flawless makeup. Her eyes moved from Max to the blanket she'd carefully spread over their usual ledge, and then to the two thermoses of hot chocolate placed beside it. Something flickered across her face then – surprise, mixed with confusion – because Max was never this early. It was always Victoria who arrived first, who waited while Max stumbled through the door at 12:03 or 12:05, always just a little bit late.

Victoria's face remained carefully impassive as she took this in, that ever-present mask of indifference she wore so well. But then her eyes found Max's again, and something shifted. The mask cracked along invisible fault lines, splintering outward from her eyes, and then shattered completely as she crossed the distance between them in four quick strides.

Max's heart practically stopped in her chest as Victoria's hands reached for her face. Time seemed to slow, stretch, suspend itself as Victoria drew closer, closer, until Max could see every shade of green in her eyes, could feel the warmth of her breath against her lips, and then Victoria was kissing her, hard and desperate and certain, and Max's entire body lit up like a live wire. Every nerve ending sparked to life at once, butterflies erupting in her stomach with such intensity she felt like she was going to float away with them. Max made a sound – something between a gasp and a whimper, surprise and relief and want and need all tangled together – before melting completely into the kiss. Her hands found Victoria's waist immediately, fingers curling into expensive cashmere as she kissed back with equal urgency.

They were stumbling backward, Victoria's hand tangling in Max's hair while the other gripped her hip, guiding her, steering her until Max's back hit the wall beside the door. Victoria pressed closer immediately, eliminating any remaining space between them, her body pinning Max against the cold concrete. The contrast between the chill of the wall and the warmth of Victoria's body made Max gasp, and Victoria took immediate advantage, deepening the kiss with such hunger that it legitimately made Max's knees weak. Her tongue slid against Max's as now both her hands tightened in brown hair, drawing another desperate sound from Max's throat. Thunder rolled again somewhere above them, closer now, but neither of them noticed.

"You stared at me all day," Victoria breathed into the kiss, her voice low and rough. "All. Day." Her fingers tugged slightly at Max's hair with each word, making Max groan, her own fingers desperately trying to pull Victoria even closer by the waist, though it seemed physically impossible – they were already pressed together so tightly Max could feel Victoria's heartbeat thundering against her own chest. "I can't focus," Victoria continued, whispering against Max's lips, "I really can't do it. Not when I can feel your eyes on me like that."

Max's hands moved from Victoria's waist to her back, clutching helplessly at the fabric of her sweater, trying to find purchase. "I'm sorry," Max managed to breathe out, but the relief that coursed through her veins was warm like sunlight – Victoria had noticed her staring, which meant Victoria had been watching her too, which meant she had been aware of Max, which meant—

"Liar," Victoria murmured, the word hot against Max's mouth, pinning Max more firmly against the wall. "You're not sorry at all."

Max responded by kissing her harder, her hands now sliding up to cradle Victoria's face. Victoria made a soft sound in the back of her throat that turned into something needier when Max's fingers threaded through her short hair. And god, had Victoria always been this tall? Max had to tilt her head back against the wall to meet her properly, but she didn't care, not when Victoria was making those sounds, not when she could feel Victoria's breath coming just as fast and uneven as her own. Gradually, though, the desperate edge of their kisses began to soften, the urgency melting into something deeper, slower, but no less intense. Victoria's hands became gentler in Max's hair, and her body relaxed against hers even as she kept her pinned to the wall. Little contented sounds escaped Victoria's throat (or was it Max's?) between kisses, quiet hums of pleasure that made her heart flutter.

Max didn't know what compelled her to do it – maybe it was those sounds, or how amazing she felt pressed between Victoria and the wall, or maybe it was just that the words had been building in her chest all day – but she found herself pulling back just enough to whisper: "I was scared we'd pretend nothing had changed. I thought you'd— um, I guess I… I didn't know if you'd want to…" she trailed off helplessly, her newfound bravery dissipating into the night as quickly as it'd come.

When Victoria pulled back to look at Max, there was a little crease between her eyebrows, perhaps confusion at Max's words, or concern, or maybe fear. Max was too dazed to tell, especially when her eyes examined the rest of Victoria's face and – oh, this was the first time they'd kissed while Victoria was wearing makeup, wasn't it? Her lipstick was completely smudged, the dark mauve color she'd worn today now smeared all over her mouth. Max couldn't look away from her lips, couldn't stop staring at the evidence of what they'd just done. Her hands slid from Victoria's face down to her shoulders, needing something solid to hold onto, something to ground herself before she completely lost track of where they were.

Then, Victoria's thumb brushed against Max's bottom lip, and the combination of that gesture with the way Victoria's mouth looked... the butterflies in Max's stomach suddenly swooped much lower than usual.

"That's a good look on you," Victoria murmured.

"Huh?" Max managed eloquently.

Victoria drew back more, but just enough to study Max's face better, her green eyes dark and intense in a way that made Max's hands tighten on her shoulders. Victoria's fingers drifted up then, threading through Max's hair with deliberate slowness, nails scraping lightly against her scalp. "My haircut," Victoria said, then slid her hand down to Max's neck, tugging the blue silk ever so slightly. "My scarf." Finally, her thumb found Max's bottom lip again, and pressed, her pad dragging slowly across Max's mouth. "And definitely this. My lipstick."

Their eyes met and suddenly all the air was knocked from Max's lungs. Victoria's gaze, and the way her pupils were blown so wide the green of her irises was barely visible, and the slight part of her lips, and— it hit Max like a physical force – Victoria was feeling possessive, like Max had when Victoria wore her hoodie, and Max couldn't do anything but swallow hard around whatever it was that was keeping her from breathing properly. Victoria's hand moved to cradle Max's jaw then, her thumb remaining where it was, still pressed against Max's bottom lip. The pad of it dragged slowly back and forth, surely spreading what remained of her lipstick further across Max's mouth. Max leaned into the touch without conscious thought, her eyes fluttering half-closed at the sensation.

Max turned her head just slightly, just enough to press a soft kiss against Victoria's palm where it cradled her face. She felt Victoria's sharp intake of breath more than heard it, felt the slight tremor that ran through Victoria's hand at the contact. When Max shifted back to her original position, Victoria's thumb found her lip again, as if drawn there by some magnetic force, but there was something uniquely vulnerable in Victoria's expression now – surprise and wonder and…

Words bubbled up in Max's throat – how much she'd love to wear anything Victoria wanted her to, how willing she was to do whatever she wished if it meant Victoria would look at her like that, and also how much she'd missed Victoria all day, and how seeing her across rooms and hallways without being able to interact had been torture, and how she'd spent hours agonizing over whether everything was still okay between them or not, and how much she needed things between them to be okay, and how devastatingly important Victoria was to her, and— no, they didn't do that, did they? They didn't talk about these things, about the push and pull between their public and private worlds, or about the constant dance of distance and closeness, and they most certainly did not talk about feelings.

So instead, Max heard herself say: "My mouth is completely covered in your lipstick then?"

"Yes," Victoria breathed. "Completely."

"I feel like this is going to seriously undermine my street cred with the squirrels tomorrow."

"Your what with the what?" Victoria asked, incredulous laughter suddenly bubbling up in her throat. The vulnerability in her expression dissolved into pure amusement as she processed Max's words. But before Max could elaborate on her obviously very important wildlife relationships, Victoria was already pulling her back in, still laughing against her lips as she kissed her.

They kissed, and kissed, and laughed, or maybe giggled would be the more accurate term, and kissed even more until the sky seemed to crack open all at once, rain suddenly pouring down in thick sheets that had them both gasping and laughing against each other's mouths. Lightning flashed directly overhead, followed immediately by a crack of thunder so loud it seemed to shake the entire building.

"Yeah, no," Victoria said, finally breaking away from Max. "I'm not dying on this roof just because you're a good kisser." She took a step back, running her hands futilely through her now-soaked hair. "Getting struck by lightning is absolutely not how Victoria Chase goes out."

Max tried desperately to ignore the swarm of butterflies that erupted in her stomach at those words, and the blush she could feel creeping up her neck – of course Victoria would casually call her a good kisser just like that, like it was normal, as simple and obvious as saying the sky was blue. Max forced herself to grin like a normal person that can take a compliment and said: "What, you don't think it'd make a good story? 'Chase heiress and photography student caught in scandalous rooftop rendezvous, then struck by lightning.'"

"Bold of you to assume I'd let them print that headline," Victoria said, but she was already moving to gather both thermoses of hot chocolate from where they sat abandoned by the ledge. "I'll have contacts even in the afterlife. It would be more like 'Tragic loss of future Vogue's Head of Photography, some other girl also present.'"

"Asshole."

"Yeah, now come on, we are not having this conversation in a storm."

They made it to the stairwell just as another flash of lightning illuminated the roof behind them. The heavy metal door clanged shut, the sound echoing down the narrow concrete stairwell. Water dripped steadily from their clothes, creating small puddles at their feet, but Victoria didn't seem to mind, seeing as she slid down to sit on one of the top steps, somehow making even that look graceful despite her thoroughly drenched state. She patted the space beside her, and Max obediently, eagerly, lowered herself onto the step too. Victoria wordlessly handed her one thermos while keeping the other, the movement natural and automatic, like they'd been doing this for years instead of months. They both took long sips of the hot chocolate then, the warmth seeping through them, fighting off the chill from their rain-soaked clothes.

Max lowered her thermos and turned to look at Victoria. And of course, even with rain-dampened hair and smeared lipstick, she was breathtaking, but when wasn't she? Without thinking too hard about it, Max reached up, her thumb carefully brushing at the edges of Victoria's mouth where her perfect mauve lipstick had smudged beyond its usual precise lines. Victoria went very still under her touch, watching Max with an intensity that should have been intimidating. But her eyes held something soft as Max's thumb traced the corner of her mouth with careful attention, intent on removing the lipstick from her skin. Victoria's lips twitched like she was trying not to smile.

"What?" Max asked finally, still focusing on her self-appointed task. "I'm just trying to help you be perfect again. There's nothing funny about it."

Victoria didn't say anything. She just sat perfectly still, letting Max clean the smeared lipstick from around her mouth. Only when Max finally lowered her hand did Victoria move, reaching up and gently cradling Max's face between her palms, her thumbs beginning their own careful work of cleaning the mauve from Max's skin. Max wasn't nearly as successful as Victoria at hiding her smile during this process – she could feel it spreading across her face even as Victoria worked, which only made Victoria's task more difficult, and got her rolling her eyes at Max's inability to keep still, but Victoria was freely smiling now too, so it didn't look like it bothered her all that much.

Once finished, they both reached for their own thermos again, trying and failing to hide their smiles behind the rims as they took long sips of hot chocolate. Which, Max supposed, was a pretty fitting thing for them to do, sitting here grinning into their drinks like the giddy schoolgirls they technically were. Though there was something almost surreal about that thought – that she was just a normal teenager having a normal teenage moment, sitting in a stairwell with a pretty girl, both of them wearing matching smiles and matching lipstick and matching soaked clothes. It felt impossible that just a little while ago her heart had been heavy with uncertainty and fear. Now, with Victoria's shoulder pressed warm and solid against hers, with the storm raging harmlessly outside, with the taste of hot chocolate and Victoria still on her tongue, Max could barely remember what she'd been so afraid of in the first place.

Chapter Text

February 27, 2014

"Caulfield, for fuck's sake. Stop moving. You're going to make me mess up."

Max tried to still her fingers where they rested between them on the blanket, but it was easier said than done – partly because the night air was cold enough to make staying perfectly still a challenge, but mostly because Victoria was touching her and Victoria was beautiful, and those two things were kind of hard to deal with sometimes. And sure, technically Victoria was simply painting Max's nails, but that still meant Victoria's fingers were wrapped carefully around her own, still meant Victoria's skin was pressed warm against hers, still meant Victoria was doing that laser-focus attention thing she always did, but she was giving that attention to Max of all people, and that always made her heart do complicated things in her chest, and made the butterflies in her stomach pull aerial maneuvers that would get them court-martialed from flight school. And Max just really wanted to reach out and touch her, really wanted to lean forward and kiss her, which was something Max could actually do now, and she kept having to remind herself that this wasn't some elaborate hallucination, and yes, fine, keeping her hands (and her body) still was difficult right now, but honestly, Max was sure that even a statue would have trouble staying still too, all things considered.

Max had known it would be difficult, she'd known it from the second Victoria had mentioned it last night. She'd done it in this exaggeratedly offhand way – how she'd 'happened' to buy this new Chanel nail polish and had 'just noticed' it would look perfect on Max – and then, of course, Max had gone and immediately agreed to let Victoria paint her nails. Because at this point she was self-aware enough to know she had no interest in disagreeing with anything Victoria suggested, and because some increasingly feral part of her brain absolutely lived for moments when Victoria got possessive about her appearance, and nail polish was basically a semi-permanent mark and… Max was only human.

But tonight, when Victoria had finally pulled the tiny bottle out of her bag and nonchalantly revealed the polish was light blue – like the scarf, like Max's eyes – and then launched into some detailed explanation about how proper nail polish needed two base coats and at least two color coats and then a top coat for shine, all Max could manage to process was that she'd have to sit here forever while Victoria touched her hands with her own perfect, beautiful, elegant, long fingers, and… well, Max had realized then that tonight would be harder than anticipated, and her prediction was proving true.

They sat cross-legged on the blanket, thermoses of hot chocolate abandoned beside them as Victoria's left hand cradled Max's fingers, holding them steady against the blanket while her right hand expertly guided the tiny brush, loaded with blue for the first time tonight, over Max's thumbnail. The base coats were already done on both hands, leaving Max's nails feeling weirdly smooth and thick in a way she kept trying to focus on, except Victoria's tongue kept poking out whenever she concentrated extra hard on a stroke, which was doing absolutely nothing to help Max's ability to use her brain. And she just couldn't stop looking – at Victoria's hands, at her jawline when she'd tilt her head just so to check her work, at those gorgeous green eyes and the unfairly perfect lashes above them, at her full lips, soft and bare, the way they'd been every night since they'd gotten her lipstick smeared all over both their mouths that one time. And maybe there had been some kind of cosmic paperwork mix-up, because no amount of good karma could possibly explain how Max had ended up here, with Victoria Chase, who was clearly some kind of deity masquerading as—

"I said stop moving," Victoria repeated without looking up from Max's nails.

"I'm not moving," Max protested.

"You are. You're literally vibrating right now."

"That's just my natural state of being."

Victoria's eyes flicked up to meet Max's then, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arching upward to manifest just how unimpressed she was. "Well, your 'natural state of being' is making my job significantly more difficult than it needs to be."

"Maybe you're just not as good at this as you claim to be," Max countered, immediately biting her lip to fight back a smile when Victoria's other eyebrow indignantly shot up to join the first.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Victoria's tone was desert-dry even as her fingers remained impossibly gentle around Max's hand. "Would you prefer I stop? Let you go back to your usual habit of biting your nails down to nothing and then picking at the skin until it bleeds? Because I can absolutely do that, Caulfield. Just say the word."

Max opened her mouth to argue, to keep the banter going, but she quickly snapped it shut again. Because Victoria wasn't exactly wrong about the nail-biting thing, but more importantly, Max really, really didn't want Victoria to stop touching her hand. So she settled for a mock annoyed huff instead and wordlessly admitted defeat.

"That's what I thought," Victoria said, satisfaction coloring her voice as she returned her attention to Max's fingers. "Now stay still and let me fix this disaster."

Max duly concentrated on keeping her hands steady – her left one resting carefully on her knee, the base coat still drying, and her right one held in Victoria's grip as she worked. Max channeled every ounce of self-control she possessed into the task. She even tried that meditation breathing technique she'd learned from a YouTube video ages ago, though she was pretty sure she was doing it wrong. Still, it seemed to work well enough, and they fell into a comfortable silence as Max watched Victoria now carefully paint the nail on her index finger.

Her mind started to wander, the way it always did during quiet moments. She really needed to call her mom back – four missed calls was definitely entering that special territory where her mom would start every conversation with a twenty-minute lecture about how 'it takes ten seconds to text, Maxine.' And there was that chemistry homework due tomorrow that she'd been avoiding all week. Plus she'd promised Kate she'd actually show up to one of her tea parties this time, no more rain checks. Shit. Her thoughts quickly drifted to Chloe then, probably because avoiding things always made her think of Chloe.

Her birthday was coming up next month, and Max found herself briefly fantasizing about it: riding in Chloe's truck with the windows down, sharing greasy fries at the Two Whales, watching Chloe blow smoke rings in the parking lot while they planned whatever chaos she'd want to cause for her birthday. God, how different everything was now – Max hadn't even been to the diner since October, hadn't tasted Joyce's coffee or breathed in that familiar mix of bacon and salt air. She'd been here instead, barely leaving Blackwell, spending countless hours on a rooftop with Victoria Chase every night. The thought made her drift into another fantasy: lying on Chloe's bed while punk rock blared from her stereo, watching smoke curl from Chloe's lips toward the ceiling as Max told her about Victoria, about stargazing and macarons and not-dates and kisses. The same Victoria who'd apparently made both their lives miserable (according to Victoria's occasional guilty comments about Chloe's time at Blackwell) was now holding Max's hand like it was made of glass, painting her nails light blue because she clearly liked Max's eyes but was too scared to admit it.

Chloe would laugh herself sick at how cliché it all was – way worse than that heart they'd drawn in the sand. The popular mean girl and the wallflower? It was like some teen movie director's fever dream come to life, complete with the classic makeover scenes – clothes she never would've touched before, a haircut that was basically the same but somehow actually made her look put-together, literal midnight nail painting sessions…

"You know," Max started, unable to stop the thought once it formed, "this is very... girly teen movie sleepover of us."

Victoria's hand froze mid-stroke, the polish brush suspended above Max's nail like time itself had stopped. She processed Max's words for a very long time and with the same gravity someone might use for a bomb threat. And then:

"Excuse me?"

"You know, like in all those movies," Max pressed on, "the girls have sleepovers and they paint each other's nails, and do their hair, and stay up all night talking about their crushes or sharing secrets or..." she trailed off, watching as Victoria's expression shifted from disbelief to horror to outright indignation, each emotion playing across her features with such dramatic intensity that Max had to bite back a smile.

"I am going to pretend you didn't just compare my Chanel manicure to some tacky teen movie sleepover ritual." Victoria leveled one of her signature looks at Max – the kind that had sent freshmen scrambling in the halls but now just made Max's heart skip. Then, she gently released Max's right hand, the first coat of light blue still glossy, and reached for her left. The tiny brush found her left pinkie with maybe a bit more concentration than the smallest finger strictly required. "Besides, this is hardly a sleepover. We're on a roof."

"I don't know," Max mused, gingerly setting her freshly painted hand on her knee to dry, trying desperately to keep her other hand still even as Victoria's thumb traced absent patterns across her knuckles. "We have a blanket, hot chocolate, and you're literally painting my nails. We're only missing the pillow fights and secret sharing to complete the experience."

Victoria's lips twitched despite her obvious effort to maintain a straight face. "Well, seeing as I don't have a pillow to smother you with right now," she said, her voice carrying that particular blend of exasperation and fondness that seemed to be reserved for Max, "I suppose we'll have to settle for secrets. What's on your mind, Caulfield?"

Max looked down at her right hand resting on her knee, the blue polish gleaming, so very perfect and precise, not a single drop having strayed onto her skin. Butterflies erupted in her stomach at the sight – because she was wearing a piece of Victoria again, of course, but also because of how carefully Victoria had painted each nail, like every single one of them, even despite their frankly rough shape, actually deserved that kind of devoted attention. It reminded her of the salon, how Victoria had watched the stylist's every move, practically vibrating with protective energy over each snip of the scissors. And that moment in the guitar shop or, actually, any of those nights up here when they'd spoken about Max's photography, when Victoria had gotten genuinely upset at Max doubting herself, her voice cold, and sharp, and frustrated, and yet none of it could hide the care that lay right beneath. And maybe it was ridiculous that this made Max's heart feel too big for her chest – how Victoria wrapped tenderness in sharp edges, how she showed she cared through perfectly executed gestures rather than soft words. But Max couldn't help it, couldn't stop herself from falling a little harder each time Victoria's careful attention landed on her, couldn't pretend she didn't just—

"I really like when you do stuff like this," Max said before she could stop herself.

Victoria glanced up at that, her perfect composure wavering for a moment as confusion and something softer battled across her features. "Yeah? Stuff like what exactly?"

"Stuff like— um. I guess, like, when you notice these things about me, and you…" Warmth crept up Max's neck as Victoria's curious eyes stayed fixed on her face. "I mean, like how my bangs were always in my eyes, or..." she gestured vaguely with her right hand at the manicure in progress, "this. How I bite my nails. And sure, you give me a hard time pretty much constantly, but you also actually... help." The words were tumbling out now, her voice getting quieter with each admission. "You take it so seriously, and you're so careful about it, and it's like it actually matters to you," she paused for a couple of beats, "like I matter to you, I guess. And I just... I really like that."

Max's right hand had started fidgeting with her jeans without her permission, but Victoria's fingers were immediately there, stilling them with gentle pressure. "Don't," Victoria murmured, her touch soft despite its firmness. "They need to dry."

"Sorry."

Victoria pulled her hand back with uncharacteristic quickness, and something complicated played across her face – emotions flickering by too fast to catch, like light through leaves, before her usual impassive mask finally slid back into place. When she returned to Max's fingers though, her normally steady hands weren't quite so steady anymore, the brush trembling ever so slightly against Max's nail.

Max swallowed, and then said: "It's your turn."

"What?"

"Sleepover," she replied, managing a small smile. "Fair's fair. I shared my secret."

A quiet laugh escaped Victoria's throat, breathy and uncertain, but she kept her eyes fixed on Max's hand, resolutely focusing on each precise stroke like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Silence stretched between them for a long time, broken only by the soft clink of the brush against glass as Victoria dipped it back into the bottle. Right when Max had convinced herself Victoria wasn't going to say anything, she spoke:

"I actually bought this nail polish specifically for you."

Max felt a grin spread across her face at that, because of course Victoria would say that like it's some huge, heartfelt confession, and of course it would make Max's heart flutter like it did just now.

"I know you did. Thank you."

Victoria's eyes met hers then, color blooming across her cheeks like watercolor on paper. Max smiled at her, and Victoria smiled back, albeit somewhat shyly. "Yeah. I figured you'd figure that out," Victoria admitted quietly. Her eyes drifted to Max's mouth for just a moment – so brief Max might have missed it if she hadn't been watching Victoria's face so intently – before they dropped back to her work. Her hands steadied as she moved to Max's middle finger, wielding the tiny brush with renewed focus. "Your turn again," she added like an afterthought, her voice carrying an air of casualness that Max knew meant exactly the opposite.

Max's heart immediately began thundering against her ribs, knowing this game they were about to play was as thrilling as it was dangerous. She went quiet, sorting through all the possible secrets she could share, trying to find one that was meaningful enough without being too mortifying. Finally, Max drew in a steadying breath.

"Remember when we met for brunch over winter break in Seattle?"

Victoria hummed quietly, her brush never pausing in its careful work.

"I, um, kind of freaked out. Like, completely lost my mind. I changed clothes probably a thousand times that morning. My mom actually came in to check if I was okay because I'd been making so much noise running back and forth between my closet and mirror."

A soft chuckle escaped Victoria's throat then, and when she looked up, her eyes were sparkling with barely contained something. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Max admitted with an embarrassed smile.

"Come to think of it, I think that was the only time I've seen you wear mascara."

"Yes. Like I said – freaking out."

The smile on Victoria's face widened, and Max's face felt too hot, so she dropped her gaze to their hands. "For future reference," Victoria started, shifting her grip to work on Max's index finger, "I don't actually care what you wear."

Max's head snapped up so fast she nearly jerked her hand out of Victoria's. "I'm sorry, what?" She stared at Victoria with probably comically wide eyes. "Did you hit your head when I wasn't looking?"

Victoria rolled her eyes with her usual dramatic flair. "Don't be ridiculous. I care about clothes, obviously. You know that. It's just that with you, what matters to me is—" She stopped abruptly, suddenly looking confused, or scared, and apparently very shocked at what she'd just been about to say. Max watched as Victoria's jaw worked, muscles jumping beneath the skin, like she was trying very hard to find the right words to explain what she was thinking. She tried again: "It is different with you because I..." But Victoria fell quiet again, now focusing intently on Max's nail, her brush strokes becoming slightly less precise as something seemed to war behind her eyes. "It bothers me when you wear clothes that don't fit you right, but it doesn't—" Victoria huffed out a frustrated breath then, moving to Max's thumb with unusual quickness, tension creeping into her shoulders, her entire body going rigid as Victoria threw herself into finishing the thumb with laser focus, like whatever it was that she wasn't saying could be buried beneath perfect strokes of light blue polish.

"Victoria—" Max started gently, but Victoria was already pulling away, her hand letting go of Max's as she slid the brush back into its bottle, the sound of the cap screwing closed impossibly loud in the night air.

"Let's wait for these to dry before we do the second coat," Victoria said, her voice taking on this neutral tone that immediately made Max's stomach drop. Because just like that, the walls were back up – that distance Max hadn't seen directed at her since Portland now settling over Victoria's features like frost, and Max really didn't want that, Max couldn't have that, and—

"Okay, so that was your turn, I guess," Max said, both painted hands now resting on her knees as she leaned forward slightly, trying to catch Victoria's eye. "It's my turn again, right?"

"I don't really want to play anymore, Max."

"That's okay," Max said quietly. She hesitated, fingers starting to fidget against her knees despite her effort to keep them still. "But... can I still play? Just for a minute?"

Victoria looked at her then, really looked at her, and whatever she found on Max's face made her hand drift to her gold bracelet, fingers finding the familiar metal and twisting it once, then again, and again, and Max's chest tightened at the gesture – it had become less and less common the more time they'd spent together, and seeing it now felt like watching Victoria take several steps backward.

But then Victoria gave a small nod, her eyes dropping to where her fingers still worked at the bracelet. "Yeah, whatever. Go ahead."

"Okay, cool. So, um… do you remember that day last year, uh, right before fall break?" The words came out a little shaky, but Max pressed on. "When we were framing photos with our hands in the rain? All around campus? That day – that was the first time I... I mean, towards the end, I think we were by the library, and I turned around and you were right there, and..."

The words hung in the air between them as Max watched Victoria, who was looking back at her with an expression caught somewhere between practiced boredom and barely contained flight. And this was the moment – Max could feel it trembling between them like a soap bubble, fragile and iridescent. She didn't want to say too much, it was absolutely terrifying to. But if she didn't say enough... Max watched Victoria's fingers drift through her short hair, though not a single strand was out of place – it was perfect, as always, just like her posture and her mask and her distance.

Max took a steadying breath. "That day, that moment – that was the first time I wanted to kiss you," she admitted. "I mean, that was the first time I was, like, aware that was something I wanted to do. Though it took me a while to actually admit it to myself." Max's voice grew softer, but more certain. "But, um, yeah."

Victoria's jaw clenched as her hand moved from her hair to her neck, a gesture that did nothing to hide her agitation, or her deepening blush, or the way her mask had almost crumbled at Max's words. "That's certainly a choice of moment to fixate on," she said, clearly trying to sound dismissive, but landing somewhere closer to nervously surprised.

"I fixate on a lot of different moments actually," Max said. "Like that time you came out to me as the world's biggest astronomy nerd," Max teased with a small, tentative smile, her heart soaring when Victoria visibly had to fight against returning it. Max's eyes drifted to a spot near the ledge then, and she gestured toward it with her right hand, now mostly dry. "I was lying right there, and then you showed up above me and you were upside down, and—" Max paused, blinked. "Well, obviously you weren't actually upside down. But you were from where I was, and… does that make any sense? Because I was lying down and—"

"Yes, Max. I get it," Victoria cut in dryly. "I understand how perspective works." But there was this small amused smile playing at her lips now, and her fingers were nowhere near her bracelet, and Max opening up was actually helping, which made her bolder, which—

"You looked so pretty, Victoria. So pretty." Victoria cleared her throat, clearly caught off guard by the earnest praise, clearly wanting Max to stop, but Max kept going. "And I was so shocked that you could look like that even from that angle. I didn't… I couldn't stop noticing how beautiful you are after that. I mean, I'd noticed before, obviously, but after that night it was like... I couldn't stop seeing it. Like everything you did just made it worse. I just kept— keep getting blown away every day, every minute, by how gorgeous you—"

"Max," Victoria said, her voice unsteady, caught somewhere between warning and plea.

"And then you gave me chocolate," Max continued, the words tumbling out like she couldn't hold them back anymore. "This amazing chocolate that was made with lavender or something – I hadn't even eaten lavender before. Didn't even know you could eat that. But you did, and you gave it to me, and then you just kept... After that, you kept doing these things, and showing me these parts of yourself, and I just—"

"I lied that day," Victoria said, a crack, or ten, forming in the wall she'd put up. "I didn't accidentally buy two bars. I bought one. On purpose. For you."

"I know, Victoria," Max responded, and she couldn't help the grin that spread across her face.

"What, you know all my secrets already?"

"Oh, so you're playing again?"

"I'm not," Victoria said, rolling her eyes, but that genuine smile Max loved so much was back on Victoria's face, and Max supposed that since she'd already started, she might as well just…

"It's still my turn then." Max drew in a breath, deciding to ride her wave of boldness. "So, on Valentine's Day, when I found out you had a date… I may or may not have spent the entire day in bed, just lying there like some kind of sad log." Victoria's eyebrows lifted in amused disbelief. "I, um. Actually teared up a little."

Victoria's jaw actually dropped at that, her expression a mix of amusement, surprise, and something almost tender. "Are you serious? You cried?"

"I didn't cry," Max protested immediately. "I teared up. There's a difference."

"So you just lay in your bed, pining over me, crying, because I did a Valentine's Day thing on Valentine's Day," Victoria teased, but her voice had gone too soft for it to actually feel mocking. "That's actually kind of pathetic, Caulfield."

"Says the girl who bought me an extremely expensive designer scarf and matching nail polish just because the color reminded her of my eyes," Max countered.

"That's not why I—" Victoria began to protest, but then stopped herself, her hand unconsciously sliding across the blanket toward Max and stopping halfway between them. "I just have excellent taste. And you have... acceptable eyes."

"Acceptable?" Max raised an eyebrow, her fingers finding Victoria's on the blanket and intertwining with them.

"My mother set up that date, for the record," Victoria said, her hand tightening around Max's. She paused for some moments, almost hesitant, but then added: "And I thought about you that entire day."

Max's heart stuttered in her chest. "I... I look at you," she found herself saying, "all the time. In class, in the hallways, here. You've noticed, obviously, you keep catching me and pointing it out. But I can't help it. Sometimes I forget what I'm doing because I get distracted watching you and… I can't stop thinking about you. I think about you all the time. I want to be with you all the time. Being with you is pretty much the only thing I think about when I—"

"I've never felt like this before," Victoria said suddenly, the words tumbling out like she hadn't meant to say them. Her green eyes widened slightly, like she'd surprised even herself, and she instinctively tried to pull her hand away. But Max held on, fingers tightening around Victoria's, her other hand coming to rest protectively over their joined ones even as Max's breath started to come in short, uneven bursts. Victoria's gaze dropped to where their hands were tangled together on the blanket, and she looked scared, and hopeful, and vulnerable, and perfect, and— "I don't... I've never…" Victoria whispered, unable to finish her thoughts, but she didn't need to.

"Me neither. I've never felt— about anyone," Max whispered back. "Not even close."

When their eyes finally met again, Max saw everything she felt reflected back at her – all the uncertainty and want, and that mixture of fear and hope, and that something bigger that Max wouldn't dare name yet, and then Victoria's free hand was drifting up to cup Max's face, her thumb brushing softly across her cheekbone. "I'd never even cared for freckles until I met you in September. But now I..."

Max's own hand lifted to Victoria's face, fingers tracing along her jaw as if in a trance. "September?" she echoed, the word taking a moment to process through her hazy mind, her heart beating too fast at this point for her to be able to think properly. "September – the only times you interacted with me back then were to insult my clothes or my camera."

Victoria leaned into Max's touch, color rising in her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "At first I honestly thought I hated you, then when I realized I didn't, I convinced myself I was jealous. But then..." She paused, her thumb continuing its gentle stroking of Max's cheek. "Then I actually got to know you and—"

Max leaned forward and pressed her lips to Victoria's, impossibly soft, both her hands sliding up to cradle Victoria's jaw. Victoria kissed back immediately, her thumb still caressing Max's cheek while her other hand found the collar of Max's jacket, fingers curling into the fabric to pull her closer. The kiss held none of their usual urgency – just gentle pressure and shared breath, and it wasn't long before they pulled back slightly, staying like that for a moment, foreheads pressed together. Max's fingers traced feather-light patterns against Victoria's cheeks, memorizing the softness of her skin, basking in the knowledge that Victoria did actually like her back. Victoria's eyes were still closed, a small smile playing at her lips, when Max suddenly felt a frown against her own forehead.

"Your nails," Victoria breathed.

"They're dry," Max whispered back, but as she pulled away to look, she found that the side of Victoria's face where her left hand had been was painted with delicate streaks of light blue, like abstract art against her perfect skin. Max's gaze dropped to her own hand – the careful manicure was thoroughly destroyed, polish smeared across her fingers.

Victoria opened her eyes then, catching sight of Max's expression. Her gaze moved from Max's ruined nails to her guilty face, and something softened in her features. She reached up to touch her own cheek, fingers coming away tinged blue.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine. But this does mean you'll have to let me do it all again."

"Oh, no. The girl I like will touch my hands. The horror."

"Shut up."

Chapter Text

March 2, 2014

Max couldn't quite piece together how she'd ended up here. She could, however, remember some things, like how she'd spent the entire afternoon in the dorms' common kitchen. She remembered how she'd measured flour, how she'd checked her phone countless times to make sure she had her mom's recipe right, how she'd actually called her mom because she'd convinced herself she did not have her recipe right, and also to double-check that thing about creaming the butter and sugar together ("Until it's fluffy, Maxine, you'll know it when you see it" – which wasn't exactly the precise instruction she'd been hoping for). She remembered how she'd spent fifteen minutes examining the ancient oven, trying to figure out if the temperature dial was accurate, if maybe she should adjust the cooking time to account for its obvious decades of use. She also remembered watching in horror as the first batch turned black around the edges, then groaning in frustration when the second batch came out basically raw in the middle. The third batch had been alright… but nowhere near good enough. But most of all, Max remembered how nervous she'd been about the cookies being perfect. Because Victoria Chase, her Victoria, the girl that kept doing things for Max with the utmost precision and care like the world might just end if she didn't, deserved nothing less than perfection in return.

Max's memories had gone sort of hazy right around the time she'd started climbing up the stairs to the roof. Over the past few days, Max and Victoria had wordlessly shifted their meeting time earlier and earlier, neither of them acknowledging it but both of them showing up closer to eleven than midnight. Tonight, Max had arrived at ten forty-five to find Victoria already there, sitting on the ledge in a way that somehow looked both casual and perfectly posed. She remembered the way the security lights had caught in Victoria's eyes when she'd spotted the container of cookies in Max's hands, how she'd straightened immediately, her usual mask of indifference slipping as curiosity overtook her features. Max had started rambling immediately, of course – something about how they might be a little overdone, and how the chocolate chips hadn't melted quite right, and how she knew Victoria had access to way better cookies, like those fancy French macarons with the perfect shapes and designer ingredients.

But Victoria had cut her off. She'd said something that made Max's hands stop fidgeting, something about how people always bought her things but never made her anything. Her voice had gone soft in that way that always made Max's heart skip, and she'd picked up one of the slightly misshapen cookies with such careful fingers, studying it like it was some precious artifact. Max remembered thinking that Victoria's smile then had rivaled every sunset she'd ever tried to capture with her camera.

They'd talked about their days after that, she was pretty sure, and the cookies had disappeared one by one faster than Max's ability to focus on whatever Victoria was saying about the Vortex Club. Not that Max could really be blamed for her distraction – Victoria had kept absently running her tongue along her bottom lip to catch stray crumbs and they hadn't had their usual hello kiss tonight, and Max had really wanted to amend that, and had been staring, and Victoria had noticed, and had smiled, no, she'd smirked, and then she'd said... something. Max couldn't quite remember what exactly – something about how sweet it was that Max had baked for her? And then she'd said more things, Max knew that, but…

But honestly, Max found she didn't particularly care. In fact, she was rapidly losing interest in understanding the exact sequence of events that had brought her here. She decided the 'how' didn't really matter. Not when the 'now' involved Victoria Chase lying on top of her.

Victoria's weight was pressing Max into the blanket they'd spread across the roof's floor, and Max couldn't think, couldn't think of anything except how perfectly Victoria's body fit against hers, how good it felt, how she wanted more, needed more, even though she didn't actually know what 'more' was supposed to entail right now. What she did know was that Victoria was straddling her, that her thighs were bracketing her own, knees pressed into the blanket on either side of her hips, and that the solid warmth of Victoria's torso against her own made Max's head spin. Because she could feel every slight movement, every breath Victoria took, the way their chests pressed together with each inhale, soft curves fitting perfectly against each other through layers of expensive cashmere and winter jacket.

One of Victoria's arms braced her weight while her other hand was buried in Max's hair, tugging, and when Victoria's tongue slid against hers, and she tasted like her mom's cookies, Max's body really shouldn't have reacted the way it did, and her hips really shouldn't have pushed up against Victoria's the way they did. And it would've been mortifying if it weren't for the sound Victoria had made against her mouth, surprise and want and pleasure all mixed together, and she kept making that sound, over and over and over as lips and tongues met, more urgently, more desperately, and maybe those sounds were coming from Max herself, she honestly couldn't tell anymore. Because Victoria was firm, and real, and so perfect, and so hot on top of her. Really, really hot. God… too hot.

"Hot," she mumbled against Victoria's lips, not really wanting to stop kissing her long enough to speak.

"Yes," Victoria breathed back.

"My— my jacket," Max managed between kisses. "Too hot."

Victoria pulled back just enough to look at her, green eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and Max felt the loss of contact with such intensity it bordered on pain. So her hands flew to Victoria's face in an instant, fingers threading through short blonde hair as she pulled her back down into another demanding kiss. Victoria made this soft, desperate sound into Max's mouth, and for a moment she melted completely into it, her hand tightening in Max's hair as she pressed closer, closer, until finally, with what looked like tremendous willpower, she reluctantly broke away again, her own breathing as uneven as Max's.

"No," Max all but whined. "Why—"

"Up," Victoria commanded, her voice rough as she tugged Max into a sitting position.

Her usually graceful fingers then started fumbling with Max's winter jacket, hands shaking slightly as they found the zipper. She yanked it down with such urgency that Max heard the metal teeth protest, but she couldn't bring herself to care, not when Victoria's hands were sliding beneath the jacket, pushing it off her shoulders, her touch burning even through the thin fabric of Max's long-sleeved top. Victoria took the jacket and, despite her visible impatience, couldn't seem to help herself from folding it with careful movements before setting it aside. And Max was trying really hard to maintain her composure, what was left of it anyway, because sure, it was just a winter jacket, but Victoria took it off of her, she technically undressed Max, if only a little, and the cool night air hit her arms through her thin sleeves, and while the relief from the heat was immediate, Max found herself craving the burning warmth of Victoria pressed against her again way more.

So Max surged forward, capturing Victoria's lips in another kiss. Victoria responded instantly, her hands flying to Max's face and pulling her closer. Max's fingers traced over the impossibly soft cashmere of Victoria's sweater, feeling the heat of her body radiating through the expensive fabric. Her hands drifted lower, finding the hem, and she pulled back just enough to whisper against Victoria's mouth: "Are you hot too?"

Victoria nodded, a quick, breathless movement, and Max's fingers immediately curled into the fabric. She pulled the sweater up and over Victoria's head, breaking their kiss for only the briefest moment before claiming Victoria's lips again. Blindly, she reached out, carefully laying the sweater on top of where Victoria had discarded Max's own jacket.

"It's Stella McCartney, by the way," Max murmured against Victoria's mouth, and then her hands were on Victoria's bare shoulders, fingertips trailing down to trace bare arms.

"Yes, baby. Good," Victoria breathed.

Max let herself be guided down onto her back again, Victoria's hands gentle but insistent against her shoulders, her mind reeling as she tried to process two things at once. First was the fact that Victoria was wearing a tank top under her sweater – not the fancy silk blouse Max had been expecting, but something simple that left her arms bare and touchable. But more importantly – more overwhelmingly – was that word, that term of endearment, that baby that had just fallen from Victoria's lips so casually and naturally, like it hadn't been the first time, like it hadn't stolen all the air from Max's lungs, like it wasn't echoing in her head right now, making the butterflies in her stomach go absolutely wild, their wings beating so frantically against her ribs that she was certain Victoria must feel them too.

But it seemed like Victoria didn't even register she'd called Max that, her pupils blown so wide her eyes looked almost completely black. Victoria settled her body on top of Max's again, bracing herself on both arms, and then her thigh slid so very deliberately and purposefully between Max's own. Max didn't have time to process that before Victoria's mouth found hers again in a searing kiss, and Max's hands flew to Victoria's arms in response, running over smooth skin she hadn't been permitted to touch until now. Max was fascinated by how soft it felt, mesmerized by the slight ripple of muscle as Victoria held herself above her, by the goosebumps that rose in the wake of her fingers. Whether from the cold or her touch, Max wasn't sure, but god, did it even matter? She'd called Max baby, she was on top of her, she was kissing her, she was—

Victoria shifted then, pressing her thigh between Max's legs with unmistakable intent. For one glorious moment, Max's mind went completely, blissfully blank as pleasure suddenly radiated from that point of contact, spreading like electricity through her entire body before concentrating back into a deep, insistent ache. The sensation pulled something from her throat – this half gasp, half moan thing – that was immediately swallowed by Victoria's mouth.

"Max, yes," Victoria breathed against her lips, the words coming out ragged and low, like she was the one melting from the friction. Before Max could say anything, or even catch her breath, Victoria did it again, pressing harder this time, more purposeful than experimental. The pressure sent another wave of pleasure crashing through Max's body, her fingers digging into Victoria's arms hard enough that even her short nails left crescent marks in the soft skin. Victoria didn't seem to notice or care about the sting – if anything, it only spurred her on, a small desperate sound escaping her throat as she pressed closer, and closer, and closer, and—

"Victoria," Max gasped. "God, you—" The word broke on a whimper as Victoria shifted against her, her thigh now firmer, and better, and so ridiculously perfect that all Max could do was squeeze her eyes shut as pleasure coursed through her veins like fire. Max was finding it increasingly difficult to kiss Victoria back properly – every upward press of Victoria against her made her breath catch, made her lose focus, made her forget how kissing even worked. She tried to keep up, she really did, but Victoria was moving on top of her with so much precision, timing each press of her thigh perfectly, and Max kept having to break away just to remember how to breathe.

Some distant part of Max's mind knew this was spiraling too fast, that a rooftop wasn't exactly the place for whatever this was – but that voice of reason had gone quiet ages ago, drowned out by the thunder of her heartbeat and the heat of Victoria's skin under her fingers. And there was that other heat too, the one building between her legs that she usually tried not to think about, but Victoria's insistent pressure made it impossible to ignore now. A dizzying thought crossed her mind then, the kind she barely let herself imagine late at night in her dorm room – if it felt this good with layers of denim between them, how would it feel with nothing there at all? Just skin against skin, and her strong thigh, and Max, and so much warmth, and slick, and— The mere idea made her grip Victoria's arms even tighter, made her hips suddenly start moving of their own accord, seeking more contact. Max had to finally break away from the kiss then, turning her head to the side to draw in desperate breaths, giving Victoria's mouth unintended but perfect access to trace the line of her jaw, and Victoria immediately took the invitation, lips blazing a path from Max's cheek to just below her ear before descending to her neck.

"You sound so good," Victoria said against Max's pulse point, each word punctuated by a press of her lips, her voice dark and honeyed in a way Max had never heard before, each syllable vibrating through her whole body. "Smell so good," another kiss, longer this time, "taste even better," she breathed, marking the last word with a slow drag of her tongue.

Max's hips jerked sharply at the sensation, a broken sound escaping her throat as her hands flew from Victoria's arms to tangle in her short hair, pulling her closer to her neck, silently begging for more, and the concrete really should have been uncomfortable against her back, even through the blanket, but she felt like she was floating, anchored only by Victoria's weight on top of her and that thigh still pressed exactly where she needed it.

"I knew you'd be amazing at this, that you'd lose yourself in it like you do with everything else," Victoria murmured hotly against her skin, voice full of wonder and something possessive that made Max shiver. "I knew you'd just dive in completely. I fucking knew it," she breathed, the words coming out almost reverent.

And Max couldn't breathe, let alone respond, so she just slid her hands from Victoria's hair to her shoulders, then down her back until her fingers found the hem of her tank top. She hesitated for just a moment before slipping underneath, and oh – so much skin, burning hot under her touch. Her hands moved across Victoria's lower back, then higher, encouraged by Victoria's hum of satisfaction. Her fingers brushed against the clasp of Victoria's bra then, and the reality of what she was doing hit her like a physical force – she was touching Victoria Chase under her clothes, feeling the smooth expanse of her back, the delicate band of her bra, and holy shit, this was actually happening. After that, thinking became significantly harder than it already was, and she desperately mapped every inch of skin she could reach, grabbing at her back, trying to pull her even closer as Victoria kept grinding down in a rhythm that sent waves of pure electricity through Max's body. And Victoria was still talking, still whispering things against her neck, but Max honestly couldn't make out the words anymore, not over the sounds that kept escaping her throat, and when Victoria dragged her tongue up the column of her throat in one long stroke, the last functioning brain cells in Max's brain finally dissolved into static. Her face was burning, her entire body was burning, and everything felt hot, and wet, and the pressure between her legs kept building and building and building and—

"Max? Tell me?"

Max couldn't process the words, couldn't do anything but try to remember how to breathe as pleasure sparked through every one of her nerve endings. Her fingers just clutched at Victoria's back, because the heat between her legs was turning into something urgent, making her hips move erratically as she sought more, and more, and more, and Victoria pressed her thigh harder in response, and Max was gasping, whimpering, completely lost to everything except the feeling of Victoria against her, on top of her, all around her. She knew she should probably be embarrassed by the sounds she was making, by how increasingly and visibly desperate she was becoming, but she couldn't find it in herself to care, not when Victoria herself was the one causing it, not when she kept pressing open-mouthed kisses to her neck and whispering things Max couldn't understand, not when she could feel herself getting closer and closer to... god, her mind had narrowed to just sensation, and Victoria, Victoria, Victoria—

But then suddenly Victoria's thigh shifted away, and the loss of that perfect pressure yanked Max back to reality with dizzying speed, like being pulled underwater and drowning and breaking the surface all at once. Max's eyes flew open, completely disoriented just as Victoria lifted her head from Max's neck. Victoria's face was flushed deeper than Max had ever seen it, her lips swollen and parted, her perfectly styled hair completely disheveled, pupils still blown, her breaths coming in rushed, uneven bursts, and Max's hands immediately left Victoria's back to cradle her face, drawn to her like gravity. She wanted to kiss her again – why weren't they kissing right now? Max tried to pull Victoria's face down toward her own, but Victoria held firm. She reached up to cover one of Max's hands with her own where it rested against her cheek, and then she asked:

"Is there any particular reason you don't want to tell me?"

Max swallowed. Then she blinked. One, two, three times. Four times. Five. Six.

"Your college acceptances," Victoria clarified with an amused smile once she seemingly realized that Max hadn't been listening.

Max simply stared up at her dumbly, absolutely perplexed. Max blinked several times again, struggling to focus, struggling to understand what in the world Victoria was talking about when just moments ago she'd been doing things to Max that made coherent thought completely impossible. Max couldn't come up with an explanation as to what was going on, so she just asked, very eloquently:

"What?"

"Have you heard back from any schools yet?" Victoria asked, like this was a completely normal topic of conversation for their current position. "Everyone else has their acceptances by now."

Max's confusion finally started cutting through the haze of arousal. She opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to form words. After multiple attempts, one word finally made it out: "Now?" Her voice cracked with bewilderment and disbelief. "You want to talk about that now?"

"Might as well." Victoria shrugged, though her casual tone was somewhat undermined by how breathless she still sounded, by how red her face still was, by how uncertain she suddenly looked, by how… nervous? "I've been meaning to talk to you about this for a very long time, actually. I think it's really, uh…" Victoria paused, and drew in a steadying breath, exhaled it slowly, and then cleared her throat. "I just think we should talk about it, that's all," she said finally.

"But now?" Max repeated, still dazed, still endlessly confused. "We— I was..." She gestured vaguely between them with the hand that wasn't on Victoria's face, trying to indicate whatever had just been happening.

"Yes, I noticed." Victoria let out a shaky breath, her hand tightening over Max's on her cheek. "Trust me, I noticed. And me too, okay? But we need to talk about this. It's been driving me crazy. And we're not having our first time on a roof anyway."

Max blinked rapidly, her mind struggling to catch up with all of that new information, even as her brain finally managed to focus on one bit, the one bit it'd liked best. "Our first time? You mean, you'd want to… you'd want to do… more? With me? Eventually?"

Victoria seemed genuinely shocked at the question, and she stared at Max like she was witnessing the single most stunning display of idiocy in human history. She opened her mouth to respond, then seemed to think better of it and snapped it shut again with an exaggerated eye-roll. Then, with careful movements that seemed to require actual effort, she untangled herself from Max and settled cross-legged on the blanket beside her. Her hands immediately went to her tank top, which had bunched up around her ribs from Max's wandering hands, and she tugged it back down sharply, like fixing her clothes might also restore her composure.

Max mourned the loss of Victoria's weight on top her for about fifteen whole seconds, the entirety of which she spent lying right there on the blanket, her heart pounding so hard she was surprised she hadn't passed out yet. She tried to process what had happened, and what was happening now, and Max wasn't sure she was actually managing to process anything at all, the entire area between her thighs still way too alert and sensitive and uncomfortably sticky for her to be able to use her brain properly. So Max stopped trying and scrambled to sit up in front of Victoria instead.

She tried to get her bearings then, running trembling fingers through her thoroughly messed up hair. Her breath was still coming in short bursts, so she closed her eyes and focused on slowing it down, counting each inhale like she'd learned to back when she'd regularly get anxiety attacks. When she opened her eyes again, they inevitably landed on Victoria, still in just her tank top, and even in the dim glow of the emergency lights she could see the flush that had spread down her neck to her chest, coloring the hollow of her throat and her collarbones. Max's eyes lingered there for a long moment before shifting to Victoria's arms, catching sight of the small crescent marks her nails had left behind, now raised and red against Victoria's flushed skin. Max winced – she really hadn't meant to grab quite so hard.

"I'm sorry. That was… I was… a lot," Max said finally. "I've never, um, done... and you were doing this thing with your leg that was kind of… great, and I didn't really know how to…" she trailed off, feeling a blush spread impossibly further across her already burning face.

"That was the point, Max. Don't apologize. I loved all of it," Victoria said easily, her eyes tracing over Max's face – her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth, her neck. Victoria's gaze drifted lower then, following the rise and fall of Max's chest, lingering on where her shirt had ridden up slightly to reveal a strip of skin. When her eyes finally dragged back up to meet Max's, they were heavy with something Max was starting to recognize as want. For a moment, it seemed like she might surge forward again, might press Max back down onto the blanket. But then something shifted in her expression, uncertainty creeping in again as reality seemed to catch up with her. Her fingers found the hem of her tank top, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles. "So... college?"

"Right. College."

Max ran her hands across her face, pressing her palms against her eyes until she saw stars. Her whole body still hummed from Victoria's touch, making it nearly impossible to focus on things like college and futures and… leaving. The word ‘leaving’ alone made her stomach twist uncomfortably. And just like that, Max could think again, the thought more effective than a bucket full of ice water. Because she'd been carefully avoiding this particular topic for months now, expertly dodging her parents' probing questions during their weekly calls, changing the subject whenever Kate or Warren brought up their own acceptance letters. She'd gone through all the motions, of course – crafted the perfect portfolio, written and rewritten her personal statements until the words blurred together, submitted everything exactly on deadline. But somehow she'd convinced herself that if she just didn't think about it, didn't talk about it, didn't acknowledge the responses slowly filling her inbox, then maybe time would just... stop. Maybe she wouldn't have to face the reality of what came after Blackwell. And it wasn't that she didn't want to leave this place. She did, god, she really did. But leaving this place also meant leaving…

Max reached for Victoria's sweater where it lay on top of her winter jacket, gingerly handing it to Victoria and watching as she carefully slipped it back on. Max then quietly pulled on her own jacket, fumbling slightly with the zipper.

"Well..." Max started, then cleared her throat. "UCLA accepted me. And CalArts. University of Washington, too – you know, that's where my mom went, so I think she'll be really excited when I tell her. And..." She hesitated, her fingers stilling on the zipper. Victoria had mentioned New York once before, months ago, back when their rooftop meetings were still new and uncertain. It had been a throwaway comment, casual in that practiced way Victoria had – something about how she couldn't imagine living anywhere else after graduation, how anywhere else would feel like settling. Max remembered thinking then how perfectly that fit, how Victoria Chase belonged in New York like she belonged in designer clothes and expensive perfume. She hadn't thought much about that conversation since, had actively tried not to think about it actually, but now... "NYU accepted me too," Max added, trying to sound casual.

Victoria's hands immediately reached for the empty cookie container they'd abandoned earlier, her fingers tracing the edges with uncharacteristic restlessness, perfectly manicured nails tapping against the plastic. "NYU," she repeated, her voice carefully neutral. "You got into NYU's Tisch School?"

"Yep." Max finally finished zipping up her jacket. "That one surprised me. But, uh, I haven't decided anything yet, you know? I mean, the programs are all really different, and the costs are—"

"I got into Parsons," Victoria cut in. "And Columbia. And a bunch of others too, but..." she shrugged, absently turning the cookie container over and over in her hands.

Max's heart did a complicated flip in her chest as she processed Victoria's words, her eyes fixed on Victoria's hands as they fidgeted with the plastic. Hope bloomed treacherously in her chest, spreading warmth through her body despite her desperate attempts to tamp it down. She couldn't let herself think about what this might mean, about the possibility of them both— about them maybe being— no. No. She swallowed hard and forced a smile, though it came out genuine anyway because regardless of what it meant for them, she was truly happy for Victoria.

"That's awesome, Victoria. Those are amazing schools with really great photography programs."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks," Victoria replied.

And because Max apparently couldn't help herself: "They are both in New York, right?"

"They are, yes. And NYU is..."

"Also in New York," Max finished quietly. "Obviously. Hence the NY in NYU," she joked somewhat awkwardly.

Victoria didn't respond to that. Instead, she carefully set down the empty plastic container, her shoulders suddenly dropping, tension draining from them like water, and Max hadn't even realized how rigid Victoria had been sitting until that moment. It was only then that Max noticed her own muscles relaxing too, a tightness she hadn't been aware of uncoiling from her chest. They stared at each other in the dim light, a new sort of weight settling over them like a blanket, and Max could feel something shift in the air between them – like the world had tilted slightly on its axis, realigning itself around a new reality where maybe, just maybe…

Victoria leaned forward then, pressing her lips to Max's with impossible gentleness – so different from their heated kisses earlier, but somehow just as overwhelming.

"Just something to think about," Victoria said.

"Yeah," Max said softly, a smile spreading across her face. "Just something to think about."

Chapter Text

March 5, 2014

It was just a text. A simple, harmless text. Nothing more than pixels arranged on a screen. And yet, it somehow managed to transform Max's perfectly normal Wednesday into a complete emotional rollercoaster.

Max was picking at her lunch, absently pushing mystery meat around her plate while trying (and failing) not to watch Victoria from across the room. The Vortex Club's laughter carried easily over the general din of the cafeteria, but Victoria's practiced social laugh rang out above the others, of course. Ever the Queen of Blackwell, perfectly posed at the center of her court, ruling over her domain from a plastic chair like it was a throne. Once upon a time, Max would have rolled her eyes at the whole thing – all that carefully crafted superiority, that meticulously maintained social hierarchy, the way everyone hung on Victoria's every word like she was actually royalty instead of just an eighteen-year-old in expensive clothes. Or maybe it would have intimidated Max, sent her shrinking into herself, eyes fixed firmly on her own lunch tray, silently begging whatever higher power might be listening to keep her invisible from Victoria's gaze. But now... now she felt something entirely different when she watched Victoria command attention so effortlessly.

Maybe it was just those stupid butterflies that took flight every time Victoria so much as breathed in her direction. Admiration, she supposed – or attraction, perhaps more accurately – to how naturally Victoria controlled every social interaction, and to her bottomless confidence, and her elegance, and brilliance, and sharpness, and how absolutely terrifying she was. But there was something else too now, something darker – this strange sort of pride, this sense of… power, almost, that bloomed in her chest and spread everywhere, because Max knew things about Victoria that no one else in this cafeteria could even imagine. For ninety-one nights, Victoria had been sharing pieces of herself with her, with Max, pieces of herself that none of these people who desperately vied for her attention had ever seen, nor would they ever. Not to mention that for the last ten nights or so, Victoria had been whispering said pieces of herself against Max's lips, breathing them directly into her mouth between kisses, and whimpers, and gasps.

Max forced herself to look away then, to focus instead on her own table where Warren was enthusiastically explaining something about a movie he'd seen last night – some sci-fi thing with robots and spaceships that would normally have captured Max's interest completely. Kate was sitting beside her, actually engaged in the conversation, adding her own thoughtful comments about the movie's ethical implications with that gentle enthusiasm that made everything she said sound important. It was the kind of comfortable lunchtime routine Max usually loved, the three of them sharing space and conversation without any pressure or pretense. But today she could only nod along distractedly, her fork tracing increasingly elaborate patterns in questionable gravy when, suddenly, her phone buzzed against the plastic lunch tray.

The sight of Victoria's name on her screen made Max's fingers twitch toward her phone with embarrassing eagerness, though she tried to mask the movement by pretending to check the time, subtly angling the screen away from Kate. Before she'd even processed a single word, her eyes betrayed her again, automatically seeking Victoria across the cafeteria. Victoria hadn't moved an inch, still perfectly posed at her table, not sparing a single glance in Max's direction as she lifted her water bottle to her lips with that practiced grace that made even the simplest gestures look choreographed. But Max caught the way her other hand moved beneath the table, caught how she slid her phone into her designer purse with a smoothness that would've been imperceptible to anyone who wasn't watching her as intently as Max was.

When Max's eyes finally moved back to her phone to read Victoria's text, that warm glow of pride, that heady sense of power that came from knowing Victoria's secrets – it all evaporated instantly, her stomach plummeting violently. For several long seconds, her heart seemed to forget how to beat entirely, and when it finally remembered, it launched into an awful frantic rhythm that actually made her feel lightheaded. The message stared up at her from the screen like a death sentence:

'Need to discuss something with you. My room. 7pm.'

Max read the text over and over and over again, her eyes tracing each word like it held some hidden meaning she might uncover if she just looked hard enough. But one thing was for certain, 'need to discuss something' wasn't good. Nothing good ever came from someone needing to 'discuss something.' That phrase was universally code for bad news, for uncomfortable conversations, for endings.

Need to discuss something with you. My room. 7pm. Need to discuss something with you. My room. 7pm. Need to discuss something with you. My—

Three fragments, that's all the message was, really – just three simple fragments: a subject, a location, and a time. Three innocent pieces of information that somehow felt like they carried the weight of the entire universe.

The subject was maddeningly vague – 'need to discuss something with you' could've meant literally anything. What did they need to discuss? The weather? Homework? The latest Vortex Club drama? College plans again? Or maybe… maybe them? The roof? The fact that they'd been meeting almost every night of the school year? Or that they kept pretending to be strangers in daylight? Or maybe that the past week they'd been mapping every inch of each other's mouths?

Or more likely, more realistically...

How it all needed to end.
How Victoria had changed her mind.
How she'd finally realized Max wasn't enough.
How she'd realized Max would never be enough.
How it had all meant nothing.
How Max had just been a temporary distraction.
How—

The spiral of increasingly panicked thoughts was miraculously, mercifully interrupted by another text just one minute later: 'Carson asked me if we made a decision about displaying our photos. That's what I want to discuss.'

Max closed her eyes then, relief flooding through her body so intensely it made her lightheaded all over again. She let out a long, shaky breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding, her shoulders finally dropping from where they'd been practically touching her ears. She reached for her water cup and drained it in one long gulp. When Kate shot her a concerned look, Max managed what she hoped was a reassuring smile. She quickly typed out 'okay' to Victoria, trying to keep her phone angled away from any curious glances, before forcing herself to focus on the completely untouched mystery meat still congealing on her plate. When she finally allowed herself to look back toward Victoria's table, she found Victoria already watching her. It hit Max like a physical force, and even though their eyes met for barely two seconds, it was more than enough to make Max's heart stutter in her chest. Victoria turned away again, seamlessly rejoining whatever conversation was happening around her.

So, that latest text shed a light on the subject of Victoria's first message. Just a discussion about Carson's exhibition – the one he'd proposed after giving them feedback about the contrast assignment they'd done together, after gushing about Victoria's 'newfound warmth' and Max's 'eye for genuine moments,' after telling them they made an excellent team, after all but stating that it was so very obvious that Victoria and Max trusted each other… It was a topic they'd been carefully avoiding talking about for weeks now, both of them pretending the offer didn't exist, pretending that refusing to display those photos wouldn't be a shit career move, and pretending that accepting wouldn't mean admitting to everyone that they were… something to each other. It would be a bit of an uncomfortable discussion, that was for sure, but at least it was nothing earth-shattering like Max had feared. Certainly nothing relationship-ending, even if there was no actual relationship to end. It was nothing at all, really.

Except – the second fragment of the text.

'My room.'

Max spent the rest of the day in a fog of anticipation and anxiety. She'd tried studying in the library, but the words in her textbook kept blurring together, her mind drifting to Victoria's room every time she attempted to focus on American history. She'd wandered around campus with her camera, hoping to distract herself with photography, but every shot she lined up felt wrong somehow, her usually steady hands trembling just enough to throw off the focus. She'd even attempted Victoria's elaborate hair care routine in the shower – twice – meticulously following those careful instructions from that night on the roof, letting the conditioner sit for exactly three minutes both times. But even those ridiculously nice-smelling French products couldn't settle her nerves, couldn't stop her thoughts from circling back to those two words that somehow managed to be more terrifying than any conversation about photography exhibitions.

My room.

Five months and neither of them had crossed that threshold. Sure, Max had been in Victoria's room before – but that was a different Max, and a different timeline, and a different… everything. In this reality, it would be her first time. And it would be their first time being somewhere actually private. The most private they'd ever been was the roof – which was literally outdoors, exposed to the elements and whatever higher power seemed to enjoy watching Max make a fool of herself – or Victoria's car, which was also outdoors, and also moving. But this... this would be different. This would be somewhere with actual walls and a ceiling. Somewhere with a bed instead of concrete or leather seats. Somewhere with a door that locked.

The thought alone made heat creep up Max's neck, memories of that one night flooding back – Victoria's thigh pressed between her legs, Victoria's mouth on her neck, Victoria's voice whispering things that still made Max's stomach swoop. She'd been embarrassingly close to completely falling apart right there and then, fully clothed and everything, and if Victoria hadn't suddenly stopped to ask about college, Max really would have... well. They hadn't talked about it since, of course not, and they'd still met on the roof every night after, obviously, but something had shifted – their kisses had been softer, gentler, like they were both acutely aware of exactly how quickly things could spiral out of control, of how much they both actually wanted things to spiral out of control.

And then, there was the last fragment of Victoria's text: '7pm.'

Which was how Max found herself here now, standing in front of Victoria's door at 6:39 PM, checking her phone for what had to be the hundredth time in the last five minutes. She was early, but not embarrassingly so. Or maybe embarrassingly so. But Victoria liked punctuality. But did being early mean being punctual? Because there certainly was such a thing as being too early, wasn't there? And if anyone would know the exact social parameters of arrival times, it would be Victoria. But she couldn't exactly ask her for advice right now. So Max's fingers just twisted nervously in the frayed edges of her messenger bag's strap as she checked the time again. Still 6:39 PM. Twenty-one minutes felt like an eternity to wait, but also not nearly long enough to prepare herself for whatever lay on the other side of that door. And she should just go back to her room, she should sit and wait like a normal person. But she found herself pacing the short stretch of hallway instead, three steps one way, turn, three steps back, her worn sneakers silent against the carpet. Thank god the hallway was empty – most people would be at dinner right now, which was probably why Victoria had chosen this time, wasn't it?

She leaned against the wall beside Victoria's door, then immediately straightened again, because that was definitely not something she should be doing. She smoothed her hands over her clothes then, wishing she'd thought to change into something nicer than her usual hoodie, t-shirt, and jeans combo. But then again, Victoria had seen her in every possible combination of her clothes by now, from her rattiest sweatpants to those times she'd actually made an effort, like for their Seattle brunch or their Portland not-date. And it probably didn't matter what she wore anyway – Victoria had said as much last week. Except it felt like it mattered. Everything felt like it mattered right now.

Max pulled out her phone again, the screen lighting up just as another minute ticked by. 6:42 PM.

"Fuck it," she muttered.

Her hand lifted to knock, trembling slightly, then froze mid-motion. She forced herself to take a deep breath, then another, trying to slow her racing heart. She hesitated for just another moment, or eight, or nine, and then forced herself to knock before she could overthink it any further, the sound seeming impossibly loud in the empty hallway.

Max immediately heard movement on the other side of the door – the sound of a desk chair rolling across the floor, then the soft pad of footsteps, and then the click of the lock. When the door finally opened, Max's heart actually skipped at the sight of Victoria standing there.

She was still wearing her outfit from earlier, that perfectly tailored skirt and cashmere sweater ensemble she favored so much. Her eye makeup was absolutely flawless, the perfectly blended liner and subtle shimmer of her eyeshadow making the green of her eyes even more striking than usual. And her lips were bare now, though Max distinctly remembered the dark red shade she'd worn today. And that was... telling, wasn't it? Max recognized it immediately – it was what Victoria had started doing ever since that night their heated kisses had left them both covered in smeared lipstick. The realization made Max's pulse quicken, butterflies erupting in her stomach like they always did when Victoria showed these little signs of premeditation, these careful considerations that revealed she, possibly, wanted this just as much as Max did.

"You're early," Victoria said in lieu of greeting, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arching upward.

"I know, I'm sorry," Max stammered, already taking a half-step backward. "I can come back later if you want, or—"

"No, it's fine," Victoria cut her off, stepping aside to make room in the doorway. "Come in."

Max hesitated for just a moment, her heart thundering against her ribs as she crossed that invisible barrier that had existed between them for so many months. The scent hit her then – Victoria's signature perfume, mixed with something else, something warm and clean and so uniquely Victoria, that made the whole room smell really, really good. The kind of good that made Max's head spin a little, that made her want to breathe deeper, that made her wonder if Victoria's sheets carried that same intoxicating scent, if Victoria's skin, Victoria's body also—

And then Victoria closed the door behind her, resolutely turning the lock with a soft click. The sound sent a shiver down Max's spine as the reality of their situation suddenly dawned on her – they were alone now, truly alone, in a way they'd never been before. No chance of anyone seeing them, no possibility of someone walking in unless one of them chose to unlock that door. It was just the two of them, and four walls, and one ceiling, and at least four different surfaces that were definitely much more comfortable than concrete.

Victoria moved toward her desk then, seemingly unaware – or perhaps deliberately ignoring – Max's moment. She walked with that casual grace she always had, like she hadn't just locked them both into her room, like she couldn't possibly know what that simple action had done to Max's ability to think straight. The ghost of a smile played at her lips as she said, "I need to finish something real quick," settling into her chair and turning to her laptop.

"Okay. Yeah, no problem," Max managed, taking a couple hesitant steps deeper into the room to stand awkwardly in its center. Her eyes darted around, almost afraid to look too long at any one thing, like she might be caught intruding just by observing. The expensive-looking couch against one wall, the sleek coffee table, the back of Victoria's head where she sat at her desk, the precise arrangement of everything on its surface. Her fingers nervously played with the strap of her messenger bag as she searched for something to say. "Since you did all those etiquette lessons and protocol training or whatever... exactly how early is too early? You know, punctuality-wise."

Victoria's fingers never paused their steady rhythm on the keyboard even as she made a show of considering Max's question, her head tilting slightly, as if accessing some vast archive of social rules. Her eyes drifted to the time display on her laptop screen, and Max could hear the amusement in her voice when she said, "Being seventeen minutes early would normally be considered a social faux pas." She glanced back at Max over her shoulder, that hint of a smile growing slightly. "But I'll make an exception. Just don't tell my etiquette instructor – she'd be horrified."

The familiar teasing in Victoria's voice helped ease some of Max's nervous energy, though her heart still raced as she stood there. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, unsure what to do with herself in this new territory. "So what time would be appropriate then?" Max asked, genuinely curious now. "Like, what's the actual rule?"

"Five to seven minutes early is ideal," Victoria responded, still focused on her laptop screen. "Ten at the absolute maximum, and that's only for important business meetings or similarly formal occasions. Any earlier and you risk inconveniencing your host, any later and you're being disrespectful of their time." She paused her typing just long enough to glance at Max again. "Another crucial rule of etiquette is that a host should never leave their guest standing awkwardly in the middle of the room." Then, with exaggerated formality: "My apologies. Please sit, Caulfield."

Max obediently sat on the edge of Victoria's bed at that, the mattress sinking slightly beneath her weight, then she awkwardly shrugged off her messenger bag. She placed it on the floor, then immediately picked it back up, carrying it to the coffee table instead. As she settled back onto the bed, her eyes landed on the couch against the wall. "Oh, should I... would you prefer if I sat on the couch?"

Victoria let out an amused breath, barely more than a soft exhale. "The bed's fine, Max."

Max drew in a steadying breath and placed her palms flat against Victoria's bedsheets, the material impossibly soft against her skin. Her eyes wandered around the room then, taking in every detail like she was framing shots through her camera. Everything was exactly as put-together as she'd expected (and as she remembered from other timelines), but it was warmer, much warmer than she'd imagined. The walls were covered in a mix of photography and art – some framed exhibition posters, others clearly personal choices that revealed Victoria's taste beyond just black and white aesthetics. There was a sleek plasma TV, and meticulously organized photography equipment, and by the door, a collage of photos that mapped out Victoria's social life – parties and beaches and countless moments with people Max recognized from the Vortex Club. There were noticeable gaps in the arrangement though, spaces where other photos had clearly once been, and Max's stomach twisted slightly knowing they were probably pictures with Nathan Prescott.

Max quickly turned to look at Victoria's desk instead, which was obviously organized with military precision, expensive textbooks stacked by size, the sleek MacBook Pro she was typing on centered perfectly on the surface. Even Victoria's makeup was arranged methodically on her vanity, products lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection. Then Max turned her body slightly to look at the huge photos behind her, the ones arranged above the bed, curiosity getting the better of her – and immediately snapped her gaze away, heat creeping up her neck. Because of course the centerpiece was a professionally shot photo of Victoria in a bikini.

"So what are you working on?" Max asked quickly, hoping Victoria wouldn't notice what she'd been looking at. "You seem… not too into it."

"I'm just finishing the history essay," Victoria replied easily, still typing. "The one due Friday."

"Ah, yeah. I should probably do that too. Kinda tried starting it today in the library, but I couldn't really focus," Max said distractedly, shifting slightly on the bed, trying to angle her body as far away as she could from that picture. And that was when Max saw it – that flash of familiar gray, partially hidden beneath one of Victoria's pillows.

Max's heart actually stopped for a moment as recognition hit her. Because that couldn't be... could it? Without thinking, she reached for it, her fingers closing around worn fabric that was absolutely, definitely her hoodie. That same old gray hoodie Victoria had worn that morning at the beach, the one Max had told her to keep. Max pulled it out from its hiding place, unable to process what she was seeing. Because it wasn't just that Victoria had kept it – she'd kept it here, under her pillow, and it just hit Max then, how many times Victoria had whispered it against her skin, or between kisses, all that absent-minded praise about how good Max smelled, her voice low and wanting as she'd press her face into Max's neck, breathing her in like she couldn't get enough. And was there any possibility that maybe, just maybe, Victoria kept her hoodie here because she slept with it? Or wore it to bed? Was it possible at all that she buried her face in it sometimes just to breathe in whatever lingering scent of Max still clung to the fabric?

The thought made Max's chest feel too small to contain her heart, made her fingers tighten in the soft material, the usual butterflies in her stomach transforming into something more explosive, something that felt like sparklers lighting up every inch of her body.

Suddenly Victoria was standing right in front of her – and when had she even stopped typing? When had she moved? Before Max could process any of it, Victoria was roughly yanking the hoodie from her hands.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing touching my things?" Victoria's voice was ice cold, sharp enough to cut.

"I— it's my hoodie," Max stammered, more in awe than anything else, unable to look away from how Victoria's fingers were twisting protectively in the worn fabric.

Several emotions flickered across Victoria's face in rapid succession as she clutched the hoodie closer to her chest. "No," she said finally, her voice carrying that particular edge that Max hadn't heard directed at her in months. "You gave it to me. It's mine now. You can't just have it back."

"I don't want it back," Max said quickly, raising her hands in surrender, her heart racing at how defensive, how protective Victoria was being over this ratty piece of clothing. "It's yours. I— I'm sorry I touched it without asking. I was just surprised to see it."

Victoria studied Max's face for a long moment, something uncertain and vulnerable battling against whatever it was that had made her react like that. But then she turned sharply and walked to her dresser. And her fingers, which had been twisted so tightly in the fabric just moments before, now smoothed over it with something like reverence. Each fold was perfectly calculated, her touch almost tender as she aligned the hoodie's edges, creating perfect creases in places Max had only ever known rumpled chaos. When Victoria placed it in the drawer, probably beside thousands of dollars worth of Givenchy and Prada, her fingers lingered on the soft material for just a moment longer than necessary before finally sliding it shut.

Max just watched from her spot on the bed, thoughts tumbling over each other as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Victoria remained at the dresser for what felt like forever, her back turned to Max, her fingers hovering over the closed drawer like she couldn't quite bring herself to step away from it. The tension radiating from her was almost palpable, her shoulders drawn tight enough that Max could see it even through her sweater. When she finally moved back to her desk, each step was measured and deliberate, like she was trying very hard to appear completely normal and unbothered. She lowered herself into her chair with her usual perfect posture, but her fingers hesitated over her laptop's keyboard, and then fumbled slightly on the keys when she actually tried to start typing again. With a quiet, yet unmistakably frustrated huff, she reached forward instead and closed her laptop with a soft click.

"We should discuss the exhibition," Victoria said then, her voice steady as she turned her desk chair to face Max. "Mr. Carson asked me about it today. He needs an answer by Friday at the latest, to make sure there's space for us in the gallery lineup. If we're interested, that is."

"Right. Okay."

She shifted on Victoria's bed, trying to find a comfortable position – though comfort felt like a complicated goal right now. Her mind kept jumping between too many things at once: the crazy reality that she was actually sitting in Victoria's room (with a locked door, her brain unhelpfully supplied), that bikini photo hanging above her that she was still desperately trying not to look at again, the fact that Victoria had been keeping her hoodie under her pillow like some kind of secret treasure, the way Victoria had reacted when Max found it... And now they were supposed to be having an actual conversation about their photos being displayed?

Max drew in a steadying breath, her fingers restlessly tracing the impossibly soft fabric of Victoria's bedsheets. "So what, um, what do you think we should do?" she asked.

"Professionally speaking, it would be stupid to turn it down," Victoria replied. "Getting our work displayed in a proper gallery, even a small one, would look good on college applications." She paused, her fingers finding the edge of her desk, tracing the wood grain absently. "Though I suppose that's less relevant now."

"Right," Max agreed softly. They'd both already gotten their acceptances, after all. To schools that happened to be in the same city. But they certainly were not talking about that right now. "Less relevant but I guess it wouldn't hurt," Max added, "and it would still look good in a portfolio."

"Yeah. But even more importantly," Victoria continued, crossing her legs at the ankles, "Carson's well-connected in the Portland art scene. Having his endorsement this early could be valuable for both our careers." She paused, and Max watched as something shifted in her expression, her voice losing that practiced casual tone of hers and instead growing softer, more uncertain. "Professionally, it makes perfect sense. It's a great opportunity. Really great. It's just that..." She hesitated again, her nails now drumming a steady rhythm on the surface of the desk. "It would mean people would see those photos. They'd see… us, like, working together and..." she trailed off, her fingers stilling against the wood as her brows furrowed, her features twisting into this extremely rare look, this look like she somehow thought she sounded stupid but couldn't quite help herself. And Max just couldn't quite help herself either:

"Would that be so bad?" The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Victoria's eyes snapped to Max's own eyes. "And what exactly do you mean by that?"

"I just mean..." Max swallowed hard, her heart suddenly thundering in her chest. They'd never actually talked about this out loud before – every unspoken rule between them had been established through careful observation, through trial and error, through Max learning exactly when she could smile at Victoria in the hallway (never) and when Victoria would pretend not to see her on campus (always). She drew in a shaky breath, forcing herself to hold Victoria's gaze even as her fingers twisted nervously in her bedsheets. "Would it really be the worst thing if people knew we... tolerated each other?"

Victoria's mouth twisted slightly at that, a hint of something almost bitter creeping into her voice. "Carson said he could tell we trusted each other."

And that was the thing about Victoria Chase, about the way she made Max feel – it was dizzying sometimes, this constant whirlwind of contradictions. Because right now, hearing Victoria say they trusted each other, Max's stomach was doing that thing it always did when Victoria acknowledged what existed between them. Just those words alone had butterflies taking flight beneath her ribs, had her heart doing complicated acrobatics in her chest. But then the butterflies would catch in her throat, tangled up with all these other feelings she couldn't quite name, because Victoria had said it like it was a bad thing, like it was shameful, something to hide.

And Max understood, she did. Or she thought she did. The kissing thing was new – not even two weeks old yet, and that kind of thing obviously needed to stay private... though even when it came to that, Max found ‘obviously’ too strong a word, but she did get wanting to hide that bit – it becoming public knowledge was complicated for a million different reasons. But before that, before the kissing, they'd been... friends. Just two friends who spent every night talking on a roof, sharing pieces of themselves between sips of hot chocolate. And before that, they'd been something else entirely – just Victoria Chase and Max Caulfield, existing in the same space, sometimes smoking, sometimes not, somehow finding out they could actually exist together without the sky falling apart above them.

The questions burned in Max's throat – what was so terrible about any of that? What was so terrible about people knowing that Victoria could hold a conversation with her? That they'd been spending time together, as friends, or as just strangers, whatever, and that they happened to figure out they could get along? What was so terrible about them doing a photography assignment together and doing it so well that their teacher asked them to display their photos? What was so terrible about them trusting each other and people noticing? Would it really hurt her reputation that badly? Would it really… embarrass her that much? But Max quickly realized she didn't actually want to know the answers to any of those questions, so she found herself saying instead:

"He's our teacher. And it was our first photography assignment since October. He was probably just exaggerating to make us feel good about our work. You can't tell whether people trust each other just by looking at a picture of one of them."

Victoria shook her head, her hands drifting to her skirt, smoothing the fabric over her thighs with increasingly agitated movements. "And now you're just lying, Max. You know what makes the difference is the person behind the camera. Anyone who knows anything about photography... about people, really…" Her fingers twisted in the expensive fabric then, creating wrinkles she'd normally never allow. "They'll be able to tell. They'll see it right away."

"Look, Victoria. Honestly," Max started, watching Victoria get more and more distressed over what should have been a simple yes or no, and Max hated this – hated how this conversation was making Max feel, hated how this great opportunity felt like anything but, hated how it made Victoria tense up, hated how it made her voice lose its usual confident edge, hated seeing her uncomfortable. So Max's voice came out soft but steady when she spoke again, trying to offer Victoria (and herself) an escape from this whole thing: "I'm good with whatever you want. We can display them. Or not. It really doesn't matter to me."

Inexplicably, Victoria looked exasperated at that, and confused, and something else she couldn't quite recognize. "Max, you don't..." She shook her head slightly, smoothing the fabric of her skirt again. "You don't have the same connections I do. A gallery showing with Carson's endorsement – this could actually be important for you. It's a really great opportunity."

"There will be others," Max countered immediately. "Better ones."

"You don't know that." Victoria stood suddenly, her chair rolling back slightly from the abrupt movement. She took a couple of small steps toward Max, and now she was looking down at her, and there was something almost desperate in her eyes, something torn and conflicted as she searched Max's face. The proximity made Max's heart race – Victoria was close enough now that she could smell her perfume again, could see the wrinkles her fingers had put on her skirt, could see every shade of uncertainty battling in those green eyes. And god, Max wanted to reach for her, to pull her closer, to give her the hello kiss they hadn't had yet, to stop talking about this, to stop thinking about it, because Max didn't want to admit it to herself but it hurt, and it'd been hurting for a while now, and— "This is something you— we should do. For our futures. But seriously, if we do this, people really would—"

"I don't care if people know, Victoria," Max cut in. Then she opened her mouth to say more – to emphasize how she really, genuinely didn't care, and how could she? She wasn't ashamed, could never be ashamed of this, of them – but the words died in her throat. Because saying that would force Victoria to either lie and say she wasn't ashamed of Max, or admit that she was. And Max didn't want to put her in that position. Didn't want to hear her say either one, really. So instead, she repeated: "I don't care if people know. But I also don't care if we don't display the photos. It's fine either way. Really."

Victoria frowned at Max then, studying her face with an intensity that made Max's hands clench harder in the bedsheets. Eventually though, something seemed to break in Victoria, because slowly, really slowly, the tension drained from her body, like ice melting in the sun – first her shoulders dropped, then her arms relaxed at her sides, then even her perfectly straight posture softened ever so slightly. Then she took one step closer to Max, and then another, and another, until Max found herself instinctively spreading her legs so Victoria could stand between them "You really don't care?" Victoria finally asked, her voice carrying a mix of disbelief and confusion. "At all?"

The only thing Max could do now was look up at her with probably embarrassingly smitten eyes, almost mesmerized, her body once again completely betraying her as Victoria's proximity made her forget they'd even been having a conversation. She was so close, and actually standing between Max's spread legs, and her chest was level with Max's face, and there was so much heat radiating from her. And it was so wonderfully distracting that Max's hands kind of just moved of their own accord to Victoria's thighs, her fingers trailing over the thin fabric of her black tights, and Victoria's hand immediately found Max's shoulder in response, fingers pressing into the fabric of her hoodie. Max's heart was thundering in her chest, but she managed to whisper: "I really don't care. What I actually care about is you. And I really just want to do whatever you want to do."

"Then you really are an idiot," Victoria said. But suddenly her knee was on the bed beside Max's hip, her hand on Max's shoulder gently pushing her back until she was lying flush against the impossibly soft mattress. Victoria's other knee followed immediately, and then she was on the bed, on Max, straddling her, sitting on her lap, and Max's breath was already coming in short bursts, her heart doing somersaults, and her own hands had stayed on Victoria's thighs, but now they began to drift slightly higher, and higher, until the soft material of Victoria's skirt was brushing against her knuckles.

And Max couldn't quite believe what she was seeing – Victoria above her, sitting on her, radiant and beautiful and perfect and otherworldly, and Max's hands pushing at the fabric of her skirt, pushing it up, revealing more of her tights-covered thighs, and Victoria was letting her, Victoria was watching her with those intense green eyes, watching her like she wanted Max to keep going, watching her like she wanted Max. Until she apparently grew too impatient and resolutely lowered her body on top of Max's, pressing them together until Max could feel the rapid flutter of Victoria's heartbeat against her own chest. Victoria's face was right there, and her lips finally found Max's, and her brain just shut off entirely after that.

Each press of Victoria's lips was more and more heated than the last, and Max's hands kept drifting higher beneath Victoria's skirt, fingers now exploring the smooth fabric of her tights where they stretched across the back of her thighs. Max's hands finally faltered just below the curve of Victoria's backside, suddenly uncertain, but then Victoria bit down on Max's bottom lip – hard enough to draw a gasp – before whispering, "touch me" against her mouth. And Max wasn't about to disobey, absolutely not, so her hands immediately, eagerly, slid over Victoria's ass. The butterflies in her stomach exploded into a frenzy, heat pooling low in her belly as she processed just how perfectly Victoria felt beneath her palms – soft but firm and… some primal instinct took over then, urging her to squeeze, and before Max could overthink it, her fingers were curling into toned muscle, gripping firmly, and the sound that escaped her own throat was embarrassingly close to a groan, but Victoria's answering gasp made it worth it. Victoria's tongue pressed insistently against her lips, and Max accepted it into her mouth without hesitation, and suddenly the kiss was deeper, hungrier, desperate in a way it just hadn't been yet, not even on the roof, and Victoria was making these small, needy sounds that Max could feel vibrating through both their bodies, and Max couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything except hold on tighter and kiss back harder.

Victoria's hands were sliding up to Max's shoulders then, pushing at her unzipped hoodie. She tried to push it down Max's arms but the angle was all wrong – Max was pinned beneath her, the fabric trapped between her back and the mattress, and Max's hands were still very much occupied with Victoria's backside, and neither of them was particularly willing to change that arrangement. Victoria made this frustrated sound against Max's mouth and then: "Fuck, just— take this shit off, Max," she said as she started to roughly pull on one of Max's sleeves. Max tried to help, somehow managing to wiggle one arm free, but the other sleeve remained stubbornly trapped. "This would be so much easier if you'd just move your hand off my ass," Victoria complained, but her hips shifted in a way that suggested she didn't actually want Max to stop what she was doing.

"My hands aren't the problem," Max responded anyway. "It's you on top of me. If you let me sit up—"

"No," Victoria whined, actually whined, and then she was pressing herself impossibly closer, somehow managing to lay even more of her weight on Max. The pressure of Victoria's body against hers made Max's head spin, her hands finally leaving Victoria's ass, much to Victoria's audible disappointment, to slide up her back instead, fingers exploring every inch of cashmere-covered skin they could reach before tangling in Victoria's still perfectly styled hair and tugging her head to the side as Max began pressing kisses along Victoria's jaw. Victoria moaned, and god, Max couldn't believe she was allowed to do this, couldn't believe Victoria kept reacting to her like this, couldn't believe any of this was real. She wanted, no, needed to see it. Needed to—

Max's hips moved then, and somehow – she wasn't even sure how – she managed to flip them over. Suddenly their positions were reversed, with Max sitting up to look down at Victoria beneath her. Victoria's eyes went wide with surprise at the sudden change, her lips parting on a small gasp that quickly transformed into something else entirely as she easily settled into her new position, almost melting into the mattress like she'd been waiting for this exact moment her whole life. And maybe she really should've been, because Max was suddenly so certain that this was exactly where Victoria belonged – right here, lying beneath Max's thighs, short blonde hair tousled against the sheets, chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, lips swollen and red as a pink tongue darted out to wet them, all while looking up at Max with something that looked like pure hunger.

"You look so good right now," Max breathed out, unable to help herself, fingertips ghosting over the material of Victoria's sweater, tracing the curve of Victoria's waist. "I mean, you always look good. But holy shit, Victoria. Right now, you just..." she lost her train of thought entirely as her hands pressed more firmly against Victoria's sides, her grip tightening on her waist, pushing her harder into the mattress.

Victoria's own hands found Max's hips at the contact, fingers pressing into them almost desperately, but she didn't say anything. She just stared up at Max with an intensity that made Max's stomach flip, made the butterflies in her belly transform into something heavier, more urgent. The heat building between her legs was becoming impossible to ignore, reminding her of that night on the roof, except this time they were somewhere private, somewhere with a bed, somewhere that perhaps Victoria would find good enough for a first time, and before her brain could catch up, Max was already leaning down to capture Victoria's lips again, and Victoria responded immediately, enthusiastically, her fingers digging harder into Max's hips as she pulled them harder against her own.

Max wasn't entirely sure how long they'd been doing this, or even how it happened, she'd stopped keeping track the moment Victoria had pushed her tongue into her mouth again. But they'd somehow migrated up toward Victoria's pillow, and Max's hoodie and shoes had disappeared (when had that happened?), and Victoria's sweater too (that one Max actually remembered taking off, because hello again, tank top), and technically they were both still wearing their tops, but all that touching and movement had caused them to ride up, leaving their stomachs pressed together, and the feeling of Victoria's bare skin against hers actually drove Max insane. Because at some point she'd started kissing Victoria's neck – and it should've been terrifying, should've made her hesitate since she'd never done this before, had never kissed anyone's neck in her life, but she just dove right in like muscle memory she certainly didn't have was guiding her.

And so her lips traced paths up and down Victoria's throat – everything growing more desperate with each pass, each soft kiss turning harder, more insistent, her curious little licks transforming into long, languid strokes of her tongue against Victoria's skin. She barely noticed when her teeth started grazing harder across that impossibly soft flesh – though some distant, rational part of her brain still knew not to bite down, not to suck, because even through the fog of arousal she knew exactly what marks that would leave. But god, did Max want to leave marks, and Victoria wasn't making it any easier to hold back – the way she kept arching beneath her, her hips jerking with each graze of Max's teeth, these little desperate gasps escaping her throat at even the lightest touch. She was so reactive to everything Max was doing – every brush of lips, every swipe of tongue making her fingers twist tighter in Max's hair, making her whole body tremble. And the sounds she kept making, the way Max's name fell from her lips between whimpers and moans, like she was completely losing control of herself, like she couldn't help any of it. A beautiful, intoxicating song of Max, Max, Max, Max.

"Max," Victoria breathed again, but there was something different in her voice now, and then Victoria's fingers twisted roughly in Max's hair, yanking her up and away from her neck until their faces were level, and the action was so unexpectedly aggressive that Max's breath actually caught in her throat. Gone was Victoria's usual calculated passion, this was something else entirely, this was raw and unrestrained and frenzied and— Victoria crashed their lips together in a searing kiss, but she pulled back almost immediately, her chest heaving with uneven breaths.

"Playing with fire, Caulfield," she warned, and Max had actually never heard her voice sound quite like this, so low and dangerous and thick with undisguised want, all pretenses completely abandoned. Victoria's grip in her hair tightened further, drawing another helpless gasp from Max's lips. "Keep touching me like that, keep kissing my neck like that, and I'm going to stop being nice. Keep pushing me and I swear I'm going to teach you exactly what happens when you test my patience."

And Max couldn't help but note this fascinating new discovery – that neck kisses could apparently transform her perfectly sweet Victoria right back into the ice queen who ruled Blackwell with an iron fist, into a Victoria who made threats, and would absolutely follow through on every single one of them. But the ache between Max's legs was almost unbearable, and right now she really, really wanted to find out exactly what happened when you pushed the Queen Bee too far.

"Are you really getting this worked up over a few neck kisses? It's almost a little disappointing, you know? Finding out you're this easy to rile up."

Victoria's jaw clenched at the obvious provocation, her fingers twisting sharply in brown hair again as she yanked Max's head back to look at her. Max groaned at the sting in her scalp, but the sound caught in her throat at the openly predatory look she found on Victoria's face. "So you want me to stop being nice, hm? You want to see exactly how worked up I am?" The hand that wasn't in Max's hair slid under the back of her shirt, nails dragging down her back hard enough to burn, hard enough to make Max hiss – though the sound dissolved into a desperate whine as Victoria pulled her hair again. "I can show you, Max. I can show you exactly how much I want you. But don't think I don't notice how much you want me." Her nails scraped harder down Max's spine, drawing another gasp. "Think I forgot about that night on the roof? Think I didn't notice how close you were? Because you were right there, weren't you?" Her voice dropped even lower, practically a purr against Max's ear. "Bet you're close now too, and I've barely even touched you."

Max's hips jerked at the words, each sharp bite of Victoria's nails sending sparks of something that definitely wasn't pain through her entire body. Even on top, she felt completely at Victoria's mercy, her thighs trembling where they straddled Victoria's hips. "Victoria..." she breathed, the name falling from her lips like a prayer, and for all of Victoria's talk, Max felt the full-body shiver that ran through her at the sound of her name.

"I really like when you do that," Victoria whispered, her voice losing some of its edge. "You're the only person who says my name like they actually mean it."

"I mean it," Max said earnestly. "I always mean it."

"I know," Victoria breathed, her grip in Max's hair loosening, fingers now carding gently through the strands they'd just been pulling. "I know, Max." The hand under Max's shirt softened too, her palm now smoothing over the marks she'd undoubtedly left behind. "That's exactly why I'm going to make you come until you can't take it anymore."

The words thundered through Max's body, making her lungs actually stop working. She stared down at Victoria, trying to process what she'd just heard, trying to figure out if she'd somehow hallucinated it, if her desperately wanting brain had just made it up. But Victoria was looking back at her with dark eyes and parted lips and oh, she'd actually said that, she'd really threatened, promised to— A groan ripped from somewhere deep in Max's chest then, raw and desperate, and she crashed their lips together. Roof Victoria with her gentle touches and mean girl Victoria with her filthy promises, Max didn't care, she wanted all of it, needed all of it. She kissed Victoria hard, trying to pour everything she felt into it, and Victoria responded by kissing back with equal intensity.

Max's hands slid up Victoria's sides then, fingers curling into the tank top that had bunched around her ribs. She pushed herself up, lifting her weight off Victoria just enough to tug at the fabric, fully intending to pull it over her head. Victoria seemed to have the same idea, her own hands fumbling eagerly with the hem of Max's t-shirt, and—

And then came the knock at the door.

The sharp knock jolted through Max like an electric shock, every nerve ending in her body suddenly going from blissfully overwhelmed to painfully alert. For what felt like several eternities but was probably closer to two seconds, neither of them moved – Victoria's hands frozen where they gripped Max's t-shirt as Max's own stilled on Victoria's top. Then came another knock, harder this time, more insistent, and reality came crashing back with dizzying speed.

"V?" Taylor's voice carried through the door, clear and unmistakable. "Why aren't you answering your phone? What the fuck?"

"Shit," Victoria breathed, and Max had never heard that particular note of panic in her voice before. She quickly scrambled out from under Max, who kind of awkwardly collapsed onto the mattress where Victoria had just been, suddenly cold everywhere they'd been touching even as heat still blazed beneath her skin. "Coming, T!" she called out, her voice impressively steady despite the wild look in her eyes.

And then Max was watching in fascination as Victoria transformed right in front of her – some kind of reverse fairy tale where instead of the stroke of midnight turning the princess back into a servant girl, Taylor's knock had triggered Victoria's instantaneous evolution from aroused disheveled mess to perfect society queen. Her hands flew to her clothes with practiced efficiency, yanking her tank top down from where it had bunched around her ribs and somehow managing to smooth every wrinkle from her skirt with just a few precise movements. Then in one fluid motion, she snatched her sweater from where Max had thrown it earlier and pulled it back on, all while simultaneously kicking Max's discarded hoodie under the bed with her foot. Her fingers then found her hair, and Max genuinely couldn't comprehend how she did it, but somehow Victoria's mussed tresses became magazine-worthy in seconds.

"Victoria? Seriously, what are you doing in there? It's important!"

Max finally managed to get her body to cooperate enough to sit up, though her legs felt about as stable as jello. She watched as Victoria crossed to her mirror, checking her reflection with careful attention, probably making sure Max hadn't left any visible evidence behind. And maybe Max should've felt guilty about that – about how close she'd actually come to marking Victoria's neck, about how much she'd wanted to, about how much she still wanted to, but she couldn't quite manage to muster up any guilt, not when her skin still burned everywhere Victoria had touched her, and definitely not when her body was still thrumming with all this want that had nowhere to go.

Victoria strode back to Max then, who had managed to sink down onto the edge of the bed, her legs still too shaky to trust. "Act normal," Victoria whispered urgently as her hands immediately went to Max's thoroughly destroyed hair. Her fingers worked through the strands, trying to smooth away any evidence of how roughly they'd been pulling at it just moments ago. "Your shoes, Max. Put them on."

But Max's brain was still trying to catch up as Victoria's hands moved from her hair to now adjust her t-shirt, quickly fixing the wrinkled fabric with trembling fingers. And Max couldn't help but stare – Victoria's face was still flushed deep red, her lips visibly swollen and wet from their kisses, and Max had a sudden horrifying realization that she probably looked exactly the same, if not worse. The arousal that had been coursing through her veins just moments ago started dissipating, replaced by a growing panic that made her fingers clumsy as she fumbled with her shoes.

Victoria's hands were back in her hair then, quick and precise as they fixed her bangs, but Max could so very clearly see the nervousness in her now, could feel it coming off of her in waves, and god, how were they supposed to look normal when they both looked exactly like what they'd been doing? When Max's back still burned from Victoria's nails? When her scalp still tingled from having her hair pulled? When her underwear was definitely ruined and Victoria's promise to make her come until she couldn't take it anymore was still echoing in her head over and over and over—

When Victoria finally opened the door, Taylor practically burst in, already mid-sentence about some Vortex Club crisis that Max's brain couldn't even begin to process. Taylor stopped short when she spotted Max though, her perfectly shaped eyebrows drawing together in confusion. And Max wanted to say something, anything, but she was still trying to remember how talking worked, how breathing worked, and was she even allowed to say anything? Victoria told her to act normal, but did Max normally say things to Taylor? She genuinely couldn't remember. She'd talked to her in other timelines, Max was sure. But in this one? Did they ever talk in this one? Was Max supposed to—

"Why is she still here?" Taylor asked, glancing between them. "Thought you were meeting at seven."

"We were," Victoria responded with that perfect blend of boredom and annoyance she wielded so well.

"It's almost eight thirty."

"She came really late," Victoria said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "But she was just leaving." She fixed Max with a pointed look, a clear command to shut up, get up, and get out.

Max forced herself to stand on shaky legs at that, her shoes only half-tied as she grabbed her messenger bag from the coffee table. Every cell in her body protested at the distance growing between her and Victoria, her skin practically burning with the need to be close again, to feel Victoria's hands on her, in her hair, anywhere, everywhere. But she kept her eyes fixed firmly on the floor instead as she moved past the two girls, slipping out into the hallway without a word.

Just before she closed the door behind her, she heard Taylor's voice drift out: "What a weirdo... Anyway, is she finally letting you share those mysterious photos or what? I honestly don't get why you don't just—"

The door clicked shut, cutting off Taylor's words, and Max leaned against the wall beside Victoria's door for a moment, her heart still thundering in her chest as she tried to remember how to breathe. Max forced herself to take several deep breaths, watching her shoes until the hallway stopped spinning quite so much.

After that, it only took a few unsteady steps to reach her own door across the hall. She fumbled with the handle, grateful that she hadn't bothered locking it, and practically fell into her room. Max barely managed to drop her messenger bag before collapsing face-first onto her bed, her entire body still humming with unfulfilled want and the echo of Victoria's promises.

Chapter Text

March 6, 2014

The alarm jackhammered through Max's consciousness like someone was breaking up concrete inside her skull. It yanked her from some dream about swinging on a trapeze in a circus, which was weird since she'd never even been to a circus before, let alone dangled herself from a bar fifty feet in the air. But that hadn't stopped her from dreaming about it, and bizarrely enough, she'd actually been enjoying the experience quite a lot, but now that awful, irritating noise was piercing her head like a drill, and she wasn't flying anymore, and her limbs felt weighted with cement, and she genuinely couldn't muster up enough strength to open her eyes. But still her hand instinctively fumbled blindly toward her nightstand, entirely missing her phone on the first five attempts before finally managing to silence it.

Max squinted at the screen with one eye, 7:01 glowing accusingly at her, though she did not make any move to get up. She stayed sprawled on her stomach, her face still half-buried in her pillow as she glared at her phone for about three more seconds before a whine that sounded pathetic even to her own ears left her throat, her body begging for five more minutes, just five more minutes of blessed unconsciousness, because when had she even managed to actually fall asleep? Five hours ago? Four? The numbers blurred together as she tried to do the math through her exhaustion-addled brain, flippantly wondering if she still had her powers, if she could just rewind time so she could get some more sleep, wondering if she could go back enough hours just so she could go to bed earlier. It wasn't even like she'd need to cut her time with Victoria short in order to sleep more – for once, they'd actually come back from the roof at a somewhat reasonable hour, all things considered. But Max had just lain in bed for who knows how long after that, staring at her ceiling, her mind drifting back to Victoria's room, and Victoria's bed, and Victoria's voice, and Victoria's words, and Victoria's—

The notification, which had actually been there the entire time, finally caught Max's eye just as the screen started to dim. She immediately grabbed at her phone with both hands, fumbling to unlock it again, suddenly very awake as she registered what she was seeing – a message from Victoria, received thirty-seven minutes ago. Her heart instantly launched into an erratic rhythm, every trace of exhaustion vanishing as she stared at the notification box.

Her thumb trembled slightly as it hovered over Victoria's name. Because it wasn't actually a text, no – the preview showed it was a picture. No caption, no explanation, just an image. Her stomach twisted with equal parts anticipation and anxiety as she finally tapped to open it, her mind racing with possibilities. What could Victoria be sending her a photo of this early? Maybe a screenshot of something? Or a selfie? Perhaps some cool thing she'd spotted during her morning run? But Victoria didn't do that. Victoria didn't send her pictures. Victoria barely even texted her. They only ever did that when it was absolutely necessary, and what could possibly be important enough to— but then the image loaded.

And there was sand. A lot of it. All of it was sand, actually. That was the first thing Max noticed – just an expanse of brown stretching across her phone screen. But then her eyes found the… heart? And then they found the 'V'. And then the '+'. And the 'M'. All of them had been carved in the sand, inside the heart, which had also been carved in the sand, obviously, and… Max blinked, then blinked again, and again, as she tried to process what exactly she was looking at, mentally breaking the image into pieces she could actually understand – wet sand near the waterline at the beach, a heart so symmetrical and with lines so perfectly straight a normal person would've definitely needed a ruler, and then that unmistakable V+M centered so very precisely within its lines.

The picture Victoria had sent her showed a heart that had their initials inside of it. Just a simple heart. With their initials inside of it. Drawn in smooth, damp sand. A heart. A heart. And their initials. Victoria had traced their initials in the sand, and then she, Victoria, had drawn a heart around them, and then she'd—

Max's face split into a grin so wide it actually hurt her cheeks, butterflies erupting in her stomach with such intensity she wasn't sure whether she was moderately nauseous or extremely happy. But she didn't feel like figuring it out right now, her heart stumbling on itself over and over as she continued to stare at the photo – it was so different from that last attempt over a week ago, the one from that morning after their first kiss, when Max had scratched out that 'V+' in dry sand and Victoria had completed it with exaggerated reluctance. This... this was something else entirely. Victoria had done this all on her own, had taken time during her morning run to find the perfect spot where the wet sand would hold clean lines. She'd traced the heart with the kind of surgical precision that spoke of multiple attempts at getting it exactly right, their initials centered with mathematical accuracy inside it. Victoria, Victoria Chase, had done that, had done this, for Max, of all people. Victoria had actually decided, at six in the morning, to stop what she'd been doing and maybe even kneel in the sand just to—

A sound that could only be classified as a squeal escaped Max's throat then, and she quickly buried her face in her pillow to muffle it. Not only had Victoria done this, but she'd also taken a picture of it. And then she'd sent it to Max. Like she'd actually wanted Max to see it. Like she'd actually wanted Max to know she'd been thinking about her, thinking about them, as if they could be a definable concept, as if they were concrete enough to be carved into sand with something as simple as a plus sign between their initials, like an actual equation that could be solved, like one that could have a real answer. And all this picture did was make Max even more certain that Victoria actually liked liked her back.

She rolled onto her back and, embarrassingly enough, hugged her phone to her chest, another delighted squeak escaping her throat as she kicked her legs slightly, unable to contain the pure joy bubbling up inside her. After several moments of unrestrained giddiness, Max took a deep breath, trying to calm herself and slow her racing heart. She should respond. God, she definitely should respond. But what could she possibly say to something like this, to Victoria choosing to do something this incredibly and wonderfully… romantic? Because that's what this was, wasn't it? Romantic. It was. It definitely was romantic.

Max bit her lip, staring at her phone screen, cursor blinking steadily in the empty message field as her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. She started typing:

'That's so sweet. I really loved waking up to this' – no way, delete. 'This one's much better than the one from last week. Probably because it was all you this time' – no, no, too self-deprecating, Victoria didn't like when Max acted like that. 'So this is what you actually do on your morning runs?' – and that was way too teasing, Max didn't want her to feel embarrassed and, heaven forbid, not do something like this again. Perhaps she should say something a bit more… 'I know you told me yesterday that you'd show me how much you want me, but I didn't expect you to do it lik' – delete delete delete, even as her skin tingled remembering Victoria's nails down her back. Her response to the picture should be nicer, and more personal, and maybe she could just— 'I wish I'd been there to see you make it. Wake me up next time?'

Max groaned, hitting the backspace button until all the letters she'd typed disappeared. She massaged her temples, that relentlessly blinking cursor shamelessly mocking her indecision. But this was actually important. Extremely important even. Perhaps the most important text she'd ever send in her life. She needed to take her time to figure out what to say. And so after what felt like forever but was probably closer to two minutes, Max finally decided on a simple heart emoji. A red one. Because that one felt serious enough, and because it matched what Victoria had drawn, and because it said everything she wanted to say without actually having to say any of it, because that was how they always did these sorts of things, after all.

So she tapped the red heart and hit send before she could overthink it anymore. And then she immediately locked her phone and pressed it against her chest again, her heart thundering beneath it as she took several steadying breaths, her butterflies completely disregarding her attempts to calm down and instead performing increasingly complex maneuvers in her stomach. Because Victoria liked her. Max suppressed another embarrassing squeal and quickly dragged herself out of bed, stumbling through her morning routine in a daze, barely registering her actions as she got ready for class, feeling simultaneously weightless and jittery.

In the bathroom, she caught herself humming while brushing her teeth, unintentionally grinning so wide every few seconds that toothpaste dribbled down her chin. Her usual morning struggle with her hair felt different too – more like a fun challenge than the daily battle it usually was. She actually tried to style it properly for once. The result wasn't quite Victoria-level perfection, but it was definitely better than her usual bedhead-and-hope-for-the-best approach. Getting dressed proved significantly less ambitious than her hair efforts though – Max pulled on her usual jeans and t-shirt, but then found herself fighting a smile as she reached for that light blue Hermès scarf Victoria had given her. She wrapped it around her neck with more care than she'd ever given any piece of clothing, knowing Victoria would immediately notice she was wearing it, even if she had to pretend not to.

The whole time, her phone burned a hole in her pocket, that heart emoji sitting unanswered in their chat. But it didn't matter. Nothing could dampen her mood, not when Victoria had traced their initials in the sand, not when she'd taken the time to make it perfect, not when she'd wanted Max to see it. Not after yesterday, when she found her old hoodie hidden under Victoria's pillow and watched her get so protective over it like it wasn't just some worn-out fabric. Not after Victoria had turned into pure molten heat just from Max's lips on her neck, making threats, or rather, making promises that still made Max's face burn just thinking about them. And definitely not after last night on the roof, where Victoria had kept pulling Max close almost every time she'd tried to speak, interrupting her stories to press their lips together, like she couldn't help herself. And Max couldn't quite hold that against her, especially not when Max herself had been just as bad – cutting Victoria off mid-conversation just to kiss her, all the time, all night, both of them ending up smiling into each other's mouths like complete idiots, neither of them even trying to pretend they cared about finishing their conversations anymore.

By the time Max actually made it to her locker, she felt like she might actually burst from containing all this giddy energy. She immediately spotted Kate at her own locker down the hall, seemingly struggling to find something, and Max made a conscious effort then to walk normally toward her, focusing very hard on not doing something stupid, like skipping or bouncing or otherwise broadcasting her happiness to the entire hallway. But despite her best attempts at looking casual, her feet seemed to have other ideas, carrying her forward with barely restrained enthusiasm. She tried to school her features into something resembling her usual morning demeanor of tiredness with a pinch or two of grumpiness.

But clearly she'd failed somewhere along the way because Kate greeted her with a surprised laugh, her eyes drifting to Max's barely contained smile, an awfully knowing expression painting her features as she remarked, "someone's in a good mood."

"Good morning to you too, Kate. And not really. I just slept really well, you know?" Max said with a shrug that probably looked about as casual as she felt (which was not at all), her lips still stubbornly refusing to stop curving upward.

Kate's eyes sparkled with amusement and warmth as she gave Max one of those gentle looks of hers that somehow managed to be both comforting and mildly terrifying, like all the thoughts Max wasn't saying were playing across her face like a movie, and Kate had settled in with popcorn to watch. But mercifully, Kate seemed to decide she didn't have time for that particular movie right now, so she turned to rummage through her locker instead. "Can you hold these, please?" she asked, but her biology textbook was already in Max's arms before she could actually respond. Then came history, its solid weight settling against her chest, followed immediately by chemistry. And then a bunch more.

The stack of textbooks in Max's arms was growing concerningly fast, and though it thankfully gave her something to focus on besides the butterflies still in her stomach, it was actually getting kind of heavy. She shifted the books slightly, trying to find a more stable position as the weight threatened to throw her off balance. "What are you looking for anyway?" Max asked.

"Just my biology notes," Kate responded, still rifling through her locker. "I can't find them anywhere." She absently passed Max another thick textbook – calculus this time – then what looked like an art history anthology, barely seeming to register that she was slowly turning Max into a human bookshelf. "They have to be in here somewhere..." She pulled out yet another heavy volume, adding it to Max's increasingly precarious stack without even looking. "I spent hours on those cell diagrams yesterday."

"Could you have left them in your dorm?"

"No, no. They're definitely here."

Max's arms were starting to seriously protest under the weight now, silently begging for mercy as Kate's entire academic collection threatened to send her toppling over. But fortunately, Kate seemed to have run out of books to pile onto her, though she was still digging through her locker with single-minded focus, muttering something about color-coded tabs. Max's mind drifted then, as it tended to these days, back to Victoria – to the sounds she'd made yesterday, to how she'd breathed Max's name over and over like some kind of prayer. Funny how Victoria had spent months carefully avoiding saying her first name at all, but now couldn't seem to stop herself from whispering it, gasping it, moaning it. And just that thought alone made Max shift her weight from foot to foot, that now-familiar ache beginning to build between her legs as she wondered if Victoria's voice would sound different today, if she'd manage to hide the way it had gone all low and desperate yesterday, if—

"How were the cookies?"

Max's head snapped back around so fast she nearly lost her grip on the tower of textbooks (she hadn't even realized she'd been unconsciously scanning the hallway for a glimpse of short blonde hair and designer clothes). "What?" Max managed eventually, her voice coming out slightly higher than intended.

"The chocolate chip cookies you made last Sunday?" Kate prompted, still methodically rummaging through her locker. "The ones you borrowed my mixing bowls for? I never got around to asking how they turned out."

"Oh." Max shifted the books in her arms again, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck. "Um, yeah. They turned out okay. I mean, I had to make four batches actually – the first three kind of sucked. But the fourth one was really good." She paused, cleared her throat. "Thank you again for letting me borrow the bowls. And next time I promise I'll actually save some for you."

"I'll hold you to that," Kate said with a gentle smile, and then: "Ah! Found them!" she announced finally, pulling out a neatly organized notebook with a triumphant flourish.

"And the elusive notes finally reveal themselves."

Kate grinned in response as she bent down to carefully slip the notes into her bag where it sat at her feet. When she straightened back up, her eyes found Max's face again, and with this deceptively casual tone, she just said, "Speaking of those cookies – did Victoria like them?"

The textbooks crashed to the floor before Max's brain could even process what was happening, her arms apparently deciding that complete shutdown was the only appropriate response to Kate's words. The sound of heavy volumes hitting linoleum echoed through the hallway with a series of thundering thuds, making several passing students jump. But Max barely heard it, all she could do was stare at Kate, her mouth opening and closing uselessly as her friend's question replayed in her head over and over. Kate didn't say anything, she just dropped to her knees to gather the scattered books, and Max followed suit instantly, her heart racing as she scrambled to help her collect the fallen volumes.

"I'm so sorry, Kate. I— I don't know what happened, my arms just—" Max stammered, but Kate cut her off with a shake of her head.

"It's okay, Max. They're just books," she said, carefully stacking them beside her on the floor.

Max opened her mouth to protest – to point out how expensive these books actually were, to apologize again for dropping them, and also to ask, as nonchalantly as humanly possible, why Kate would even mention Victoria right now, because it made absolutely no sense, because Victoria obviously hadn't tried her cookies, because Victoria didn't even know they'd existed, because why would she, and how could Kate possibly think—

But then Kate leaned closer, her voice dropping so low that Max had to strain to hear her even though they were practically shoulder to shoulder on the floor. "I stay up late most nights. Drawing usually," she started softly, her tone so very calm and so very normal, as if they weren't both on their knees collecting books while curious eyes gradually turned away, as if this conversation that hadn't even really started yet wasn't already making Max worry she'd have a heart attack. "Victoria and I share a wall, and I've been hearing her leave her room around midnight since last year. And..." She paused for a moment, seemingly trying to choose her next words very carefully. "I could hear another door too, and I knew it wasn't Taylor's since I share my other wall with her. So that left your door. But it wasn't until December that I was completely sure that you, um... when she helped you with the Christmas lights? I've known her for years and she never just helps people, especially not like that." Kate's smile remained gentle, if a little sheepish now. "It kind of just clicked then."

Max's body felt frozen in place, her ears buzzing, her heart hammering so hard against her ribs it was almost painful, and finally those persistent butterflies were gone, replaced by something heavy, something that felt like lead, something that felt like panic that started in her stomach but quickly moved up to her throat. She tried to process what Kate was saying, what Kate knew, and she should deny it, should laugh it off, should say literally anything, but she just kept staring at Kate dumbly, her mouth hanging open until she had enough presence of mind to snap it shut. And she'd hesitated too long now, her silence a confirmation of its own, but maybe she could still pretend, maybe she could act like it was so absurd that she'd been left speechless, but Kate wasn't an idiot, she knew, and she'd known since the start, which meant they hadn't been as subtle as they'd thought, and if Kate knew, then who else knew too? Victoria would lose her mind, she'd want to stop, she'd want to stop seeing Max, she'd want—

"I don't think anyone else knows," Kate added quickly, clearly recognizing the source of the panic on Max's face as she finished gathering the last few books from the floor. "And I know it's not really my place, Max, I'm sorry. We don't have to talk about it. It's just nice to see you so happy and I... I just wanted you to know that I'm here for you if you ever do want to talk."

Kate rose smoothly to her feet then and began efficiently sliding the books into her locker. But Max remained kneeling on the floor, her hands now pressed against the cold linoleum as she stared up at Kate, mind racing so fast she could barely catch a single thought before it dissolved into the next. Of course Kate knew – gentle, perceptive Kate who noticed every small detail about her friends, who always seemed to understand exactly what people needed, who had been so worried about her after Chloe, who at some point mid-November had stopped offering Max special blends of tea to help her sleep, because she'd apparently known that something else, someone else, was already helping her with that. Kate, who Max should have trusted enough to tell, who deserved so much better than secrets and lies from her supposed best friend. The guilt hit Max then, and it hit her hard, because Kate wasn't just her friend, she was also one of Victoria's targets. Not quite so much anymore, and not in this timeline, thank god, but Victoria's cruelty had actually helped drive Kate to that roof. The same roof where now, night after night, Max met with Victoria, where she fell deeper and deeper for her over all these months, and god, that was actually really fucked up, wasn't it?

She scrambled to her feet and stepped closer to Kate's locker, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Kate, I'm... I should've— I mean, after everything she did to you, after how awful she—"

"Hey, don't." Kate shook her head, almost defensive, closing her locker with a soft click. Her eyes darted around the hallway briefly, voice lowered. "She's changed. She apologized to me, you know? Back in October. She apologized for… well, everything. Even stuff I didn't know she'd done." A small smile played at her lips then, likely for Max's benefit. "It was probably the most awkward apology I've ever received, but she meant it."

Max let out this strange sort of breath that was half laugh, half leftover panic, her own eyes scanning the hallway again and again, like mentioning Victoria might somehow summon her, torn between wanting her as far away from this conversation as possible and simultaneously needing her here right now.

"I'm not judging you, Max," Kate continued, her voice impossibly gentle, placating, as she watched Max's nervous glances. "You both had so much to process after what happened in that bathroom. All that… truly horrible stuff, and…" She paused, picking up her bag from the floor and sliding the strap onto her shoulder. "It makes sense that you two found each other." And then that knowing look was back in her eyes. "You're actually really alike, you know? I've always thought so. And your differences… I think they complement perfectly."

Max opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to form words but finding none. For months this thing with Victoria had existed in whispers and shadows, in careful glances and midnight meetings. It was the second biggest secret she'd ever kept (right after the whole time travel thing), and now here was Kate talking about it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like Victoria and Max finding each other was inevitable. Like it wasn't completely insane that they'd gone from barely speaking to... whatever they were now. And she wasn't just acknowledging it either – she was being positive about it, supportive even, like she'd thought about this, like she'd had months to process it and had come to peace with it. Like she actually understood.

"I... we..." Max started, then stopped, then tried again. "It's not... I mean, we're not..." But she couldn't explain any of this, not only out of fear of Kate suddenly reacting differently if Max were to actually confirm she and Victoria had been meeting up, but also because Max genuinely could not explain it, she barely even understood what was happening herself.

But Kate didn't seem to mind or even expect Max to say anything at all. In fact, she just started walking down the hallway, gesturing for Max to follow with a gentle tilt of her head. Max fell into step beside her automatically, still reeling as they made their way toward their first class of the morning. She tried to process this new reality, tried to process how casually Kate had dropped this bomb into her morning, how she'd probably heard them sneaking around like teenagers in some coming-of-age movie. Which led her to wonder what exactly Kate knew. Did she know about the… more of it all? Did she somehow know how long Max had been harboring a crush, how it had started not too long after everything happened in October? Did she know about this new development between them, about the kisses that technically had started recently but had almost happened countless times since last year? Max found herself tugging self-consciously at the expensive scarf around her neck, wondering if Kate had noticed it, if she'd figured out where it came from, and then her hands quickly slipped into her pockets, suddenly very aware of the blue nail polish that Kate must've known Max never would've worn if it hadn't been for a specific someone's influence.

They reached the biology lab and settled into their usual seats near the front, Max's thoughts still spiraling as she mechanically pulled out her textbook. She was hyper-aware of Kate beside her, the familiar sounds of students filing in barely registering as Max stared unseeing at her book.

"So," Kate said then, her voice low as she arranged her colored pens on the desk. "Like I said, we don't need to talk about any of it. And I promise I'll never mention it again if that's what you want. But I'm dying to know – did she like them or not? Because when you told me you were making chocolate chip cookies, I was like, 'no way she'll eat those'. Too much sugar, you know?"

Max glanced at her friend then, almost surprised, but she found Kate watching her with her usual soft smile, though there was definitely something playful dancing in her eyes now. And any other time, Max would've laughed. The Queen Bee of Blackwell and Max meet every night for months, and all Kate cared about was learning whether or not Victoria had liked the cookies Max had baked. The anxiety that had been building in her chest since the hallway started dissolving, replaced by something that felt a lot like relief. Her hand unconsciously drifted to the phone in her pocket, remembering that heart traced in sand, and remembering yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that, and suddenly there was a small smile on her face too, mirroring Kate's. And maybe, out of all people, Kate being someone who knew wasn't really all that bad.

"Yes," Max responded finally. "She actually loved them."

Chapter Text

March 6, 2014 – Later

The stars sprawled across the sky in impossible patterns, some clustered together so densely they looked like spilled sugar, others scattered in lonely isolation against the vast darkness. Max watched them through half-lidded eyes, her head tilted back against the ledge. The night air carried that particular early March chill – not quite winter's bite anymore, but not yet ready to surrender to spring's warmth either. So considering Max was wearing nothing but jeans and a thin sweater tonight, she should have been cold. By all reasonable measures, she should have been really cold, actually. But her side was pressed warm and solid against Victoria's, and somehow that was enough to keep her warm all the way down to her toes.

They'd been up here for nearly two hours already, though Max had lost track of actual time somewhere between their fifth and fifteenth kiss, each one melting into the next until minutes ceased to have meaning, until seconds were measured in heartbeats and breaths rather than the steady tick of a clock. But that had stopped now (albeit temporarily, Max was sure). Instead, they'd settled into a peaceful silence, both of them tilting their heads back to stare at the stars. Victoria's left hand was resting in Max's lap, and Max couldn't stop playing with it – tracing the lines of her palm with feather-light touches, exploring the spaces between her fingers where Max's own fit so perfectly, running her thumb over nails painted in that dark burgundy shade Victoria favored this week. And Victoria was letting her, which still threatened to short-circuit Max's brain whenever she dwelled on it too long. Victoria Chase, who occupied virtually every one of Max's waking thoughts, who had somehow tumbled from the pedestal of unattainable goddess to this very tangible, very real person sitting beside her, was letting Max's clumsy fingers trail over her perfectly manicured ones like it was nothing, like it was easy, like it was normal.

Not that Max was complaining. She most certainly was not complaining. In fact, Max couldn't stop smiling. She kept trying to hide it, kept trying to school her features into something less embarrassingly delighted, but her lips stubbornly curved upward every time Victoria's fingers curled around hers, and every time Victoria readjusted herself against the concrete ledge and her body brushed against Max's, and every time Victoria… breathed, really. And she knew she must look ridiculous right now with this dopey grin on her face and her eyes darting from the stars to their joined hands to Victoria's profile and back again and again and again, but who could blame her? Even after all these months, even after all these nights, there was something so surreal about all this, something so extraordinary about this reality Max was living in, this reality that somehow exceeded every daydream she'd ever had, where everything had somehow aligned to create such genuine, almost overwhelming joy.

Though that hadn't been the case for most of the day – she'd actually spent today in a sort of daze, especially after this morning, after Kate, after that conversation that had left her reeling. The fact that someone else knew about them should have terrified her. It should have made her anxious, should have made her second-guess every interaction, should have made her hyperaware of every glance across hallways and classrooms. And for far too many hours, it certainly had. But as the day wore on, as the hours ticked by with Victoria none the wiser and the world stubbornly refusing to end, the initial panic had gradually transmuted into something else. Something that felt almost like relief. Because the truth was, Max had been carrying this secret like a backpack full of stones for months now, even if she hadn't realized how it had been slowly wearing grooves into her shoulders. But today some of that burden had shifted. Not disappeared, exactly, but somehow redistributed in a way that made it easier to bear. And that newfound lightness, combined with the memory of Victoria's text that morning – that perfect heart in the sand with their initials inside, that irrefutable proof that Victoria actually thought about her when they were apart – it had Max feeling like she could float right off this roof if Victoria weren't anchoring her with those perfect fingers of hers against her own.

And Max couldn't hold it in anymore. She'd managed to keep herself from bringing it up all evening, had tried so hard to act cool, but the words kept bubbling up, threatening to spill over every time Victoria so much as looked at her. And now, with Victoria's thumb absently stroking the inside of her wrist, her self-control finally crumbled completely.

"So, I got your text this morning," Max said, the words coming out in a breathless rush. "The one with the picture. I... um... well, obviously the one with the picture. That was the only text you sent me today, so… yeah. That's the one I mean. I was asleep when you sent it, actually. But I saw it as soon as I woke up. Like literally first thing. So, yes, I definitely got your text."

Victoria's thumb stilled on Max's skin, her only reaction to Max's rambling, but then the movement resumed, the pad of her thumb now tracing slow, deliberate patterns across Max's pulse point. "I know you got my text," Victoria replied, voice casual. "You sent a heart emoji back. Very creative response, by the way."

Max turned her head to look at Victoria properly then, a swarm of butterflies already dancing in her stomach from just being here, from having Victoria's hand in hers, from the stars and the night and everything about this moment feeling so impossibly perfect. But then she caught the barely perceptible upward curve of Victoria's lips as she continued to stare at the sky, steadfastly avoiding Max's gaze, and those butterflies multiplied instantly, their wings beating a wild rhythm against her ribs.

"You drew me a heart, Victoria," Max pointed out, aiming for teasing but landing much closer to complete childlike wonder.

"I didn't draw you anything," Victoria countered immediately, though her fingers tightened ever so slightly around Max's. "I was just practicing my sand art," she deadpanned.

"Sand art," Max repeated, her smile widening.

"Yes, sand art. It's a legitimate artistic medium," Victoria said with a perfectly practiced air of authority. "People make entire careers out of it. There are competitions. Awards. You wouldn't understand."

"Oh, I'm sure I wouldn't," Max agreed easily.

Max shifted her weight, turning her body to face Victoria more fully, her knee bumping gently against Victoria's thigh as she moved. She then deliberately let her fingers slide between Victoria's, interlacing them fully, admiring (not for the first time) how perfectly their hands fit together – Victoria's slender fingers, nails perfectly manicured that deep burgundy, entwined with Max's own shorter ones and their light blue polish. A smile spread across Max's face at that, so wide it made her cheeks ache, her heart performing a complicated gymnastic routine in her chest. Victoria squeezed her hand gently then, the slight pressure sending yet another wave of butterflies through Max's stomach, and through her whole body, really. Max lifted her gaze from their joined hands to Victoria's face, finding her still stubbornly staring up at the stars, but now she was biting her lower lip, clearly fighting against a smile that threatened to break through. And Max really wanted her to lose this particular fight.

"And what about our initials inside the heart?" Max continued. "Was that part of your sand art practice too?"

Victoria huffed in mock annoyance, and with her usual dramatic flair, she finally turned her head toward Max, and those beautiful green eyes connected with Max's own, and her chest filled up with that feeling again, that feeling she felt so often now, that feeling that was definitely more than affection, more than anything else she'd ever felt, something that felt almost like… but there was no time to figure that one out right now. Because Victoria's expression was, of course, a masterclass in haughty indifference, even as that telltale pink spread across her cheeks.

"Aw, you think those were our initials? V stands for vectors, Caulfield," Victoria said with a nonchalant shrug of one shoulder, "and M for magnitude. It's a physics concept."

"Oh, yes. The well-known theory of vectors and magnitude… inside a heart?"

"That was merely an aesthetically pleasing geometric shape to frame the concept," Victoria insisted. "Besides, apparently you can't tell the difference between two ovals and a heart."

"Those were supposed to be ovals? Weird," Max murmured, her free hand boldly reaching up to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind Victoria's ear, thrilling at how Victoria immediately leaned into the touch. "It definitely looked like a heart to me. Actually, it was so perfect it looked like someone might have spent a considerable amount of time getting it exactly right."

Victoria's eyes narrowed slightly at that, but Max could see the amusement dancing in them now. Victoria squeezed her hand again, the pressure more deliberate this time. "Are you suggesting I would waste valuable time drawing shapes in the sand like some kind of child?" she asked, but her voice had lost all of its edge, softening as Max's fingers lingered on her face.

"I would never suggest that," Max said solemnly, thumb gently stroking along Victoria's perfect cheekbone. "Victoria Chase would never do something so frivolous. Especially not for someone as ordinary as me."

Something instantly shifted in Victoria's expression, something that made Max's heart skip several beats as her teasing words clearly hit a nerve Max hadn't meant to touch. Victoria's own free hand moved to Max's face in one fluid motion, fingers curling around the back of her neck with a gentleness that belied the intensity in her eyes.

"Don't do that," Victoria said quietly, all pretense suddenly gone from her voice. "Don't say things like that about yourself. It actually bothers me."

Max blinked, then swallowed hard, caught off guard by the sudden shift in mood. "I was just kidding."

"Well, don't," Victoria said, her grip tightening slightly at Max's nape. "I hear enough of that self-deprecating bullshit from you when you actually mean it. No need to turn it into a joke now too."

"I'm sorry," Max responded, still somewhat reeling from the abrupt mood change, her gaze dropping briefly to Victoria's mouth before meeting her eyes again. "I didn't want to... I mean, I know it bothers you, but this time I honestly didn't mean it that way, I was just—"

But Victoria had closed the distance between them, swallowing Max's words, her lips finding Max's with a certainty that still made her head spin, even after all these nights, all these kisses. Max's eyes fluttered closed as she melted into it, their entwined fingers separating as if by mutual, wordless agreement. Both her now free hands slid up Victoria's neck, fingertips tracing the delicate curve of her jaw before finally burying themselves in Victoria's hair, threading through those perfect short blonde strands. Victoria pulled her closer, closer, until Max was practically in her lap, the ledge hard and cold against her hip but Victoria warm and solid everywhere else. The kiss deepened, Victoria's lips parting against hers, inviting Max closer still. And then, just as Max felt she might actually float away entirely, Victoria pulled back just enough to whisper against her lips, her breath warm and gentle.

"It was a heart," she admitted. "And our initials. And it took me four attempts to make it look the way I wanted it to."

Max felt her heart soar, a smile breaking across her face. "It was sweet," she whispered back against her mouth, her fingers tightening slightly in Victoria's hair. "I loved it. It made me so, so happy."

Victoria pulled back further then, creating just enough space between them to properly look at Max's face. Max instinctively leaned forward again, chasing Victoria's lips, but Victoria pushed her back gently, and she was smiling now, genuine and open, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and god, she was so beautiful, and Max just—

"Did it really?" Victoria asked, her voice soft with something that sounded almost like wonder. "It made you happy?"

"Yes, it really did. Why do you think I've been smiling like an idiot all day?" Max breathed, her hands still tangled in Victoria's hair, unwilling to let her move any further away. "Everything you do makes me— no, you, you make me happy, Victoria."

Surprise flickered across Victoria's features then, her composure faltering as something more vulnerable moved behind her eyes. Her throat worked through a silent swallow, her eyes darting briefly away and then back to Max's. "Oh," she said finally, like she wasn't quite sure what to do with that information. But then, as if coming to some internal resolution, Victoria's expression softened. "Okay. Good," she murmured, her voice carrying a warmth that seemed to seep directly into Max's bloodstream.

"When can I go with you to the beach again? To watch you do, you know, sand art?" Max asked softly, her fingers still carding through the silky blonde strands, each short lock sliding perfectly against her skin as she traced gentle patterns against Victoria's scalp. "I really enjoyed our walk there last time."

Victoria blinked, once, twice, her eyes slightly unfocused as if emerging from a dream, momentarily dazed as she processed Max's question. Her hands, which had been firmly gripping the back of Max's neck, now drifted forward, careful fingers tracing the delicate line of Max's jaw with feather-light touches that made Max shiver despite the warmth between them. "I really enjoyed it too," she finally said, her voice huskier than usual, dropping into that low register that made Max's toes curl in her shoes. But she seemed to gather herself then, that familiar smirk of hers slowly spreading across her face, though her fingertips continued their gentle exploration of Max's features. "But that's definitely not happening again, you see," Victoria started, thumb brushing across Max's cheekbone, "that was a perfect storm of circumstances – you were a sleep deprived mess and I was… much weaker than usual. If you want to come with me in the future..." she paused dramatically, eyes regaining their focus and gleaming with something that looked suspiciously like challenge, "you'll actually have to run with me."

Max stared at her for a long moment. "Run… with you," she repeated slowly.

"Yes, Caulfield. As in, actually run. Move your legs rapidly. Elevate your heart rate." Victoria's smirk widened at the undoubtedly horrified expression on Max's face. "I start running every morning at six o'clock. If you want to see me draw more hearts, then that's the price of admission."

"You want me to wake up before six in the morning to... exercise?" Max said with such utter disbelief that Victoria actually laughed.

"Think of it as a character-building experience."

"My character is perfectly fine without running, thank you very much."

"Debatable," Victoria teased, her fingers trailing down from Max's cheek to her neck, then lower to trace the delicate skin where Max's collar met her throat, her touch drifting along Max's collarbones, light and almost exploratory. "Morning runs and beach visits go hand in hand with me. You can't have one without the other."

Max's hands moved from Victoria's hair to her shoulders, then slid down her arms defeatedly. "Are you serious?" she asked. "You're actually going to make running a requirement for beach time?"

"Yes."

Max groaned. "I'll be terrible at it. And I'll definitely complain the entire time. And there's a ninety percent chance I'll die before we even get to the beach."

"I don't mind."

"... fine."

Victoria studied her face for a long moment. Then, "Saturday," she declared. "Six at the parking lot. Don't be late."

"Six AM on a Saturday," Max repeated with exaggerated horror, trying to keep her face from showing the absolute joy she felt at the prospect of spending time with Victoria outside of Blackwell again. "You're actually evil, Victoria."

"Not evil. Efficient," Victoria corrected, the corner of her mouth quirking upward in that self-satisfied way that had once annoyed Max but now just made her want to kiss it away. So she did.

They traded slow, lingering kisses for what could have been minutes or hours – time had become elastic again, stretching and contracting around them until the only constants were Victoria's lips against hers and the distant twinkle of stars overhead. Eventually, though, the kisses grew gentler, less urgent, until they were just breathing the same air, foreheads pressed together. With a reluctance that was almost physical, they gradually disentangled themselves from each other. But instead of moving apart entirely, Victoria settled back against the ledge in their original position, her shoulder pressed warm against Max's as she tilted her head back to gaze at the stars again. After a moment's hesitation, Max let her head drop gently onto Victoria's shoulder, fitting into the space as if it had been designed specifically for her.

Victoria's left hand found its way back into Max's lap, and Max immediately resumed tracing patterns across her palm, exploring the lines and contours she'd already memorized but couldn't get enough of. Victoria's eyes remained fixed on the vast expanse above them, but Max could feel the slight shift in her posture as she relaxed into the contact, as if this – Max's head on her shoulder, their hands intertwined – was something she wanted just as much as Max did.

The night stretched peacefully around them, the stars continuing their silent journey across the sky, the occasional distant sound of campus life barely registering in their shared bubble of warmth. And as Max traced patterns on Victoria's skin, her mind drifted, and drifted, and suddenly the events of the day were replaying in her head over and over – and more specifically, her conversation with Kate. The familiar anxiety that had been lurking at the edges of Max's consciousness all day crept back in, making her shift uncomfortably. She should probably tell Victoria, right? It felt weird to know that someone else knew when Victoria didn't. It felt like a betrayal, somehow. And sure, Victoria would probably be upset, but she deserved to know. But then again, did she actually have to know right now? Couldn't they just enjoy this perfect night a little longer? Couldn't they spend the—

Victoria squeezed her hand gently, tilting her own head to rest it on top of Max's. "You're tense," she murmured, her voice soft in the night air.

"I'm not tense," Max replied automatically, though even as the words left her mouth, she became aware of the stiffness in her shoulders and the slight rigidity in her spine.

Victoria huffed out a soft laugh, her breath warm against Max's hair. "Are you forgetting that we're sitting so close I can literally feel every muscle in your body? You're tense, Caulfield." Her hand squeezed Max's again, gentler this time. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Max answered. "I mean, nothing is wrong, per se. It's just that… well, um. Kate knows," she blurted out.

The words hung between for a long moment, and then: "Okay. She knows… what, exactly?" Victoria asked, her voice perfectly casual, but Max felt the slight tensing of her fingers, the subtle shift in her posture. And Max's stomach immediately twisted with regret, that familiar anxiety ratcheting up several notches as she realized this really wasn't going to be a fun conversation at all.

"About us," she clarified, because she'd already started so she might as well finish. "About us meeting every night. She figured it out months ago, apparently."

Victoria's hand went rigid in Max's grip at that, and for a moment, she didn't respond at all. Then slowly, deliberately, she lifted her head from where it rested on top of Max's and pulled her hand out of Max's grip, placing it firmly in her own lap. Max immediately felt the loss, her fingers suddenly cold and empty, her whole body registering the withdrawal like a physical ache, and almost unconsciously, she found herself lifting her own head from Victoria's shoulder and shuffling slightly away, creating a small but definite gap between their bodies. She watched as the Victoria she'd been with just seconds ago – the one who'd kissed her softly and made running plans – transformed before her eyes, her entire body language shifting, her shoulders straightening, her jaw tightening.

"And how exactly," Victoria started, her voice taking on that dangerous edge Max hadn't heard directed at her in months, "did she 'figure it out'?"

Max hesitated, her heart hammering against her ribs as she watched Victoria's face harden even more, as she watched the walls come up brick by brick, watched her widen that tiny gap Max had created, shifting her entire body several inches further along the concrete, creating a distance between them that hadn't existed up here on the roof since perhaps January. The cold night air rushed into the space where their warmth had mingled just moments ago as she turned to face Max, her posture rigid, her expression carefully arranged into something neutral yet expectant, waiting.

Max swallowed hard, and cleared her throat. "She, um... she said she could hear us? I mean, not us specifically, but... our doors. She could hear you leaving your room because you two share a wall. And she could hear my door too," Max paused before regrettably adding: "She's known since at least December."

Victoria's jaw clenched hard, the muscle jumping beneath skin as her eyes grew colder and colder with each word Max spoke. "So what you're telling me," she said, her voice now carrying this precise, controlled quality, "is that we've had an audience this whole time?"

"Not an audience, Victoria. Just Kate," Max countered immediately, though her body still instinctively curled inward at Victoria's tone. "And she's not... she doesn't care. She was actually really supportive about it. She thinks we complement each other, and that we—"

"Oh, she was supportive. How fucking nice of her," Victoria cut in, her words condescending and sharp enough to make Max actually flinch. And there was anger suddenly, so much anger, blazing hot and barely contained, transforming Victoria's features into something almost unrecognizable – not the cold, calculated fury Victoria typically wielded in the hallways of Blackwell; no, this was raw, visceral, and deeply personal. "I'm so fucking glad we have Kate Marsh's blessing for whatever the fuck this is. Are you even hearing yourself right now, Max?"

Max's chest tightened at the venom in Victoria's voice, a sudden chill spreading through her body, her stomach twisting uncomfortably on itself and making her actually nauseous, but beneath all her own discomfort, there was a growing confusion. Because this seemed like a massive overreaction, even for Victoria. It's not like Kate had caught them making out or anything. "It's not like that, Victoria," Max said, her voice coming out steadier than she felt. "She just wanted me to know that she's there if I ever wanted to talk about—"

"And have you?" Victoria spat out, suddenly pushing herself to her feet in one fluid motion, towering over Max, eyes blazing, green fire that burned so hot it felt cold. "Have you two been having little heart-to-hearts about me behind my back?"

"What? No, of course not! I didn't even know she knew. I found out this morning." Max's voice rose slightly, scrambling to her feet as well and reaching for Victoria, her hand extending across the gulf between them, fingers outstretched in an attempt to reconnect.

But Victoria took a step back in response, just beyond Max's reach, making the empty space between them grow even larger. The rejection stung like a slap, making Max's throat tighten, her extended hand hovering awkwardly in the air before defeatedly falling back to her side. "Do you even realize what this means?" Victoria spat.

"I— no, I'm— Victoria, it's fine, it doesn't have to mean anything," Max stammered, trying again to reach for Victoria's hand, desperate to pull them back to where they'd been just minutes ago. But Victoria pulled even further away, both physically and emotionally. "Victoria, please, it's okay. There's really nothing—"

"It's okay?" Victoria echoed, her tone mocking and sharp. "It's okay? Are you actually serious?"

"Victoria, it's literally just Kate. Calm down. It's not—"

"Don't fucking tell me to calm down. And there is no 'just Kate,' Max," Victoria snapped. "There's Kate, and then there's everyone she tells, and everyone they tell, and suddenly the entire fucking school knows. That's how this shit works."

"That isn't going to happen," Max insisted, taking a step forward, but Victoria matched her movement with another step backward. "She's known for months, Victoria. And she hasn't told anyone."

Victoria let out a harsh laugh that held no humor whatsoever. "And you actually believe that?"

"Yes! I do," Max responded immediately. "I trust her."

"Well, then you're just really fucking dumb, aren't you? Wake up, Max. If it's true that the bible-thumping bitch hasn't told everyone already, then she's just waiting for the right moment to cash in. But sure, keep living in your pathetic little bubble where everyone's good and you trust them all. Because that's worked out so well for you, hasn't it?"

The cruel words hit Max like a physical blow, making her recoil from Victoria, hurt swirling in her chest like ink in water, spreading rapidly through her entire body until it coated every inch of her insides with something dark and cold. For a moment, she just stared at Victoria, unable to process that all of this was actually coming from the same mouth that had earnestly defended her from an innocent self-deprecating comment not even thirty minutes ago.

"That— that wasn't nice," Max said finally, her voice small and tight. "You shouldn't talk to me like that. And you shouldn't talk about my friends like that either."

"Do I look like I give a fuck about nice?" Victoria shot back, arms crossing defensively over her chest. "Stop being so goddamn naive. This isn't some cute little—"

"Why the hell are you freaking out like this?" Max cut in, her own voice rising as the hurt in her chest began transforming into something sharper, something hotter. "Literally nothing has changed. Nothing. Kate has known for months, and everything has been exactly the same. So what's wrong with you? Why are you so angry?"

"I'm angry because apparently there are fucking witnesses to this," Victoria snapped, gesturing sharply between them, her hand cutting through the air like a blade.

"So what?" Max demanded, that heat in her chest now flooding her veins, burning away the chill Victoria's words had left behind. "What's so awful about my friend knowing you don't hate me? About people potentially finding out you like me? What's so fucking terrible about that?"

Victoria laughed then, a sound so cold and hollow it barely resembled laughter at all. "What's so fucking terrible about it, Max, is that it would really piss me off to have fake rumors about us circulating around," she said, her voice dropping to something dangerously low. "And let's get one thing straight – you just said that I like you, but make no mistake, I never said I liked you. I literally never said that. You're making assumptions. You've been making all sorts of assumptions for months now."

And Max just stared at her, disbelief washing over her in waves, and she could laugh, she really could, but— "Are you… are you serious right now? You're really going to say that after yesterday in your room? After this morning?" Her voice cracked slightly as she continued, "After literally two minutes ago? Are you suddenly forgetting we've spent about two weeks kissing every single chance we get?"

"I let a lot of people kiss me, Max," Victoria said dismissively. "Don't make this into something it's not."

Max felt like she'd been kicked right in the stomach, Victoria's words stealing her breath, making her chest constrict painfully. And she knew, she knew that this was just Victoria being scared, and that this was just her whole vulnerability fear thing flaring up, and that she was trying to push Max away to feel safer, but honestly, fuck that. Because all of Max's insecurities and fears came right to the surface, every moment of doubt she'd ever had, every time she'd wondered if Victoria Chase could really be interested in someone like her, every time she'd questioned whether their connection was real or just something she'd imagined… all of it came rushing back with devastating clarity. Were the nights they'd spent together really nothing? All those hours of conversation, of laughter, of shared secrets and growing closer? Had it meant nothing to her? And did she really let other people kiss her? This entire time? Even the past two weeks?

Max stumbled backward, putting more distance between them, her feet unsteady on the concrete roof. Embarrassingly enough, she could feel tears burning behind her eyes, hot and unwelcome, and she really didn't want Victoria to see her like this, to see how much she'd hurt Max, because that was exactly why Victoria was being so cruel, to hurt her, and she hated showing her that it'd worked. But she couldn't even get her hand up to wipe the tears away as they trailed hot down her cheeks, her arms suddenly too heavy, her entire body too numb to respond properly. All she could do was try to breathe, each inhale audible and shaky, each exhale carrying the ghost of a sob she was desperately trying to suppress.

Victoria stood frozen, her gaze fixed on Max's face, fixed on the tears streaming down her cheeks. Something complicated flickered across her features then – the anger slowly draining away and leaving behind a strange mixture of horror and that same panic from earlier, from when Max had first told her about Kate knowing. Victoria's perfect posture seemed to collapse in on itself, her shoulders drawing inward as if she was trying to make herself smaller. She took a step backward, then another, and another.

"I'm leaving," Victoria said suddenly, her voice completely neutral. "Clearly this isn't a very productive discussion."

And just like that, she was gone. The door slammed shut behind her with a heavy metallic clang that echoed across the empty roof, the sound reverberating through Max's chest like thunder. She flinched at the finality of it, at how easily Victoria had walked away, at how quickly she'd transformed from the person who'd traced their initials in sand that morning to someone who could barely stand to look at her. And Max stood there, alone on the roof where they'd spent countless nights together, the stars continuing their silent journey across the sky as if nothing had happened at all. Her tears kept falling, but at least now there was no one else to see them. Just Max and the night air and the lingering scent of Victoria's perfume, already beginning to fade.

Chapter Text

March 7, 2014

The first thing Max noticed when she woke up was that her eyelids felt like sandpaper. The second thing was that her pillow was uncomfortably damp against her cheek. The third was this awful, burning sensation around her eyes, her skin irritated and chafed from hours of wiping away tears with the rough sleeve of her sweatshirt.

Max didn't remember falling asleep. One moment she'd been staring at the ceiling, masochistically replaying every cruel word Victoria had flung at her, and the next thing she knew, her phone alarm was drilling into her skull with its cheerful, tinny melody. Max fumbled for it blindly, nearly knocking it off her nightstand before managing to silence it with a clumsy swipe.

7:01 AM. Just like yesterday.

Except nothing about today felt like yesterday. Yesterday she'd woken up to a heart drawn in the sand with their initials inside. Yesterday she'd proudly wrapped that blue scarf around her neck, the one that matched her eyes, the one Victoria had bought for her. Yesterday she'd been so genuinely happy she hadn't been able to hide it. Yesterday… well, yesterday was yesterday, and that was that.

Her fingers hovered over her phone then, her half-asleep brain urging her to check if Victoria had texted today too, but she stopped herself. Because she didn't care. She absolutely didn't care if Victoria had texted. Victoria could go fuck herself, actually. She could take her midnight meetings and her perfect hair and her cashmere sweaters and her sand hearts and her Chanel nail polish and she could just... fuck right off with all of it.

Max pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to push back the tears already threatening to form. She took several deep breaths, her head pounding, a dull throb behind her temples which seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. And she should get up, and she should definitely drink some water, because her mouth felt like a desert, and because she was probably dehydrated after crying out half her body weight in tears. But the thought of getting out of bed felt impossible, like gravity had somehow intensified overnight, pinning her to the mattress with a force she couldn't hope to overcome.

So she didn't get up. Instead she just lay there, watching as the numbers on her nightstand clock ticked steadily from 7:02 to 7:13, and then to 7:23, and to 7:35, and 7:49, and the morning light was gradually brightening the room around her more and more, and she really, really should be getting ready for class already. She should be showering, getting dressed, eating breakfast. There was so much stuff Max should be doing right now. But she couldn't actually bring herself to care about any of it. Not today. Maybe today she could just... not.

Not go to class. Not have to walk those hallways pretending everything was fine when it so clearly wasn't. Not have to wonder if Kate was watching her with those knowing eyes, wondering what had happened, what had changed. Not have to see Taylor and Courtney whispering in Victoria's ear, both of them glancing Max's way with mean, condescending smirks. Not have to hear Victoria's carefully practiced laugh, her fake laugh, the one she used when she wanted everyone to believe she had everything under control, the one that was nothing like her real laugh, the one Max had heard countless times on the roof when it was just the two of them.

Max turned over then, burying her face in her pillow, trying to physically block out the thoughts of Victoria. But the fabric was still damp against her skin, and that was a really shitty reminder of everything that had happened last night, and definitely not helping, and so with a frustrated groan, she flipped the pillow over to its dry side, pressing her face into it with renewed determination. But of course, even with her eyes squeezed shut against fresh cotton, the thoughts kept coming, wave after wave of memories – Victoria's fingers gently threading through her hair, Victoria's lips hot against her neck, Victoria's voice whispering things that made her shiver even now, even after everything, Victoria's voice suddenly turning cold, harsh, cruel, calling her naive, calling her dumb, saying she'd never— And perhaps Max should just try to distract herself, perhaps play a game on her phone, or scroll mindlessly through social media, or find some new photography blog online. Something. Anything, really. Anything to keep yesterday out of her mind.

But when she picked up her phone and the screen lit up, her heart stuttered painfully in her chest. Because there, at the top of her notifications, was a message from Victoria. Because of course there was a message from Victoria. Two mornings in a row now seeing that name on her screen. It was almost funny in a devastating way how something that would've made Max so stupidly giddy just twenty-four hours ago, now just... didn't. Instead it filled her with a strange kind of dread – would this text be filled with more insults? More denials? More lies? Or maybe it would be an explanation? An apology? Promises to do better? But when Max finally opened the message, all she found was a single red heart emoji, nothing else, sent today at 5:09 AM – right around when Victoria would have been getting up for her morning run.

Max stared at it, trying to process what she was looking at. Victoria had sent her a heart. After everything that had happened last night – the yelling, the accusations, the "I never said I liked you" and the "you're making assumptions" – Victoria had the absolute nerve to send Max nothing but a heart emoji.

It hit her then – this wasn't an apology or even some kind of attempt at reconciliation. No, this was just Victoria responding to the heart Max herself had sent yesterday morning, after receiving that photo of their initials in the sand. Victoria woke up for her run and decided to answer a day-old text as if it should matter now, as if they could just pick up right where they left off, as if it changed anything. As if Max even cared.

Except she did care. She cared so much that her throat closed up at the sight of those ridiculous red pixels, at how casually the emoji sat there on her screen. Like nothing had happened. Like Victoria hadn't said all those horrible things. Like she hadn't torn Max's actual heart from her chest and ruthlessly stomped on it. Like she hadn't walked away without a backward glance after. Max's grip on the phone loosened until it slipped from her hand, landing with a dull thud on the floor beside her bed.

She pulled her blanket up over her head then, cocooning herself in darkness, and time became elastic again, stretching and contracting like it had on the roof when Victoria's lips were on hers, except now there was only emptiness and that tight feeling in her chest that wouldn't go away no matter how many deep breaths she took. Max drifted in and out of a restless half-sleep, never really fully awake but never truly asleep either, existing in some numb in-between state where thoughts and dreams blurred together until she couldn't tell which was which.

In dreams, Victoria was warm against her side, fingers tracing patterns on her palm. In thoughts, Victoria's words cut her like broken glass. In dreams, Victoria smiled at her like she was the only person in the world. In thoughts, Victoria's eyes were cold and distant, looking through Max like she wasn't even there. In dreams, Victoria was sitting across from her in fancy restaurants, her foot nudging Max's under white tablecloths, casual and intimate. But in thoughts, Victoria was laughing at her, wielding that cruel public laugh she reserved for humiliating others. In dreams, Victoria's hand found hers as they walked side by side, fingers intertwining without hesitation, no matter who was around to see. In thoughts though, Victoria was denying every moment they'd ever shared and everything they'd ever been.

A sudden buzzing from the floor dragged her back to full consciousness, her phone vibrating against the carpet. Max ignored it, burrowing deeper into her blankets, but irritatingly enough, she was wide awake now, and hurt, and sad, and desperate for a distraction, or anything that could make her feel at least a little bit better, so she reached down, fingers groping blindly until they closed around her phone.

1:17 PM now. She'd missed so many classes already. But that was fine. She planned to miss the rest too, after all.

She'd gotten a lot of new messages – quite a few from Kate, a couple from Warren, and even one from Dana. But unsurprisingly, her stupid eyes didn't care about any of that, they were fixed on Victoria's name instead. There were two new texts from her. The first one, sent at 9:20 AM: 'Are you not coming to English?'

And now this one, the one that woke her up: 'Will you skip photography too? Carson expects an answer about the exhibition today.'

Max stared at the messages for a long moment, the hurt that lived in her chest since last night now mixing with pure, unadulterated disbelief, and she just couldn't help the ugly laugh that escaped her throat then. Apparently that was how Victoria wanted to play this. She really was going to pretend everything was normal. She really was going to pretend she hadn't treated Max like shit. She really was going to pretend she hadn't completely shattered what they'd been— but Max stopped herself mid-thought, her blood suddenly running cold because what if maybe, just maybe, to Victoria, everything actually was normal? What if, for her, this wasn't some earth-shattering fight but just... Thursday? Or Friday now, technically. What if this was just something Victoria thought Max should accept? Maybe she expected Max to just be cool with Victoria kissing her senseless one moment and tearing her to pieces the next. Maybe she actually believed it was fine to draw hearts in the sand at dawn and then, just hours later, deny ever feeling anything for her at all.

It made Max's stomach twist painfully, but now with something that felt suspiciously close to indignation, and offense, and irritation, and so many other feelings she didn't care to name. Max carelessly dropped her phone back to the floor without responding. And god, Victoria was so full of shit. Max might be a lot of things, but she wasn't an idiot, despite whatever Victoria seemed to think. She was not going to accept that type of behavior. She was not going to normalize whatever last night had been. And that whole thing where she acted like the two of them weren't anything? Max knew those nights hadn't been a figment of her imagination, she knew all of it had been real, and she certainly knew Victoria wasn't letting anybody else kiss her either – she didn't even have time for that. For months she'd been leaving her precious Vortex Club parties remarkably early just to make it to the roof on time. Victoria was a coward, and she was scared shitless, that's what this was. Kate knowing had triggered something in her – her deep-seated fear of vulnerability, of exposure, of… whatever, who even cared? And when Victoria got scared, she lashed out. Max had seen it time and time again.

So she wasn't questioning whether Victoria had feelings for her. Actions spoke louder than words, and Victoria's actions over the past five months had made her feelings crystal clear, even if she refused to admit them out loud. What Max was really struggling with right now was the sudden realization that those feelings really weren't enough – that when backed into a corner, Victoria would always choose her reputation over Max, that she would willingly hurt Max, deliberately hurt her, rather than face the possibility of others knowing how she felt. And that was not okay, and Victoria couldn't expect Max to be okay with that either, even with her gigantic ego, Victoria was smart enough to know that she couldn't ask that of Max. So why was she acting like this? Why was she even texting her? She shouldn't be texting her at all, actually. She should be here, apologizing and begging Max for forgiveness, for a second chance, and she should be telling Max she didn't mean any of it, and that she understood why Max was so upset, and that she'd fix it, and change it, and—

The feeling bubbling in Max's chest gave her something tangible to hold onto, something beyond the hollow ache of heartbreak. It was enough – just barely – to propel her out of bed. The hallway was mercifully empty once she finally ventured out, everyone else in class where they were supposed to be. Max shuffled toward the bathroom in her wrinkled clothes from yesterday, not bothering to smooth down her tangled hair or check her reflection in any reflective surface she passed. Who cared how she looked? Certainly not Max herself right now.

The bathroom was empty as well, and so she drank straight from the faucet, the cool water almost painful against her parched throat. She used the toilet too, realizing with a dull sort of surprise that she'd been holding it for hours, her body's basic needs forgotten in the fog of her misery. After washing her hands, and refusing to look at herself in the mirror, she splashed some water on her face, wincing as it hit the raw, tender skin around her eyes. And Max just stood there, the water circling the drain, as it often did when it came to sinks, and she watched it go, imagining all her feelings for Victoria swirling away just as easily. If only.

On her way back to her room, Max paused outside Victoria's door. Her whiteboard hung there, pristine and perfect like everything else Victoria owned. 'Be who you want to be' was written in her precise handwriting, and Max nearly laughed at the irony – Victoria Chase, terrified of people seeing she was a real human being, telling others to be themselves. Max stepped closer to the board then, fingers hovering over the eraser hanging from its tiny string. She could wipe it clean. Could write something back, something cutting, something that would hurt Victoria just a fraction as much as Victoria had hurt her. It would serve her right too, especially considering all the times Victoria and her minions had messed with Max's own slate back in the beginning of the year.

"How about you try taking your own advice?" Or maybe something more direct, like: "And are you really who you want to be?" Or perhaps simply: "Hypocrite."

Max's fingers closed around the eraser, and she tried, she really did try to erase Victoria's little inspirational message, but she just couldn't bring herself to do it. Because goddammit, she understood. She understood Victoria's fear, understood why Victoria had lashed out, understood her terror of losing control, and understood why it had driven her to try to push her away. Max knew the pressure she was under, and she knew the environment in which she'd grown up, and she knew how her parents had taught her (or failed to teach her) to deal with certain situations. And Max was learning that the most annoying part of knowing someone so well was that it apparently made it impossible to hate them, even when they purposefully hurt you like this.

That, and the fact that Max was still very much in love with her. That bit wasn't news, but admitting it now, standing in front of Victoria's door while her heart lay shattered at her feet, felt like the cruelest joke the universe could play. Max let go of the eraser then, letting it swing back against the wall with a soft plastic thud. Eventually, she turned away from Victoria's door, retreating to her own room where she immediately collapsed back on her bed, the brief surge of energy from her anger completely spent.

And now, lying here again, all she could think about was Victoria's room, and how much it fit her, how she had Max's hoodie hidden under her pillow, how she'd practically snatched it from Max's hands when she'd found it. She wondered where she kept Max's other hoodie, the one she'd frantically taken off her while Max was straddling her hips. She'd kicked it under her bed when Taylor had knocked, and… did she keep that one under her pillow now too? She also wondered where she kept that light blue nail polish. Did she hide it or did she keep with the rest of her other ones? Unbidden, Max so vividly remembered how Victoria had looked that night after painting her nails, her voice soft and almost shy as she'd admitted she'd never felt like this before.

There were just so many moments when Victoria had let her guard down completely, so many moments when she'd looked at Max like she was something rare and precious, something to be cherished, something she actually did cherish. And this situation sucked, and it was complicated, but it wasn't really, not at all, not for Max, at least. For Max, all of this was extremely simple – she wanted Victoria, she wanted to be with her, everywhere, all the time, and she didn't care if people knew, if the entire world saw. Because it was great, and Victoria was great, most of the time, but the tears were back now, sliding silently down Max's temples and into her hair as she stared at the ceiling, because that was never going to happen, was it? The world would never know, and the two of them would never be together, not really, not in the way Max wanted. It didn't matter how much she liked Victoria, or how much Victoria liked her back, because she had priorities and Max was nowhere near the top of them.

It was exhausting, truly. All of this was exhausting. The good memories, the bad ones, the empathy, the sadness, the pain, the occasional bursts of anger, the never-ending emotional whiplash whenever she was with Victoria, or near her, or even just thinking about her… it was too much, and so tiring, and so addicting. But luckily, she must have drifted off at some point again, because the next thing she knew, the light in her room had changed completely. The sun was almost gone, replaced by the dim blue-gray of early evening. Her mouth felt impossibly dry, her lips cracked and painful when she ran her tongue over them. She hadn't had anything to drink since her brief trip to the bathroom earlier, and clearly she hadn't had enough, but the thought of getting up again, of walking all the way back to the bathroom for more water seemed like an insurmountable task.

So she reached for her phone again, squinting at the bright screen in her darkened room. 6:52 PM. The entire day officially gone, wasted in this haze of misery and self-pity. Max didn't mind, she was more than happy to let it all blur together, to let time lose meaning, to let the world keep spinning without her for a while. But right there on her phone was, of course, yet another new text from Victoria. Four in one day. Max should buy a lottery ticket, perhaps.

'I talked to Carson.'

Max stared at the screen, fingers automatically swiping upward, then downward, then upward again, as if more words might materialize if she just scrolled enough times, as if some continuation might appear, maybe even a second text. But there was nothing. No follow-up, no explanation, just those words floating on her screen like an accusation. Max had no doubt Victoria had told him they wouldn't be doing the exhibition, but what had she said exactly? Had she made some excuse? Or had she told him the truth – that they couldn't possibly display those photos because god forbid anyone at Blackwell discover that Victoria Chase trusted a scholarship kid?

Max tossed her phone aside with a sigh. The photos had been good – great, even. Mr. Carson had seen something real in them, something worthy of display. It would've been a solid opportunity for her, a chance to get her work seen beyond the classroom. But Max had come to terms with not displaying them a very long time ago, from the moment their teacher had first made the offer. She'd known Victoria would never agree to it, had recognized the panic in those green eyes immediately, and all her half-assed arguments that day in her room had sealed it. So really, this wasn't a surprise. Just a confirmation of what she'd already expected. No use dwelling on it, she supposed.

Max pulled her laptop onto her knees then, her fingers lingering on the track pad for a moment before finally opening YouTube and clicking on a documentary about marine life. The screen instantly filled with vibrant blues and teeming coral reefs, schools of fish darting across the display in flashes of silver and gold. The narrator's voice was deep and soothing, talking about underwater ecosystems – about how delicate life could be, about careful balances that took years to build and seconds to destroy. She immediately clicked on the next video in the recommended list. Something about space, about distant galaxies and nebulae and stars. Max clicked away, hovering briefly over each thumbnail, searching for something safe, something neutral, something that wouldn't remind her of Victoria, for once. She settled on a documentary about traditional Japanese pottery. No connection there, right? The craftswoman's hands moved with careful, deliberate precision as she shaped the clay, molding it with practiced movements, each touch calculated and perfect thanks to her long and delicate, yet visibly strong fingers, and Max slammed her laptop shut.

She picked up her phone again, opening the messages from Victoria, because if the universe was going to make her think about her, she might as well do it her way.

5:09 AM: ❤️

9:20 AM: Are you not coming to English?

1:17 PM: Will you skip photography too? Carson expects an answer about the exhibition today.

2:36 PM: I talked to Carson.

Max dropped her phone onto her mattress and stared at it for a long moment. Then she grabbed it again, her thumb scrolling further back through their message history. Past yesterday's heart emoji Max had sent, past the sand photo, past Victoria asking her to meet in her room, past a couple of photos from their day in Portland, past brief arrangements about meeting times, past the occasional necessary exchanges about homework or class. Their text history was so frustratingly poor compared to the richness of their actual relationship, and— no, there is no 'actual relationship', Max reminded herself. But still, the exchanges grew sparser and sparser the further back she scrolled. She stopped the second she reached October, though, her eyes carefully scanning the words there, or rather, lack thereof.

Had it been that other timeline, the one where she'd saved Chloe, there would've been more texts, and even some insults here and there. Max remembered receiving those after she'd let that can of white paint fall all over Victoria, just like she remembered the relentless bullying she'd faced from her in the hallways. She also remembered that party where she'd warned her about Nathan, when Victoria had opened up to her for the first time, when she'd admitted things that this timeline's Victoria had also admitted not too long after they'd become somewhat close, these things about how she admired Max's talent, and the way she didn't care about what people thought or said, and then Max was remembering, seeing, in excruciating detail, what happened after that party, Victoria drugged and unconscious in Jefferson's bunker, and the fear, and the guilt, and the unfairness of it all, and… and Max quickly locked her phone.

After that, her body was begging for a distraction from that particular image, so Max thankfully managed to find and watch over a dozen videos that didn't remind her of Victoria too much, current or past. She actually paid attention, and somewhat turned off her brain enough to actually, kind of absorb what she was seeing, and she may have drifted off at some point, or not, Max wasn't entirely sure, but there was now some guy playing a video game, and she didn't remember clicking on that, and then she realized with a start that it was already 10 PM, and she immediately shut her laptop and urgently pulled off her headphones.

Because Max had been going to the roof at ten forty-five the past nights, and Victoria was always there when she arrived, which meant she probably left for the roof around this time. And so Max's chest constricted, her stomach twisting on itself, as she listened, as she waited, the seconds stretching into minutes, anticipation and anxiety swirling together when, as if on cue, at 10:30 PM, there it was – the unmistakable sound of a door opening and closing, followed by soft footsteps moving away down the hall.

Max sat frozen on her bed, a storm of emotions crashing through her. Satisfaction settled in her chest first – Victoria was going to the roof, she still wanted to see Max, even though Kate knew about them, she still wanted to see her. But the satisfaction quickly morphed into something sharper, something that burned in her throat and behind her eyes. Because how dare she follow her usual routine like nothing had changed? Max set her laptop aside then, restless energy suddenly coursing through her veins. She paced the small confines of her room, hands clenching and unclenching at her sides, eyes darting to the clock on her nightstand every few seconds, as if that glowing red display might somehow provide answers to the questions tumbling through her mind. Victoria was probably sitting on the ledge right now, maybe looking at the stars, maybe checking her phone, maybe wondering where Max was. Did she think Max would show up tonight? Did she expect Max to just go up there and act normal? Did she even suspect Max was upset with her? Did she even notice Max hadn't answered any of her texts?

Either way, Max should go to the bathroom now since finally there was no risk of running into Victoria. So she cracked open her door, peering into the hallway to make sure it was empty, and then slipped out toward the bathroom. She'd spent the entire day avoiding her reflection, but now, standing in front of the mirror, Max couldn't quite look away from the girl staring back at her. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, dark circles beneath them. Her usual pallor had taken on a sickly cast, and her hair stuck out at odd angles from hours of pressing it into her pillow. Max resolutely looked away then, focusing instead on the cool water that felt like salvation on her cracked lips as she drank directly from the faucet again. She filled her water bottle (which was something she should've done on her first trip here), brushed her teeth mechanically, and tried to smooth down her hair with damp hands.

She was back in her room before the clock hit 11 PM, and she found herself sitting in her bed, staring at her phone yet again, half-expecting to see another text from Victoria. Because technically, Max was now late, and she would be indefinitely late, because she most definitely wasn't leaving her room any time soon. And that… hurt, because she hadn't missed a single night on the roof since returning from winter break. Not one. Not when she'd had that awful flu in January that left her feverish and dizzy for three days straight. Not when she'd been drowning in homework before midterms, essays and assignments piling up around her like fallen leaves. Not even during that snowstorm when the temperature had dropped to legitimately dangerous levels of below freezing.

Max had always gone to the roof, she'd always found her way to Victoria somehow. But not tonight. Tonight, her pride might be all she had left, and she was holding onto it with both hands, even as part of her screamed to just go, just go to the roof, just see her, call her an idiot, maybe a bitch, and then kiss her and tell her it was okay. But Max stubbornly pulled up YouTube again instead, clicking on the first video that appeared – some compilation of people falling down that she had zero interest in watching.

And time passed, and passed, and Max wasn't really watching the videos anymore, her gaze stuck on the clock, because it was almost midnight now and Max still hadn't gotten any new texts, and she still hadn't heard Victoria's door again. And the thought of Victoria sitting alone in the cold for hours, waiting for her, brought a vindictive satisfaction that lasted approximately three seconds before guilt crushed it completely. Max's fingers kept playing with her phone, turning it over and over in her hands, the urge to text Victoria impossible to ignore now, to tell her to stop waiting and just go to bed. But no, Max wouldn't do that. The roof was Blackwell property, after all. Max didn't own it, and certainly Victoria didn't either, and if she wanted to freeze her perfect ass off sitting on concrete all night, that was her prerogative. Max wouldn't intervene. But still, she refreshed her messages one more time, in case Victoria had texted since the last time Max checked two minutes ago.

By 12:55 AM, Max's body felt heavy, her limbs weighed down by exhaustion and emotional turbulence. Her eyes burned when she blinked, and her skin felt too tight, like she was outgrowing her own body. She still hadn't heard Victoria's door, and she would have heard that, wouldn't she? Her ears had been straining for that exact sound for way too long now. In about thirty minutes, it would be three hours since Victoria had left her room, and it was becoming more and more evident that she hadn't actually gone to the roof tonight. It was Friday night after all – she was probably out partying with her friends or something. Maybe she'd somehow figured out Max wouldn't show up and had decided to go and actually stay at one of those parties she was always so hellbent on organizing. Good for her, but not really, fuck her, actually. Max hoped she was having a shitty time. Though not that shitty. Maybe just moderately bad. Just bad enough that she wished she was with Max instead. Yes, that was more like it. Her eyes fluttered closed then, as she focused on her breathing, as she tried to quiet all the thoughts in her head, as she prayed to whoever was listening that tomorrow would be a better day, and that no one would be at the cafeteria when she finally went to eat breakfast. Max had just settled deeper under her covers, finally feeling the heavy pull of exhaustion dragging her toward sleep, the world around her growing fuzzy at the edges, when she heard it – three sharp knocks on her door.

The sound jolted her fully awake, her heart immediately launching into a frantic rhythm against her ribs. For several long seconds, she just stared at the door, wondering if she'd imagined it, if her desperate, pathetic heart had conjured the sound from nothing. But then they came again – three more knocks, somehow both hesitant and insistent at the same time. Max didn't move, her body frozen beneath her blankets as her mind raced with conflicting impulses – to leap from the bed and fling the door open, to pull the covers over her head and pretend she wasn't there, to call out and ask who it was, even if she already knew.

"Max. Open the door. I know you're awake."

For a fleeting moment, butterflies erupted in Max's stomach at the sound of Victoria's voice – a reflex she'd developed over months of anticipation and longing. But the sensation quickly transformed into a nauseating twist as her brain replayed the last time she'd heard that voice, those cruel words echoing in her ears, each one a knife twisting deeper in her gut. Max remained perfectly still, her breath caught in her throat, as if the slightest sound might somehow confirm her presence. She stared at the door, at the thin strip of light visible beneath it, at the shadow shifting there.

"Seriously, Max?" Victoria's voice was sharper now, an edge gaining definition. "Are you really not going to answer?" Three more knocks, harder this time, and Max flinched but still didn't respond, her fingers tightening in her blanket, knuckles turning white with the force of her grip. "I don't even get why you— why you would— god. Max, come on." Victoria's voice rose slightly before dropping to a harsh whisper, clearly remembering the late hour and the sleeping students behind every other door in the hallway. "This is ridiculous. You're being ridiculous."

Max blinked, momentarily stunned by what she'd just heard. Then she actually scoffed, a short, disbelieving sound in the darkness of her room. There was no way Victoria had actually showed up at her door at almost one in the morning just to insult her again. How dare she. Who did she think—

"I know you've read my texts," Victoria continued, her tone shifting toward something almost conversational, though still audibly strained. "You've been ignoring me. On purpose. It's childish."

Max felt a hot wave of anger surge through her chest at that, her hands balling into fists beneath her blanket. Childish. Max rolled her eyes so hard it actually hurt. Victoria had the audacity to call her childish? After telling Max she'd been making assumptions for months? After trying to make Max feel like she'd imagined their entire connection? After casually implying she 'let a lot of people kiss her' like Max was just another notch on her designer belt? With a sharp movement, Max turned in her bed to face the wall, putting her back to the door and whatever toxic bullshit Victoria was trying to sell tonight.

"You didn't come tonight," Victoria said after another long pause, and Max could hear the attempt at casual indifference in her voice, could practically see the stupid nonchalant shrug that would have accompanied the words. "You could've at least warned me. And you broke our streak, you know that? Which I thought you cared about, but clearly I was wrong."

"Oh, shut up," Max muttered into her pillow, the words muffled, too quiet for Victoria to actually hear, but venomous all the same. The sheer audacity of Victoria trying to make her feel guilty about missing their rooftop meeting. As if she wasn't already devastated enough about the streak thing. As if this whole thing wasn't entirely Victoria's fault in the first place.

Max stared at the wall, jaw clenched hard, brow furrowed, trying to control her breathing as she counted the tiny cracks in the paint. The silence stretched, filling the room until it felt thick enough to touch. One minute passed. Then two. Maybe several more. And the absence of Victoria's voice became its own kind of presence, heavy and insistent, especially considering Max hadn't heard her footsteps moving away, nor had she heard Victoria's own door opening and closing. Eventually, curiosity got the better of her anger, and Max turned over in bed again to face the door.

The shadow was still there, unmoving beneath her door, and not too long after, she heard a soft thud which Max immediately recognized as Victoria's forehead coming to rest against the wood. "Fuck." Was all Victoria said then, just that one word, a whisper, exhausted and raw and undeniably afraid.

And Max shut her eyes tight and shook her head, feeling a treacherous tug in her chest at the vulnerability in Victoria's voice. She was not going to go comfort her right now, no matter how badly her body wanted her to. She pressed her face back into her pillow, willing the confusing swirl of emotions to subside. Eventually, Victoria seemed to give up; there came the sound of retreating footsteps and then the soft click of her door closing across the hall, and Max released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her shoulders finally relaxing from their tense position.

Her phone buzzed with a new message barely a minute later: 'Beach tomorrow still stands if you want. Doesn't have to be at 6. It could be later. And we don't have to run. We could just walk.'

Max stared at the message until the screen dimmed, then brightened it again with a touch, reading the words over and over as if they might rearrange themselves into something that made more sense. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard, drafting half a dozen responses in her mind – ranging from a curt "No" to something far more vulnerable than she was willing to be right now. In the end, she simply silenced all notifications, locked her phone with a decisive click, and placed it face down on her nightstand.

Chapter Text

March 9, 2014

Max stared at her phone screen for what felt like the thousandth time that day, thumb hovering over the messages as she scrolled through them again. It had become something of a ritual over the past two days – wake up, check her phone, read Victoria's texts, put the phone down, pick it up again a few minutes later, repeat. A cycle of self-torment that she couldn't seem to break, no matter how many times she told herself she was done, finished, over it.

Fortunately, she'd stopped obsessing over last Friday's texts. Unfortunately, yesterday's texts – Saturday's – Max was still very much obsessing over.

6:03 AM: I'm in the parking lot.

6:48 AM: Heading to the beach now. Let me know if you change your mind.

Then, at 7:37 AM, a photo. The beach at sunrise, waves painted gold and crimson by the early morning light. Sand stretching empty in both directions, not a soul in sight.

7:38 AM: I'll be here for a couple of hours if you want to join.

11:02 AM: Heading back to Blackwell. It was really nice today. It's finally getting warmer.

2:47 PM: I'm going to Portland. Last minute thing. Want to come?

And then, radio silence. Max had tried to distract herself with Netflix, with homework, with scrolling through photography blogs. But her eyes had kept drifting to her phone all day, waiting, watching, hoping…

Until finally, at 11:07 PM: I'm on the roof.

Max had just lain in bed after that one, staring at her ceiling, valiantly fighting the magnetic pull that urged her to just… go. Go to the roof, go to Victoria, go and end this god-damned standoff. Fresh tears had burned behind her eyes then, but she'd blinked them back stubbornly, refusing to cry over Victoria Chase for the third consecutive night. Because for all of Victoria's messages – all her attempts to coax Max back into their routine, all her borderline desperate invitations to the beach and Portland and the roof – there was a glaring omission that Max couldn't ignore. There hadn't been one word acknowledging what had happened, not a single attempt to address the cruelty she'd unleashed that night, no recognition of how deeply her words had sliced through Max.

And now it was Sunday, and they hadn't seen each other since Thursday, and Victoria hadn't knocked on her door in the middle of the night again, and there were no new texts since that last one about the roof, and it was stupid, and definitely pathetic, and Max didn't want to know what it said about her own self-worth, but god, Max missed her. She missed her so fucking much. And the anger was still there, burning steadily beneath her skin, and the hurt hadn't faded even one bit, Victoria's words still cutting just as deep as they had that night. But the longing increased with each passing hour, almost physical in its intensity, like a constant ache that radiated through her entire body, as if someone had actually carved out a Victoria-shaped hole in her chest, leaving her hollow, and empty, making her go insane with how much she craved her voice, her touch, her presence, her, just her, and—

Max dropped her phone onto her rumpled bed sheets and ran her hands through her hair, halfheartedly glancing around at the nest of blankets and discarded clothes she'd created. She'd barely left her room all weekend, emerging only for bathroom trips and to grab granola bars from the vending machine when hunger became impossible to ignore. Her camera had remained untouched on her desk, her usual weekend photo walks abandoned. Her laptop sat at the foot of her bed, YouTube still open to a playlist of lo-fi beats she'd had on loop since yesterday afternoon. And her stupid water bottle was empty again, mocking her from its spot on her nightstand, and the whole keeping herself hydrated thing was becoming extremely irritating, and it made Max way angrier than it should have, but she couldn't really help it. Just like she couldn't really help the way her gaze settled on her phone again. She snatched it up with a frustrated groan, checking for new messages, and finding the exact same thing she'd been finding all day – nothing.

The walls of her dorm were genuinely starting to feel like they were closing in on her, the air growing stale and suffocating, and the thought of spending another evening here, cycling between memories and misery, was suddenly unbearable. Max needed some fresh air, or actual food, or a distraction. Anything, really, except this self-imposed isolation where her thoughts kept circling back to green eyes and soft lips and cruel words. Max focused on her phone again, but this time she pulled up her chat with Kate, rereading a message she'd received earlier that day – an invitation to a small get-together in the student lounge, a movie night organized by Dana.

Max had initially dismissed the idea – the thought of facing people, of trying to act normal when she felt anything but, made her stomach twist with anxiety. But now, with the alternative being hours upon hours alone with her thoughts...

Max chewed her lip, considering. Kate would be there. Kate, who knew about her and Victoria meeting every night, who understood, who had been nothing but kind about the whole situation. And it was just a small gathering too, not some massive party where she'd have to make polite conversation with dozens of people. Plus, Victoria always spent Sunday evenings well into the night in Vortex Club meetings, planning whatever exclusive event they had coming up that week. The chances of running into her were practically nonexistent.

So, she finally texted Kate a noncommittal 'maybe,' already half-regretting even that much of a promise.

Setting her phone down, Max dragged herself out of bed with more effort than the action should've required. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above her nightstand and winced. Her hair was limp and unwashed, dark circles prominent under her eyes, her skin sallow from too little food and too many hours indoors. There was no hiding the evidence of her emotional tailspin, but at least her eyes weren't red and puffy anymore, which was quite the improvement. She figured she could at least try to look somewhat put together, so twenty minutes and a hasty shower later, Max stood in front of her closet, wrapped in a towel, staring at her limited clothing options. She settled on her most comfortable jeans and a plain gray t-shirt, and then ran a brush through her damp hair, irrationally annoyed that the hair products Victoria's stylist had given her were making the brown tresses look softer and brighter than they had any right to be. She applied a minimal amount of concealer under her eyes, then stretched her t-shirt a little bit so it didn't look so wrinkled, and declared it good enough.

Max checked her message thread with Victoria one last time – nothing new – and then tucked it into her back pocket. Her hand hesitated on the knob for just a moment, her resolve wavering, but the prospect of another night scrolling through the same texts finally propelled her forward.

The hallway was quiet as she made her way toward the lounge, most students probably still enjoying the last few hours of weekend freedom before facing Monday classes. Max kept her eyes firmly ahead, purposefully not glancing at the door across from her own, and not wondering if Victoria was on the other side, and not checking if the whiteboard still had that same quote (it did).

As Max approached the lounge, she could hear the murmur of voices and laughter drifting into the hallway. A lot of voices, actually. Far more than what she'd expected from Kate's description of a 'small get-together.' She slowed her steps, a creeping sense of doubt making her consider turning around, but before she could retreat, the door to the lounge opened, and Dana emerged, a stack of paper plates in her hands.

"Oh, Max!" Dana's face lit up when she spotted her. "You made it!"

"Yeah, I..." Max trailed off as she peered past Dana into the lounge, her stomach dropping at the sight of what was definitely not a small movie night. The room was packed with people, music played from speakers in the corner, and the TV that was supposedly going to be showing a film was instead displaying a paused video game.

"Kate mentioned she didn't know if you'd come," Dana continued, oblivious to Max's growing dismay. "That you've been sick."

"A really bad cold, yeah."

Dana's face was sympathetic as she reached out to squeeze Max's arm. "Well, I'm glad you're feeling better. Come on, there's tons of food, and Juliet brought her famous punch – non-alcoholic, don't worry." Dana winked, already pulling Max toward the doorway.

Reluctantly, Max allowed herself to be led into the lounge, trying to mask her rising panic as she scanned the crowd. The place was filled with what looked like half the student body – not just girls from the dorm like she'd expected, but guys too, faces she recognized from different cliques and social groups. Her eyes widened as she spotted several members of the football team lounging on the couches, because where there were football players, there were cheerleaders, and where there were cheerleaders, the Vortex Club always, always—

Shit. Max's heart rate doubled instantly as she frantically scanned the room, looking for a particular shade of blonde hair, a particular posture, a particular voice cutting through the din, a particular—

"Kate's over there with Brooke and Stella," Dana said casually, pointing toward the far corner. "I've got to finish setting up the food table, but go say hi! I'll catch up with you later."

Max nodded mindlessly, automatically steering toward Kate like a ship seeking safe harbor in a storm. She weaved through the crowd, mumbling apologies as she squeezed past clusters of students, keeping her head down and her eyes averted, praying she could reach Kate without being noticed by Victoria. But Victoria wasn't even here, Max reminded herself, because it was Sunday and she always had Vortex Club meetings on Sundays. Max repeated that fact like a mantra, over and over, until she somewhat believed it, but then she spotted Hayden, and Victoria had mentioned that since October, Hayden had taken on a lot of Vortex Club responsibilities, which meant he definitely should've been at the meeting, but he wasn't, which probably meant there hadn't been a meeting, which probably meant—

"Max!"

The sight of Kate's warm smile did little to settle Max's nerves as she approached the group, her pulse thundering in her ears. Brooke looked up from her phone long enough to offer a brief nod, while Stella gave a small wave, her mouth full of chips.

"I was hoping you'd come," Kate said gently, her voice dripping with concern, because Max hadn't exactly been avoiding and ignoring only Victoria the last few days. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling okay," Max responded, then cleared her throat when her voice came out sounding not okay at all. "Just, you know, trying to shake this cold."

"Damn, you've been sick?" Stella said, looking up from her chips. "Something's going around, I'm telling you. Must be the change of seasons or something."

"Probably, yeah," Max said with a smile that she hoped didn't look as forced as it felt.

Kate's eyes held hers for a moment too long, definitely seeing more than Max wanted her to, but much to her relief, Kate decided not to press. "There's hot tea on the table by the window. Might help with your throat."

"Thanks, Kate."

"So," Brooke chimed in, apparently deciding to engage in the conversation after all, "Dana said this was supposed to be a movie night, but Justin brought a bunch of video games, and now everyone's arguing about whether to watch something or play Mario Kart tournaments."

"My money's on Mario Kart," Stella said. "Trevor's already organizing brackets."

Max nodded along, trying to focus on the conversation, trying to appear normal and engaged while her body remained on high alert, tense and ready to bolt at the first sign of Victoria. She found herself subtly turning her head every few moments, simultaneously dreading and hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Even as she smiled at Kate's comments or hummed in agreement to Brooke's observations, her gaze kept darting from one corner to the next, checking each cluster of students, analyzing every blonde head that passed through her peripheral vision, each newcomer setting off alarms throughout her nervous system.

"—what about you, Max? Any big plans?"

Max nodded absently, her gaze fixed on the new group of students that was filtering in.

"Yes?" Stella prompted. "What are you going to do?"

Max blinked, then looked at Stella. "Huh?"

"Spring break," Kate helpfully supplied.

"Oh." Max finally processed the question. "No, no. No big plans. I'm probably just going home to Seattle," she said, her traitorous eyes already drifting back toward the crowd. "Stay with my parents for a bit, you know?"

And then the conversation continued around her, and Max's attention resumed its relentless patrol of the room. She scanned past groups of laughing students, past the makeshift snack table, past the impromptu Mario Kart tournament in the corner. Her eyes swept methodically through the space, cataloging every face, analyzing every silhouette, checking and rechecking.

That was when Kate leaned closer to her, her voice dropping to a whisper only Max could hear. "She's over there. By the punch bowl table."

Max's head whipped around so quickly she nearly gave herself whiplash, her eyes instantly finding the exact spot Kate had indicated. And indeed, there she was – Victoria Chase – standing with her back partially turned, one hand holding a red cup, the other gesturing elegantly as she spoke to the person beside her. She looked immaculate as always, wearing dark jeans and a fancy-looking cashmere sweater Max had never seen before – burgundy with subtle gold thread woven through it. And then she remembered. Victoria had shown her the online listing about a week ago, curled up next to Max on the roof, phone screen illuminating her excited face as she'd scrolled through the photos. "Look at the detailing on the cuffs," she'd whispered, her voice unusually animated, and Max had teased her, "I can't believe you're this excited about a sweater," and Victoria had rolled her eyes, but her smile had remained, unguarded and genuine and beautiful and—

And there it was now, the sweater, it'd finally arrived. Probably on Friday, or yesterday, and of course Victoria was wearing it, and something about that simple fact, this evidence that she'd gone on doing normal things like receiving packages and wearing new clothes, mixed with seeing her for the first time after so many days… it felt like all the air had been knocked from Max's lungs at once, her heart stuttering painfully in her chest before launching into a rhythm that she could feel pulsing in her fingertips, in her temples, in the hollow of her throat, and she suddenly became aware of a burning sensation behind her eyes, tears threatening to form with alarming speed.

"I— I need to use the bathroom," Max mumbled abruptly to Kate.

Without waiting for a response, she turned and hurried toward the exit, keeping her head down, desperately hoping nobody would notice her hasty retreat. When she finally reached the door, she slipped through it with a gasp that felt like her first real breath in hours, angrily wiping away the few tears that had escaped, dragging the back of her hand roughly across her cheeks as if punishing them for their betrayal. The hallway was mercifully empty, the muffled sounds of the party instantly dulling as the door swung shut behind her. And then she walked, and walked, and didn't stop at the bathroom, didn't even pause as she passed it, her feet carrying her forward with urgent steps, past the dormitory exit and out into the courtyard.

The crisp March air hit Max's skin like a shock, goosebumps immediately rising along her arms, her thin t-shirt offering little protection against the evening chill. The courtyard stretched before her, thankfully deserted, the usual clusters of students conspicuously absent – all of them inside at Dana's not-so-small gathering, no doubt. Max made her way to a bench beneath an old oak tree, its branches still mostly bare, offering no shelter from the cold but at least some sense of privacy. She sank down onto the wooden seat, her shoulders hunching forward as she buried her face in her hands.

"Fuck," she whispered into her palms.

Why had she run away like that? Like some pathetic, terrified child? The embarrassment burned hot now, her cheeks flaming beneath her fingers at how just seeing Victoria from across a room had been enough to nearly reduce her to tears. It was ridiculous. Stupid. Absolutely humiliating. She seriously needed to get it together.

Max took a deep, shuddering breath, the cold air filling her lungs and forcing some clarity into her thoughts. Regardless of what was happening between them, regardless of whether they ever spoke again, she had class tomorrow, and she actually needed to go – she had scholarship responsibilities to fulfill – so she needed to at least be able to look at her without falling apart. She couldn't keep hiding in her room, couldn't keep running at the first sign of blonde hair. Somehow, she needed to find a way to exist in the same space as Victoria without completely disintegrating.

Max leaned back against the bench then, staring up at the darkening sky. This was all so unfairly backward. Victoria was the one who had messed up. Victoria was the one who had been cruel, and the one who had said those horrible things, and the one who had walked away. Victoria should be the one feeling like this right now – this upset, and anxious, and desperate. Not Max. Max should be furious. No, actually, Max should be indifferent.

And yet, all she really wanted was for Victoria to fix this already. Max didn't just want to be able to see her across the room without wanting to cry, no, she wanted to make up. She wanted Victoria to talk to her, to apologize, and to explain. She needed Victoria to woman up and face what she'd done for once. And then, for a very dizzying moment, Max wondered if maybe that was precisely what Victoria had been trying to do the past few days with all those texts and invitations. The beach. Portland. The roof. Even her door in the middle of the night. Was each one an olive branch that Max had stubbornly refused to acknowledge? Or was it just Victoria's way of pretending nothing had happened, of sweeping her cruelty under the rug?

Max wasn't sure how long she sat there, her thoughts spiraling and looping, the cold seeping deeper and deeper into her skin. A violent shiver ran through her body then, her teeth starting to chatter as the goosebumps across her arms started turning kind of painful. She rubbed her hands over her biceps in a futile attempt to generate warmth, and she really should go back inside now – she didn't even need to rejoin Dana's party, she could just go to her room. But Max stubbornly remained on the bench, as if enduring the cold was some form of penance. The sound of a door opening caught her attention and Max looked up to see two figures emerging from the dormitory building across the courtyard. And because the cosmos had a cruel sense of humor, it was none other than Victoria Chase and Taylor Christensen.

Max's heart, which had only just begun to recover from the shock of seeing Victoria at the student lounge, immediately resumed its chaotic rhythm, pounding so hard against her ribcage that she wondered if the sound might carry across the courtyard. The cold was momentarily forgotten as heat rushed to her face, her body's betrayal complete and immediate at the mere sight of Victoria in the distance. Max instinctively shrank back on the bench, grateful for the shadows that concealed her presence as neither girl had spotted her yet, their attention focused on each other as they moved away from the door, stopping just at the edge of the courtyard. Taylor pulled something from her pocket – a pack of cigarettes – and offered it to Victoria, who shook her head. Taylor shrugged, lighting her own with practiced movements, the flare of the lighter briefly illuminating her face before fading back to the dim glow of the ember.

Max could see the rigid set of Victoria's shoulders, the way she stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, not from cold but from tension. She was saying something to Taylor, her voice too low for Max to catch as a cloud of smoke rose from Taylor's cigarette, swirling around them both before dissipating into the evening air. Victoria stared up at the sky then, at the stars that were starting to emerge, the stars they watched together from the roof, the same ones that had witnessed their first tentative connections, their growing closeness, their eventual collision. Max wondered what Victoria was thinking as she gazed upward, if she was remembering the same nights, the same conversations, the same kisses under that canopy of stars.

Taylor flicked ash from her cigarette, and she was clearly asking Victoria something now, her free hand gesturing emphatically in the air, frustration evident even from this distance. But Victoria just shrugged her shoulders, her posture becoming increasingly rigid as Taylor continued to press. Even from across the courtyard, Max could see how Victoria's jaw was set, that familiar tension that signaled she was shutting down. And Max knew that look, of course she did – it was the same expression Victoria wore whenever she had no plans of sharing what was actually bothering her, when she was retreating behind her walls. Max was so caught up in observing this that she didn't immediately notice when Taylor's posture changed, nor when she tilted her head as she squinted across the courtyard.

Taylor nudged Victoria with her elbow, nodding in Max's direction, and Victoria's head snapped down, her eyes narrowing as she peered through the darkness. Immediately, inevitably, her eyes connected with Max's across the distance, and Max's breath caught painfully in her throat, a sudden hitch that left her momentarily unable to inhale, an electric current shooting through her body, freezing everything in place. Max could pinpoint the exact moment recognition fully dawned on Victoria, because her entire body tensed even more than before, and then seemed to shrink slightly, as if preparing for either flight or confrontation.

Max considered bolting, slipping away into the darkness, but something held her in place. Embarrassment, maybe. Or perhaps just exhaustion. Either way, she remained seated, her hands twisting together nervously in her lap. She turned her head away from them, looking straight ahead, her eyes fixing on a distant tree as if it were suddenly the most fascinating object in the world. But from her peripheral vision, she caught the unmistakable movement of someone coming closer – Taylor was walking toward her with purpose in her stride, Victoria staying frozen in place for a moment longer, visibly uncertain, before following several steps behind, her movements more hesitant than Taylor's confident march.

"Well, well, well," Taylor called as she approached. "Heard you've been sick, Caulfield." She stopped directly in front of Max, deliberately positioning herself to block Max's view of the tree she'd been staring at. With the object of her focus now obscured, Max tiredly lifted her gaze upward, finding Taylor looking down at her with that particular blend of curiosity and contempt that seemed to be her default expression. "You certainly look sick. You shouldn't be out in the cold."

The words could have passed for concern if not for the undercurrent of mockery in Taylor's tone and the slight curl of her lip as she gave Max a once-over. She was looking for entertainment, Max realized. Looking for a distraction from whatever had brought her and Victoria outside in the first place. Looking for someone to poke at, to prod, to see what reaction she might get. In another timeline, perhaps, Max might have stammered an excuse, might have felt intimidated by Taylor's presence. But that Max seemed like a distant memory now. After everything – after time powers and storms and alternate realities, after Victoria's cruelty and tenderness – Taylor's attempt at bullying felt almost laughably trivial. So Max didn't respond.

Instead, because she apparently couldn't help herself, even despite all her resolve to appear indifferent, despite the anger still simmering beneath the surface, despite every promise she'd made to herself – despite all of that, her eyes still slipped around Taylor's form, unerringly finding Victoria with the predictability of tides chasing the moon. Victoria had finally caught up to Taylor but was hanging back slightly, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if for protection, but she was looking at Max already, and their eyes met again, and Max felt that familiar jolt, that electric connection, and attraction, and affection, and frustration, and Victoria looked... exhausted. The realization hit Max with surprising force. Beneath the perfect makeup and the carefully arranged features, Victoria looked every bit as tired as Max felt. There were shadows beneath her eyes that even her expensive concealer couldn't quite hide, a tightness around her mouth that spoke of restless nights and troubled thoughts, even the green of her irises somehow seemed—

"Hello? Earth to weird hipster?" Taylor waved a hand in front of Max's face, clearly annoyed at being ignored. "God, you really are out of it. What are you even doing out here? Planning to freeze to death dramatically?"

Victoria stepped forward at that. "Taylor," she said, her voice quiet but firm, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on Max, like she was terrified she'd disappear if she looked away for even an instant. "That's enough. She isn't feeling well."

Victoria's voice – it sounded exactly the same and yet somehow different, a familiar melody played in a new key. But more startling than the voice itself was what it contained: defense. Victoria was defending her against Taylor's mockery, something she hadn't done since... well, she'd never done it. Not once since September when school started. Not in this timeline or any other that Max could remember. And Max didn't quite know what to do with that information, or with this small act of protection that came now, after everything. Max turned her gaze downward, resolutely looking at her hands in her lap, unable to process the conflicting emotions surging through her system, hating how readily her body still responded to Victoria's voice, how it immediately relaxed certain muscles while tensing others, how it sent tiny ripples of awareness across her skin.

Taylor just shrugged, apparently bored with the lack of reaction she was getting from Max. "Fine," she said simply, dropping her cigarette and crushing it under her heel.

To Max's surprise, Taylor didn't leave. Instead, she plopped down on the bench beside her, close enough that Max could smell the cigarette smoke clinging to her clothes. Before Max could say anything, Victoria moved to her other side, hesitating only briefly before sitting down as well. Max swallowed around the lump that suddenly appeared in her throat, finding herself sandwiched between the two, the contrast almost comical – Taylor lounging with casual indifference on one side, Victoria perched on the edge of the bench on the other, her posture rigid and clearly uncomfortable.

And this, this was torture. This was actual torture. Because Victoria was right there, close enough that their arms almost brushed, close enough that Max could feel the warmth radiating from her body, could catch the full force of her perfume with every breath. So close that if Max shifted just slightly, their thighs would touch. So close that Max could see every detail of Victoria's face in profile – the perfect arch of her brow, the slight flare of her nostril with each breath, the exact shade of her lipstick, and how long had it been since she'd last kissed Victoria while she was wearing lipstick? Not since that night on the roof, when it rained, when they'd— Max realized with a start that she was staring, as usual, drinking in Victoria's features with an intensity that was probably obvious to everyone. She quickly turned away, focusing on that same distant tree again, its dark silhouette now barely visible against the night sky.

And because apparently this wasn't difficult enough already, the cold was starting to get to Max again. She clenched her jaw tight, trying desperately not to let her body betray her with the violent shivers it so badly needed to release. But her muscles were aching with the effort of remaining still, tremors building just beneath her skin as she sat sandwiched between warmth and judgment, pride the only thing keeping her from visibly shaking.

"So," Taylor finally said, drawing out the word. "Are Graham and Scott still together, or did they finally call it quits?"

The question was so unexpected, so completely disconnected from the tension Max felt, that she found herself blinking in confusion. "What?"

"Warren and Brooke," Taylor clarified, as if Max were particularly slow. "Are they still a thing? They've been giving each other the silent treatment all week. Everyone's talking about it."

Max glanced at Taylor, trying to determine if this was some kind of strange social ambush. But Taylor seemed genuinely interested, albeit in that bored, slightly malicious way she had about most dormitory gossip.

"Um. Still together. They just had a disagreement about some science thing," Max answered finally, her teeth almost chattering as she finished speaking, but she just clenched her jaw tighter.

"Shocking," Taylor said dryly. "Two nerds fighting about nerd stuff." She turned toward Victoria then, leaning forward as if Max were merely an inconvenient obstacle between her and her actual conversation partner. "Right?"

Victoria shifted slightly, her fingers curling around the edge of the bench so tightly that Max could see her knuckles turning white even in the dim light. "I don't really care about their love life, T," she muttered.

But Taylor, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring Victoria's discomfort, continued on. "I don't know why she puts up with him. He's so obviously still hung up on you," she said, nudging Max with her elbow. "It's pathetic, really. Every time you walk into a room, he gets this puppy dog look on his face."

Max shrugged, not really wanting to engage with Taylor's attempt at stirring drama. Warren's lingering crush was old news, and frankly, the least of her concerns right now. But she felt Victoria tense beside her, a subtle shift that no one else would have noticed, but that Max felt acutely.

"I mean, Brooke's not exactly a catch either," Taylor continued, seemingly determined to fill the silence with gossip. "Did you see what she was wearing yesterday, V? Those pants with that sweater? It was like she was actively trying to look as unattractive as possible."

Victoria made a noncommittal sound, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, her gaze fixed on some distant point across the courtyard. Max was just trying to breathe at this point, her hands leaving their spot in her lap to rub at her cold arms, the friction offering barely any relief against the biting chill. Then, with movements that somehow seemed both casual and forced at the same time, Victoria began unbuttoning her new cashmere sweater, her fingers precise yet strangely uncertain, as if she were following a script she wasn't entirely convinced by. After freeing the last button from its loop, Victoria hesitated for just a moment before slipping the sweater off her shoulders in one fluid motion, the burgundy fabric sliding easily against the silk blouse she wore underneath. Max frowned, watching as Victoria placed it firmly in her own lap, without folding it or anything, her fingers digging into the fabric harder than necessary, the rough handling completely at odds with her usual protective attitude toward her clothing.

"Anyway," Taylor was saying, "Juliet thinks they'll break up before spring break. She says they're totally incompatible. Too similar or something. Like they're competing instead of complementing each other."

Max remained silent, barely registering Taylor's continued monologue about Warren and Brooke's relationship prospects. Her attention was entirely consumed by Victoria next to her. Why in the world had she taken off her sweater? The blouse she was wearing definitely wasn't warm enough for this cold air. She was going to get sick sitting out here like that. Max had to bite her tongue to keep from saying something stupidly concerned. Plus, she was hardly one to lecture about appropriate outerwear right now.

"It's so obvious Warren would dump her in a heartbeat if you showed any interest," Taylor's voice cut through her thoughts.

"What?" Max managed, dragging her attention back to Taylor with effort.

Taylor smirked. "Please. Don't act like you haven't noticed. You could snap your fingers and he'd come running."

Victoria sighed, a sound that for once didn't seem to be for show; it was genuine, like it'd just come out because she felt tired and frustrated, and her fingers were gripping the cashmere so tightly that she was actually going to ruin her new sweater, and something in Max's stomach was twisting and fluttering, and—

"I have zero interest in Warren," Max said, for some reason feeling the need to make that abundantly clear to the two girls sitting with her on the bench. "Zero interest. Never have, never will."

Taylor raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the firmness of this declaration. "Really? Not even a little?"

"Really," Max confirmed, her voice steadier than she felt. "He's just a friend. That's all he'll ever be."

Taylor let out an amused breath at that, apparently satisfied with this gossip tidbit. "Okay then. Good for you."

Before she could continue down this conversational path, Victoria stood abruptly, the movement so sudden it startled both of them. "We should go," she said, her voice strained but firm. "It's getting colder."

Taylor looked up at her, surprised by the sudden interruption. "Already? We just got out here."

But Victoria didn't respond to Taylor. Instead, she stood there clutching her sweater, her knuckles white against the burgundy fabric. Then, with a sudden decisiveness that seemed to physically pain her, she thrust the sweater toward Max.

"Here," she said, her voice softer than before. "You're going to get sick." A brief pause, then a correction: "Worse. Your cold's gonna get worse."

The sweater hung between them, Victoria's arm extended, the expensive cashmere dangling from her fingers like the offering it technically was. And Max stared at it, unmoving, the gesture so unexpected she couldn't immediately process what was happening. Her eyes moved from the sweater to Victoria's face, finding her clearly putting tremendous effort into maintaining a neutral expression, though the muscle in her jaw visibly worked beneath her skin, clenching and unclenching with barely contained emotion.

Max opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, words failing her completely. After what felt like an eternity but was probably only seconds, Max reached out and accepted the sweater, her fingers briefly brushing against Victoria's in the exchange. Their eyes locked immediately at the contact, and something unspoken passed between them – something raw and complex and frankly impossible for Max to name right now.

"What the fuck, V?" Taylor's voice cut through the moment, her tone a mixture of confusion and disbelief. "That's your new Chanel!"

Victoria remained focused on Max, ignoring Taylor completely, something new in her expression – something surprised and confused, like she couldn't quite believe or understand what she'd done. Her green eyes moved between each of Max's, studying, searching, asking a question Max couldn't understand, and all too soon, she tore her gaze away, turning to Taylor with a sharp movement.

"Come on, let's go," Victoria said, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Taylor got to her feet with a scoff. "Yeah, see? This is what I meant. You're acting so fucking weird lately. I don't get it," she muttered, brushing imaginary dirt from her jeans.

Max pulled the sweater closer to herself, the impossibly soft cashmere immediately warming her bare arms. Victoria's residual body heat still clung to the fabric, along with her scent, that expensive perfume that had haunted her dreams for months now, and she couldn't help but clutch the sweater tighter, and tighter, her fingers pressing into the luxurious material, unable to form words as the stupid butterflies she hadn't felt in days suddenly reappeared and warred valiantly with her hurt and anger and confusion and longing and—

"Careful with that, Caulfield," Taylor warned, looking down at Max, her eyes narrowing as they fixed on the sweater. "It's really expensive. It's a brand called Chanel," she said slowly, her tone dripping with condescension, obviously assuming Max would somehow manage to ruin it before it could be returned to its rightful owner. "I don't think someone like you even—"

"Stop," Victoria snapped, her voice sharp, "don't talk to—" She abruptly cut herself off, letting out a stuttering breath, and gazing at Max with something that almost looked like fear, or maybe regret. But then she turned to Taylor again and said, "Let's just go, T."

And then they were walking toward the entrance of the dormitory, Victoria's back stiff and straight, Taylor a half-step behind her. Max remained frozen on the bench, watching them retreat, burgundy still clutched in her hands. Taylor was clearly confused, gesturing with her hands as she spoke to Victoria, but Victoria remained tense and unresponsive, her pace brisk and determined. Max didn't really expect Victoria to look back, but just before they reached the door, she did – a quick glance over her shoulder, her eyes finding Max's for one brief moment. Then she turned back, her shoulders squaring once more as she disappeared inside the building with Taylor.

And Victoria still hadn't acknowledged what happened between them that night, and neither had she apologized for what she'd said. But despite herself, Max was already slipping her arms into the sweater's sleeves, desperate for its warmth. It enveloped her immediately, impossibly soft against her cold skin, the cashmere so fine it felt almost liquid as it settled against her body. Victoria's lingering body heat and scent surrounded her completely, a sensory memory so powerful it literally made her chest ache. She pulled the sleeves down over her hands then, creating makeshift mittens, the sweater obviously a little too big for her, and Max wanted to take these damn butterflies fluttering in her stomach and kill them one by one, because she shouldn't be feeling like this, shouldn't be wrapping herself in something that belonged to Victoria, shouldn't be finding so much bliss and comfort in it. But she couldn't bring herself to take it off either.

This wasn't the apology Max deserved, nor the conversation they needed to have. But maybe it was something. Maybe it was a start.

Chapter Text

March 11, 2014

Max knew today would suck.

She'd known for weeks, had felt it looming on the horizon like a storm gathering strength, dark clouds amassing in the distance, a pressure front building until it threatened to crush her completely. But she hadn't expected it to be quite this bad. Hadn't anticipated how the date on her phone this morning would knock the air from her lungs before she'd even fully awakened.

All the stuff with Victoria – the fight, the tears, the texts, the silence, the burgundy sweater that still hung on the back of Max's desk chair where she'd draped it two days ago – it all had somehow pushed this date to the periphery of her awareness. Not forgotten, never forgotten, but temporarily overshadowed by the more immediate pain and confusion caused by Victoria's actions.

But now the day was here, unavoidable and merciless, and everything else seemed to recede in its presence, as if all other problems were suddenly trivial, inconsequential things set against this stark reality.

March 11th. Chloe's birthday.

And Chloe was dead.

Chloe was dead, and today she would have been twenty. Twenty years old. Two full decades of Chloe Price, of sharp wit and reckless laughter, of too-loud music and the smell of cigarettes, of warmth and kindness and dreams and life. But instead of twenty candles on a cake surrounded by friends and beer and music, there was just a small granite marker in Arcadia Bay Cemetery adorned with wilting flowers.

Because Max had chosen to stay hidden in that bathroom. Because Max had chosen to let Nathan Prescott pull that trigger. Because Max had chosen to undo all the chaos of that other timeline, to erase every memory they'd built in that wild week, to sacrifice Chloe to save a town that would never know nor care what she'd given up for them.

Despite the emotional weight of the day, Max had no alternative but to go to class. Skipping on Friday had already caused issues, and yesterday every teacher had pointedly reminded her about Blackwell's attendance policy – you either informed Principal Wells twenty-four hours in advance that you would not make it to class or you visited the nurse's office for a medical absence slip. Their tone had been sympathetic but their message unmistakable: her scholarship required compliance.

And so Max had forced herself to shower, to dress, to consume half a granola bar, and to walk to her Algebra class like a normal person, like someone who hadn't voluntarily made the choice of letting their best friend die. It should've been easy, really – that was exactly what she'd been doing for the last five months, after all. But whatever fragile composure Max had cobbled together began to crumble sometime during second period history class.

The classroom was stifling, the air thick with the musty smell of old books and the faint, lingering citrus scent of an orange that someone was eating in the back row. Ms. Jenkins was discussing something about World War II, her voice seeming to reach Max from somewhere very distant, the words blurring together until they were just meaningless sounds washing over her like waves of static. Max tried to focus on taking notes, her pen poised above her notebook, but the blank page began to swim before her eyes, morphing into the white tile of a bathroom floor stained with spreading crimson. The girl next to her shifted in her seat, the soft scrape of her chair against the floor transforming in Max's mind to the metallic click of a gun's safety being released.

And suddenly Chloe was there, superimposed over everything like a double exposure, just as she'd been in that bathroom in October – tall and lean, defiant in her tattered jacket and ripped jeans, blue hair like a beacon signaling a girl Max hadn't even recognized at first. But now other Chloes were there too – Chloe in her wheelchair, eyes still bright with humor despite everything; Chloe with her arms outstretched on the train tracks, tempting fate; Chloe with rain plastering her hair to her face as they stood atop the cliff, the storm howling around them as she'd begged Max to go back, to undo everything, to let her die so others could live.

Max's heart was pounding against her ribs, each beat harder than the last, as if it were trying to break free of her chest entirely. Her lungs constricted, the simple act of drawing breath suddenly requiring conscious effort, each inhale more shallow than the one before. Her pen slipped from her fingers, clattering against her desk, the sound abnormally loud in her ears though no one else seemed to notice.

"—the Office of Price Administration's policies," Ms. Jenkins was saying, and that name sliced through Max like a blade, though she knew the teacher was talking about something else entirely, something about presidents and money and history which had nothing to do with Chloe.

But it was too late. The room was spinning now, the walls seeming to contract and expand with each labored breath Max took. Dark spots flashed at the edges of her vision, a high-pitched whine filling her ears as a cold sweat broke out across her forehead. Her fingers trembled as she gripped the edge of her desk, trying to ground herself in the solid feel of the wood beneath her hands.

"Ms. Caulfield?" A voice cut through the fog. "Is everything alright?"

Max looked up to find the teacher's concerned face swimming before her, as if viewed through rippling water. She became vaguely aware that the entire class had stopped to stare at her, their faces blurring together into a sea of curious expressions.

"I..." Max managed, her voice strangled. "I don't feel well. May I be excused?"

Ms. Jenkins nodded, a frown creasing her brow. "Of course. Do you need someone to accompany you to the nurse's office?"

"No, no, thanks," Max said quickly, already gathering her things with shaking hands, shoving them haphazardly into her messenger bag.

She was out of her seat before the teacher could respond, moving on unsteady legs toward the door, focusing all her energy on simply putting one foot in front of the other. Her classmates' stares burned into her back, but she couldn't bring herself to care, couldn't think beyond the overwhelming need to escape, to get out, to find somewhere she could breathe again.

The hallway was empty when she stumbled into it, the door closing behind her with a soft click that seemed to release whatever remaining control she had over her body. Her vision narrowed further, tunneling down to a pinprick of light at the end of a long, dark corridor. She staggered forward, one hand trailing along the wall for support, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps that didn't seem to deliver any oxygen to her starving lungs. Max forced herself to move, to continue down the hall toward a side entrance, her steps faltering and uncertain, as if she'd forgotten how to walk normally.

The sunlight blinded her when she finally pushed through the doors, and she squinted against the brightness, raising a hand to shield her eyes as she half-stumbled, half-ran down the short flight of steps and around the corner of the building. Her back hit the brick wall and she slid down its rough surface until she was sitting on the cold ground, her knees drawn up to her chest, her bag forgotten beside her. And then, finally, the panic that had been building inside her like a gathering wave broke over her completely.

Her body curled forward as if to protect itself from an invisible blow, her arms wrapping tightly around her knees as she struggled to breathe through a throat that seemed to be closing more with each passing second. Her chest heaved with the effort, each attempt at inhaling producing only a thin, wheezing sound that did nothing to satisfy her desperate need for air. It was as if someone had placed a heavy weight directly on her sternum, pressing down with increasing force until her ribs threatened to crack under the pressure.

The gunshot echoed in her ears again – that sharp crack that had torn through the quiet bathroom, that had torn through time itself, forever dividing Max's life into before and after. She saw Chloe falling, saw her body crumpling to the floor, saw the blood spreading across her shirt, her blue eyes wide with shock and pain before the light in them dimmed and disappeared entirely. She saw it again, and again, and again, and again – an endless loop of the moment that had changed everything, the moment she'd witnessed and then rewound, only to allow it to happen once more, to stand by and do nothing while Chloe was murdered just feet away from her.

Max's fingernails dug into her palms hard enough to leave indentations in the skin, maybe even hard enough to draw blood, but Max didn't think to check, the sharp sting merely a distant sensation compared to the crushing pressure in her chest. The ringing that filled her ears was absolutely deafening now, drowning out all other sounds, and her vision kept blurring, the world around her reducing to vague shapes and colors, the edges growing darker and darker by the second.

Her chest hurt. It hurt so much. The pain started in the center of it and spread to the rest of her body. And she was gasping for air but none of it was actually going into her lungs. She wasn't sure how long she sat there, time distorting, minutes expanding into what felt like hours, or perhaps contracting into mere seconds. She knew there were tears streaming down her face, and she knew there were violent tremors running through her body, and she knew her gasping for air must've been getting loud. But it was all secondary, mere footnotes to the all-consuming struggle to breathe, to keep existing in a world where Chloe did not, a world where all that suffering was Max's fault, where she'd held that photo in her hand and chosen this, where she'd—

"Max?"

The voice reached her as if from underwater, distorted and faint, barely penetrating the thick fog of panic that surrounded her. Max didn't – couldn't – look up, her body locked in its defensive curl, her breath still catching painfully in her throat over and over.

"Max." The voice came again, clearer this time, accompanied by the sound of rapid footsteps approaching. "Shit."

Through the haze, Max was dimly aware of someone dropping to the ground in front of her, of hands gently but firmly grasping her shoulders. Max managed to lift her head just enough to make out a blurred figure kneeling before her, blonde hair catching the sunlight, a pair of green eyes searching her face.

"Max, you need to breathe," the figure urged, her voice low and steady, cutting through the panic with unexpected clarity. "You're having a panic attack. Look at me. Look at me, Max."

Max tried to focus on the face, but it kept shifting in and out of focus, like a camera unable to find its subject. She opened her mouth, trying to speak, trying to explain that she couldn't breathe, that she needed air, that her chest really hurt, and that she was probably going to pass out soon, but all that emerged were strangled gasps.

"Don't try to talk," she instructed as she shifted her weight on her knees, leaning closer to Max, then taking Max's hand in her own and pressing it firmly against her own chest. "Just focus on breathing with me, okay? Feel my breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like this."

The person, Victoria, because of course it was Victoria, demonstrated what she was asking, drawing in a slow breath through her nose, holding it for a moment, then releasing it through slightly parted lips. Max could feel the rise and fall of Victoria's chest beneath her palm, the erratic beating of her heart, and she tried to mimic the action, but her first attempts resulted in painful, choking gasps that sent fresh waves of panic crashing through her.

"It's okay," Victoria said immediately, her hand pressing Max's more firmly against her chest. "Feel my breathing. Try again. In through your nose, slowly. That's it. Now hold it. One, two, three. And out through your mouth. Good. Again."

Victoria continued the gentle coaching, her own breathing exaggerated and deliberate, the movement of her chest beneath Max's palm providing a physical rhythm to follow. She remained steady on her knees before Max, seemingly not caring about the dirt and gravel digging into her skin through her expensive jeans. And gradually, painfully, Max began to match Victoria's pace, each breath coming a little easier than the last, the crushing weight on her chest beginning to lift incrementally. Victoria never looked away from her face, her green eyes locked on Max's with an intensity that would have been overwhelming in any other circumstance, but now served as an anchor, as something to hold onto in this chaos.

"You're doing great, Max," Victoria murmured after what might have been minutes or hours. "Just keep breathing with me. In. And out. In. And out."

Max's vision slowly cleared, the dark spots at the edges receding as more oxygen reached her brain. The ringing in her ears started to fade, allowing the everyday sounds of campus to filter back in – the distant call of a seagull, the muffled voice of a teacher through an open window, the soft rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze. Victoria's face came into proper focus then, revealing an expression of raw distress Max had never seen on her before.

"That's it. There you go," Victoria said, her calm voice totally contradicting the look on her face, even as she offered a small, encouraging nod when Max's breathing kept gradually normalizing. Victoria's free hand reached up to wipe the tears from Max's cheeks, her thumb carefully brushing away the moisture. "Better?"

Max managed a slight nod against Victoria's hand, the movement embarrassingly slippery thanks to the wetness on her face, but Max couldn't muster the will to care. Her chest still ached with each breath, her hands still trembled, though not as violently as before, and she felt completely, utterly drained, hollowed out, the panic having consumed all her energy.

Victoria remained kneeling in front of her for a moment longer, studying Max's face with utmost attention, seemingly assessing her condition. Her hand slowly released Max's from its place against her chest, though her fingers lingered longer than necessary. She reluctantly removed her other hand too, the one that was on Max's face, her fingertips trailing briefly across Max's cheek before dropping away completely. Then, apparently satisfied that the immediate crisis had passed, she shifted to sit beside Max on the ground, the movement lacking her usual grace as she all but collapsed against the brick wall. Her designer jeans and sweater made a rough scratching sound against the concrete as she moved, but Victoria didn't seem to notice. Instead, she pulled her knees up to her chest, her hands pressed flat against the ground on either side of her as she tried to regulate her own breathing, which was a lot more laboured than Max had realized.

Max sniffled then, and wiped roughly at her cheeks with the back of her hand, stretching her legs out in front of her and taking several deep breaths. The air filled her lungs more fully now, the oxygen gradually clearing the fog from her brain, the light-headed sensation slowly receding with each exhale.

As her thoughts began to organize themselves again, the reality of what had just happened started to sink in. She'd left class in the middle of a lecture, practically running from the room, then collapsed here on the dirty concrete, and then proceeded to have a full-blown panic attack. And Victoria Chase, of all people, had come to help her through it – the same Victoria who she'd been very purposefully avoiding for days. Yet here she was now, sitting on the ground right next to her after quite possibly being the only reason Max wasn't unconscious right now.

"How did you know I was out here?" Max finally asked, her voice hoarse and unsteady, vaguely aware this was the first time she'd actually spoken to Victoria since Thursday night. "You're not in my history class."

Victoria's hands were compulsively smoothing invisible wrinkles from her jeans. She drew in deep, slightly shaky breaths then, visibly hesitating before finally answering Max's question. "Logan texted the Vortex Club group chat. Said you left looking like you were about to be sick."

Max blinked a few times, processing that information, trying not to care about the fact that her classmates had indeed noticed her meltdown and were apparently talking about it already. "Oh," Max said simply, then sighed. "Logan. I'm guessing he was making fun of me."

"He's a piece of shit," Victoria said instead of denying Max's claim. "I don't think he's ever felt empathy."

"Lack of empathy is the most important Vortex Club membership requirement," Max said, trying to make it sound like a joke, but she was too tired to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

Victoria didn't respond to that, or even react, really. So silence stretched between them, heavy and long, Victoria's fingers continuing their restless movement against the fabric of her jeans, her breathing still slightly elevated, still clearly trying to regulate it. Despite Max's growing discomfort, she found herself listening to Victoria's breathing and trying to match it with her own. Her lungs still burned as if she'd run a marathon, her chest still hurting with each intake of air, but this wasn't the first time Victoria had guided her through one of these episodes, and Max's body seemed to remember, instinctively syncing to the rhythm Victoria provided even as her mind raced with conflicting emotions.

"Since yesterday I've been—" Victoria said suddenly, but stopped abruptly, the words catching in her throat, her fingers now twisting anxiously at a loose thread on her sleeve. She exhaled shakily, her eyes darting briefly to Max's face before looking away again, visibly struggling to find the right words. "I mean," she finally continued, her voice a little softer and a lot more hesitant, "I remember you saying what today was. Back in January. We were talking about birthdays and you mentioned... hers. So I've been, you know, alert. So when he texted that..." Victoria shrugged halfheartedly, trailing off.

And Victoria remembering a date Max had mentioned in passing back in January shouldn't have surprised her. That was just... Victoria. She remembered everything – birthdays, addresses, the exact shade of lipstick someone wore on a random Tuesday a month ago. It was one of those things that had initially shocked Max about her, how beneath that exterior of indifference, Victoria's mind was essentially a steel trap, cataloging every detail about the people in her orbit, even those she claimed not to care about. It shouldn't have been a revelation that Victoria knew today was Chloe's birthday, yet Max found herself oddly touched anyway. Against all reason, against the weight of recent hurts, something inside her responded to this small proof of Victoria's attention, to the fact that she'd left her own class to come check on Max, to help her, and that was nothing if not inconvenient when it came to her resolve right now.

But still Max didn't say anything, she just stared ahead, swallowing hard when she noticed that Victoria was now twisting her gold bracelet around her wrist, the delicate link catching the sunlight as it rotated against her skin. Victoria only did that when she was nervous. And of course she was nervous now. She was sitting on the ground next to the weird Max Caulfield who'd just run out of class looking like she was 'about to be sick.'

"I'm fine," Max finally said, deciding to give her the out she so clearly wanted. "You can go. Someone could see you."

"I don't care," Victoria responded instead.

And Max scoffed at the apparent simplicity of it, but there was no real bite to it, no actual derision. It came out sounding more tired than anything, and confused, and sad, and the tears were already burning in the back of her eyes again for some reason, threatening to spill over at the slightest provocation. She looked away quickly, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand, trying to steel herself, trying to think of something else, anything else.

But it was useless. The tears came anyway, silent at first, then gaining momentum as her shoulders began to shake. She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying desperately to contain them, to hold back the flood, but exhaustion had worn away her defenses, had left nothing to barricade against the crushing reality that although she could breathe again, Chloe was still gone, and it was still very much her fault, and the only person Max had truly opened up to since then was Victoria, and Victoria was a really complicated person, and things with her were not good right now, and she couldn't talk to Victoria about Chloe, because Victoria had been cruel, and she couldn't talk to Chloe about Victoria, because Chloe was dead, and—

Victoria noticed Max's crying immediately, and without hesitation, her hand moved to Max's shoulder in an attempt at comfort. But Max flinched, her entire body tensing at the contact.

Victoria withdrew her hand as if burned. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "How... how can I help? What do you need?"

Max just shook her head, unable to form words through the tears, unable to articulate that there was nothing anyone could do. But now Victoria's "I'm sorry" hung in the air, the words Max had been dying to hear for days finally uttered. But they weren't right. They weren't the apology Max needed, weren't for the things that actually mattered, for what had happened on the roof, for walking away afterward. The disconnect between what Victoria was apologizing for and what she should be apologizing for twisted like a knife in Max's chest.

And in her mind, Chloe's face began to blur, dissolving at the edges, replaced slowly, inexorably, by images of Victoria – Victoria on the roof with rain in her hair, Victoria's smile, Victoria's laugh, Victoria's way of making Max feel special, and wanted, and cared for, and Victoria walking away, leaving her without looking back, her shoulders rigid and her steps quick after telling her she'd been making assumptions about their relationship. And just like that, the memories of October's grief tangled with last week's fight until Max couldn't separate the two anymore.

Victoria's hand hesitantly returned to Max's shoulder, her touch impossibly gentle this time, as if Max might shatter beneath her fingers. When Max didn't pull away, Victoria shifted, turning her body fully toward Max, her other hand coming up to carefully cup Max's cheek, guiding her face until their eyes met. Max could hardly see through her tears, Victoria's features blurring into indistinct shapes of color and light, but she felt the soft brush of thumbs against her cheeks, wiping away the dampness with such tender care that it only made the tears fall faster.

"I've got you," Victoria whispered then, her voice uncharacteristically small and uncertain. "I've got you."

And then Victoria was pulling her in, arms wrapping around Max's trembling body with surprising strength, drawing her against her chest in one fluid motion. For a heartbeat, maybe two, Max remained stiff in the embrace, some last flicker of pride or hurt or anger holding her back – but then it collapsed, crumbling like sand beneath waves, and Max melted into Victoria's arms, her own hands clutching desperately at the back of Victoria's sweater.

She buried her face in the crook of Victoria's neck, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume as sobs wracked her body. Victoria held her even tighter, one hand gently cradling the back of Max's head while the other splayed across her back, pressing her hard against Victoria's body. There was something almost frantic in the way Victoria clung to her, as if she too had been drowning and had finally found something to keep her afloat. And Max just couldn't help it:

"I miss you," she choked out, the words muffled against Victoria's skin, pathetic and raw and honest in a way that would have mortified her in any other circumstance.

Victoria made a surprised sound, something small and relieved and pained, and her fingers tensed momentarily in Max's hair before relaxing again. "I miss you too," she admitted finally, her voice thick with emotion. "So much. Every day. Every hour. Every fucking minute." She pulled back just enough to look at Max's face, though she didn't loosen her hold. "Please stop avoiding me, Max. It's killing me. I can't— I don't—"

Max hiccupped, a fresh wave of tears blurring her vision as she tried to focus on Victoria's face. "You hurt me," she managed, the words coming out broken and small.

Victoria flinched as if Max had struck her, pain flashing across her features, but she didn't look away. Instead, she nodded, her hands coming up to frame Max's face, thumbs gently brushing away new tears.

"I know," she said softly, her green eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears of her own. "I know I did. I want to talk to you. I want to explain. Please, let me explain, Max."

Life's impeccable sense of dramatic timing asserted itself as the shrill sound of the bell suddenly cut through the air, startling Max. She jerked back instinctively, wet eyes darting toward the door where students would soon be pouring out. Confusingly, Victoria stayed right where she was, hands still framing Max's face, looking into her eyes almost desperately, paying no attention to the bell or what it meant.

"Victoria," Max whispered, her hands moving to Victoria's wrists, gently pulling them down and away from her face. "People will be coming out soon."

But Victoria seemed to barely register the words, her gaze still fixed on Max's face, eyes still glistening. "Please," she repeated, even softer now.

Max blinked, hesitating, her gaze moving from Victoria's face toward the door again. Her tears had finally stopped coming, the bell having acted like a dam, abruptly halting their flow, but her head was now throbbing with a dull ache from all the not-breathing and crying, and Max was feeling so much, too much, and Victoria was still looking at her with those eyes, and— "Okay," she said.

"Okay?" Victoria repeated, disbelief in her voice as relief immediately washed over her features, her entire body seeming to release a tension Max hadn't realized she'd been holding. "We can talk? Really?"

"Yeah."

Victoria nodded quickly, too quickly, like she was scared Max would change her mind. "Okay. Yes. Good. Good," she said, her voice getting steadier with each word. "Tonight? Or... tomorrow, if you want. Or some other day. Whenever."

Max suddenly realized she was still holding Victoria's wrists, her fingers wrapped around them as if they were lifelines. She let go abruptly as the full weight of what she'd just agreed to settled over her, and for a moment, she wondered if she was making a mistake, because what if Victoria and her weren't on the same page? What if she was agreeing to a conversation that would do nothing but break her heart even more?

"Tonight," Max said anyway, the word carrying both uncertainty and resolution.

Victoria searched Max's face, her eyes moving between Max's like she was looking for something – hesitation maybe, or regret – but whatever she found seemed to satisfy her because she smoothly got to her feet, brushing dirt from her expensive jeans with quick, practiced movements, like she hadn't almost cried right along with Max just two seconds ago. She extended a hand down to Max then, her fingers slightly trembling despite the confident gesture.

"Come on," she said softly.

Max stared at the offered hand for a moment, taking in Victoria's now light blue fingernails – Max's nail polish – before reaching up to take it, allowing Victoria to pull her to her feet. Victoria's grip was both gentle and firm, her skin warm against Max's cold fingers, and of course the butterflies in Max's stomach took flight immediately. She tried to suppress them, quickly letting go of Victoria's hand and once again wiping at her damp face, which was undoubtedly blotchy from all the crying, but now getting warmer and definitely even more embarrassingly red from the way Victoria kept looking at her, her eyes holding both fear and wonder, like Max was simultaneously something precious and a bomb that could potentially go off any moment.

But then: "Go to your room. Rest," Victoria said, her voice taking on that familiar authoritative tone, though the softness in it completely undermined the force of the command. "I'll get you a slip from the nurse. You don't have to go back to class today."

"Right, um. But doesn't the nurse need to actually see me before giving me an absence slip?" Max asked, one hand still absently wiping at her tear-stained cheeks.

Victoria shook her head. "No," she said simply, a ghost of that familiar smirk of hers playing at the corner of her mouth, even as her eyes remained soft. "Principal Wells owes me a favor. Or he will anyway."

"Not ominous at all."

"Don't worry about it. Seriously, I'll handle it. Go. We'll... we'll talk tonight?" Victoria asked again, apparently needing yet another confirmation.

"Yes," Max confirmed again. "Thank you for—"

"Anytime."

Max looked at Victoria, taking in her expression. The uncertainty and vulnerability had been replaced by something more resolute – her shoulders squared, her chin lifted slightly, her eyes clear and determined. The transition was subtle but unmistakable; this was Victoria Chase with a purpose, with something to prove, with a mission to accomplish. It was strangely comforting, that familiar determination. Max was still exhausted, her body and mind drained from the panic attack, from the grief, from everything – but there was a little less weight now, a small loosening in her chest where before there had only been constriction.

Max turned around without another word and headed toward the dorms, feeling Victoria's eyes on her back every step of the way.

Chapter Text

March 11, 2014 – Later

Max couldn't remember the last time her room had been this clean.

She'd spent the better part of two hours erasing all evidence of her almost five-day isolation. The piles of crumpled tissues had been cleared away, the abandoned granola bar wrappers tossed, her scattered clothes either hung up or hidden in the hamper. She'd changed her sheets, dusted her shelves, even arranged her photography books into a somewhat artistic stack on her desk. All in a desperate, slightly manic attempt to make this space presentable for a girl who probably judged rooms the way she judged outfits – with clinical precision and impossibly high standards.

Now, with the room as spotless as it was ever going to get, Max found herself pacing back and forth in the limited space, occasionally stopping to adjust a polaroid on her photo wall or straighten the edge of her comforter. The minutes seemed to be stretching impossibly long, each glance at her phone showing that barely any time had passed since she'd last checked.

She paused to look at Victoria's Chanel sweater, which she had meticulously folded and placed on the couch. Its soft luxury seemed out of place against the worn fabric of her secondhand furniture, like a Ferrari parked in front of a thrift store. Max resisted the urge to touch it, to run her fingers over the impossibly soft cashmere, to bring it to her face and inhale the lingering scent one more time. Instead, she stepped back, surveying the room again.

This was her territory. That's why she'd chosen it when Victoria had texted earlier asking where she wanted to meet. Victoria had suggested the roof – neutral ground, Max knew – but she couldn't face that yet. Not today. Not with Chloe's ghost haunting her every thought, her funeral being what drove Max to the roof in the first place, and not when the fight with Victoria had happened there less than a week ago. One emotional battlefield at a time.

So she'd replied with: 'My room. 10:30.'

Victoria's response had been almost immediate: 'Okay. I'll be there.'

And now it was 10:25, and Max's alarm was going off, a reminder that she had five minutes left to prepare herself. Five minutes to gather her thoughts, to remind herself that despite this morning's vulnerability – despite the way Victoria had helped her through her panic attack, despite the way she'd held her, despite the almost teary confessions – Max was still hurt. Still angry. And definitely still deserved a proper apology.

Max reached to silence the alarm, her finger hovering over the screen when three sharp knocks on her door made her nearly drop her phone. She stared at the door, heart immediately accelerating, because of course Victoria was here already. 'Five to seven minutes early is ideal,' she'd said not that long ago, and punctuality was probably a Chase family value right alongside perfectionism and emotional repression.

Taking a deep breath that did absolutely nothing to calm her nerves, Max crossed to the door and pulled it open.

Victoria stood in the hallway, perfect as always. Her hair was freshly styled, not a strand out of place. She wore dark jeans and a cream-colored blouse beneath a tailored jacket, the epitome of casual elegance. Her posture carried its usual confidence, back straight, chin slightly elevated – but there was a tightness around her eyes that betrayed her anxiety, a slight tension in her jaw that most people would never notice.

"Hi," Victoria said, her voice carrying a forced casualness that absolutely did not match the intensity of her gaze.

"Hi," Max replied, stepping back to allow her in. "Come in."

Victoria entered with measured steps, her eyes immediately scanning the room, taking in every detail with that photographic precision of hers. Max closed the door behind her, the soft click of the latch sending her heart rate spiking again. Because this was Victoria's first time in Max's dorm, and only their second time alone in a room together, and the last time they'd been alone in a room, things had gotten a little…

Max cleared her throat just as Victoria completed her visual sweep, her expression carefully neutral as she stood in the center of the room, hands clasped loosely in front of her. She looked simultaneously like she belonged everywhere and nowhere – a study in contrasts, commanding the space while being acutely aware she was a visitor.

"You can sit there," Max said, gesturing to the couch. "If you want."

Victoria, in a move so uncharacteristic it was almost jarring, immediately obeyed, carefully lowering herself onto the sofa, perching at the edge rather than leaning back, her posture absolutely impeccable. Her eyes immediately fell on the folded burgundy sweater beside her, and for a moment, something flickered across her features – surprise, perhaps, or confusion, or something else entirely that Max couldn't quite name. Victoria's fingers twitched, as if she might reach for it, but then she seemed to think better of it, her hands returning to rest in her lap.

Max remained standing, arms crossed over her chest in what she hoped looked like a casual pose rather than the defensive stance it actually was. The silence stretched between them, and the roles felt so oddly reversed – Victoria sitting small and contained while Max loomed above her. She wasn't entirely sure what to do with this new dynamic, wasn't sure she liked it either.

"How are you feeling?" Victoria finally asked, looking up at Max. "After this morning, I mean."

"Better," Max said simply.

Victoria nodded, and then reached into her jacket pocket, pulling out several folded papers. "I, um—" she began, then cleared her throat. "I got your nurse's note." She extended a small form toward Max. "All your teachers already know, so you don't have to worry about that."

"Thanks," Max said, stepping forward to take the slip, careful to avoid any accidental contact with Victoria's fingers. She set it on her desk without looking at it.

When she turned back, Victoria was methodically unfolding the other papers she'd pulled from her pocket. They appeared to be several small sheets torn from a notebook, all covered in her precise handwriting. Victoria smoothed them against her thigh, her eyes fixed on the pages, brows drawn together in concentration.

"Did you..." Max started, blinking in disbelief as understanding dawned on her. "Did you write a speech?"

Victoria's head snapped up, a flush immediately spreading across her cheeks. "No," she said quickly, defensively. Then, after a beat: "It's just... notes." She looked back down at the papers, fingers nervously aligning their edges. "I didn't want to forget anything important. There's a lot I need to say."

Victoria Chase – composed, confident Victoria Chase – was sitting on Max's couch with actual written notes, her eyes scanning back and forth across the pages like she was preparing for some impossibly important exam, her usually steady hands fidgeting with the corners of the papers, creasing and uncreasing them unconsciously. The sight was so incongruous and unexpected that Max felt the anger she'd been carefully nursing start to waver.

And so Max awkwardly stood there for a moment longer, watching Victoria as she... studied. But then she shook her head, uncrossed her arms, and moved to sit on the edge of her bed, facing Victoria across the small room. "Okay," she said. "I'm listening."

Victoria nodded, drawing in a deep breath, and then another, looking down at her notes one more time. Then she carefully set them aside on the couch, next to the folded sweater, and lifted her gaze to meet Max's, her green eyes wide, vulnerable, and undeniably anxious.

"Alright. I should start with..." Victoria paused, visibly bracing herself, her jaw clenching and unclenching, her fingers gripping at the cushion she was sitting on. "Sorry," she finally let out. "I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry, Max," she said, the words coming out clear and steady, though the rapid rise and fall of her chest revealed the emotion she was fighting to contain. "I'm sorry for what I said to you, and for how I talked to you, and for how I treated you," Victoria continued. "I am so sorry for all of it."

Max remained silent, shifting slightly on the bed, a knot already starting to loosen in her chest, despite herself. Victoria exhaled shakily, forcing her knee to stop bouncing, her eyes darting nervously from Max's face back to the notes beside her, lingering on them for a long moment.

"Okay. That night, I… I said those things because I knew that they'd… hurt. Because I thought they might make you— no, because I wanted to push you away. In that moment, that's what I wanted, to push you away," Victoria admitted, her gaze dropping to the floor, her hands retreating to her lap where her fingers twisted against one another. "Because that's what I do when I get scared. And I was really scared. Because when you said that Kate knew about us, I assumed everyone else knew too, and if people knew, then it was only a matter of time before the news reached my parents." Victoria paused for a moment, hesitating, her eyes fixed on her hands as she weighed something internally. "But... my parents knowing wasn't the only reason I freaked out. It was also because I've spent years here at Blackwell becoming this person that's so untouchable, and independent, and ruthless, and… and um, you know, someone like that isn't supposed to…" she gestured between them as she trailed off, the words probably sounding hollow even to her own ears.

"But fear doesn't excuse what I did. It's just context." Victoria straightened her back, as if physically pulling herself together. "I want to apologize for what I called you that night. I called you naive and dumb. And you aren't either of those things. You're intelligent and perceptive. And so brave in ways I can't even begin to—" She cut herself off, frustration flashing across her face as her nerves apparently kept increasing by the second. "I— I'm sorry for implying I've been kissing other people," she continued, voice strained. "That was childish and mean-spirited, and completely untrue. There's been no one else since before Thanksgiving."

Victoria let out a small, agitated sound – half groan, half sigh – before reaching for her notes, her fingers visibly trembling. The papers crinkled loudly in the silence as she smoothed them against her thigh once, twice, three times. Max watched as Victoria's perfectly manicured nails – still painted light blue – pressed creases into the edges.

She looked up at Max then, embarrassed, frustrated, a flash of self-directed anger in her eyes. "I'm sorry, I swear I've got this memorized but—" She let out a shaky laugh that held no humor. "I wrote this days ago, so I really do know it by heart, but I just—" She shook her head, cleared her throat, and looked down at her notes again. "I'm sorry for saying you were making assumptions," she started reading, "you weren't. You interpreted everything accurately. What was happening between us was exactly what you thought it was. I… I'm sorry for walking away when you started crying. I didn't want to face what I'd done to you. It scared me even more than the idea of people knowing. And I was a coward, so I left, and I've been hating myself for that ever since. Okay, okay..." she muttered to herself quietly, eyes scanning the page as her knee started bouncing again.

"I'm sorry about the next day too," Victoria continued, glancing up at Max. "Friday night. I... I'm not sure if you were awake, but I went to your door and said some really ridiculous stuff. I was acting like I was the one being wronged somehow." She inhaled shakily, lips in a thin line, clearly ashamed by the display that Max was indeed awake for and definitely did remember. Victoria's eyes moved back to the paper in her hands. "I behaved no better than a child. Truth be told, I was terrified. Because in that moment I had no choice but to face the fact that I'd hurt you so badly that I'd possibly lost you for good."

Victoria's eyes hesitantly searched Max's face, probably trying to discern whether the words had resonated with her, if they'd been accurate, if she'd lost Max. But Max held herself perfectly still, determined not to betray the emotions churning beneath her hopefully neutral expression. A lump had formed in her throat sometime during Victoria's monologue, making it difficult to swallow, and she became suddenly aware of her hands – she'd been gripping her comforter so fiercely that her fingertips had gone numb, and she forced herself to release it, flexing her stiff fingers discreetly.

"I'm not asking for your forgiveness," Victoria continued, eyes lowering to her notes again. "But I need you to understand that I didn't mean any of what I said that night, or the next night. Not a single word. And I sincerely hope you don't believe those things about yourself either. I was… projecting, and you didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of it." Victoria carefully turned the page then, the soft rustle of paper breaking the silence. "I also need to apologize for what I said about your friend Kate," she said. "She's been nothing but kind, even after everything I've done. I'm sorry for questioning your trust in her. Um, I'm also sorry for how I've treated you in public – not just before October, though I am sorry for that. But after." Victoria drew in a shaky breath that seemed to physically pain her. "I'm sorry for making you keep this a secret. For not acknowledging you when there were people around. For not speaking up when my friends talked about you. For not wanting anyone to know how much I trust you. And for never being truly honest about how I feel."

Victoria's eyes found Max's then. "I told you I never said I liked you. And that's true. I never said it. I was very mindful not to." She hesitated, knuckles whitening where they gripped the notes. "But I..." Her voice faltered, nervousness radiating from her in palpable waves, and she clearly wanted to look at the paper again, to hide behind that, but she seemingly forced herself to continue looking at Max instead. "But I do," she finally said. "I like you. I like you," she repeated more deliberately, a mixture of wonder and disbelief coloring her voice now, as if her own words sounded foreign in her ears, but were liberating all the same. "I like you more than I've ever liked anyone. More than I thought I was capable of liking someone. I've known how I felt— I've been aware of my feelings for you since the start, and I tried to hide them, both from you and from myself, and it was stupid, because I wasted so much time. And I am sorry for not telling you sooner, and for spending so many months giving you all these mixed signals about that."

Something shifted in Victoria's expression after that, a subtle softening around her eyes and a loosening of her jaw, as if speaking those words aloud had unlocked something long imprisoned within her. Yet simultaneously, her movements became more agitated – fingers drumming rapidly against the paper, one foot tapping an erratic rhythm against the floor, her breathing quickening despite the emotional release. She seemed both unburdened and newly terrified, calm in her confession but panicked in its aftermath.

"Alright, yes…" Victoria turned to the final page of her notes with hands that couldn't quite stay steady. "Okay." She cleared her throat. "I read that these kinds of, well, apologies should end on a positive note. So now..." She shifted uncomfortably on the couch, her confidence wavering visibly. "Now comes the thank you section." And before Max could even react, Victoria was already jumping straight into it. "Thank you for always going to the roof, and for being there for me, and for being patient with me," Victoria began. "Thank you for giving me space when I needed it, and for not giving up on me even when I was being a jerk." Victoria paused at that with a small frown, then added, "and this is obviously in reference to moments from the past. Not now. You can… you can give up now, if that's what you want. But, um… okay," she said, refocusing on her notes. "Uh, thank you for showing me what it feels like to be accepted as I am," Victoria continued. "Thank you for trusting me with parts of yourself that you don't share with anyone else. Thank you for letting me get to know you. Thank you for teaching me that vulnerability isn't weakness. For showing me what real strength looks like. For being brave enough to be yourself."

Victoria hesitated, and then finally set the notes aside entirely, as if deciding the remaining words needed to come directly from her rather than the page.

"Thank you," she started, meeting Max's eyes steadily despite the slight tremor in her voice, "for the happiest months of my life, which is surreal to admit, especially considering why this all started, right? But… they have been. The happiest, I mean. And also thank you for… well..." Victoria released a tremulous breath, masking vulnerability behind a failed attempt at nonchalant amusement. "Thank you for seeing something in me worth caring about," she said quietly, "even when I couldn't see it myself. You are kind, Max. And you're good. And I'm just so grateful that I've been able to experience... you, and that you've allowed me to spend all this time with you. That despite everything, despite how I treated you, and all the shitty stuff about me that usually keeps everyone away, you still gave me a chance, and… yeah. Thank you for that. It's honestly meant the world to me."

And then Victoria let out a long, exhausted breath, her shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world had been physically pressing down on her. With meticulous movements that belied her emotional state, she gathered the notes, folding them with precision along their already-established creases, and officially marking the end of... that. Her fingers trembled slightly as she tucked the papers back into her jacket pocket, smoothing the fabric over them as if ensuring they were safely hidden away.

Max remained perched on the edge of her bed, her mind racing to process everything she'd just heard. Victoria's words echoed in her head, fragments of her speech replaying themselves in an endless loop. There had been apologies – a lot of them, actually. And each one had sounded sincere, all carefully thought out, all addressing what had been bothering Max the past few days. Then, of course, there had been that confession of feelings. Max had already known that was how Victoria felt. She'd seen it in Victoria's eyes on countless nights, felt it in her touch, heard it in the softening of her voice when they were alone, and Victoria had been kissing her like that for weeks, which had been a pretty huge hint too. But having Victoria actually say it out loud – "I like you more than I've ever liked anyone" – sent butterflies swirling through her stomach all over again, a rush of validation that somehow made the past few days of heartache simultaneously more bearable and more poignant. And the thank yous. That had caught Max off guard. Victoria Chase expressing gratitude wasn't completely unheard of, but...

God, this entire thing had been so thoroughly un-Victoria-like and yet somehow quintessentially her at the same time. The careful preparation, the structured format, the determination to get it exactly right – that was Victoria to the core. But the raw vulnerability, the willingness to acknowledge her flaws, the whole expressing her feelings thing... That was new. That was really new.

And Max had no clue what the hell to do with it.

Her thoughts were all over the place, her emotions were all over the place, and Victoria was looking at her, her eyes finding Max's across the small space between them, and they were beautiful, and something was flickering in them – uncertainty, hope, fear – all competing for dominance behind that composed expression she was clearly struggling to maintain.

"Okay, so," Victoria said quietly, breaking the silence. "That was it. That's what I needed to say." She placed her palms flat against her thighs, as if steadying herself. "I'll let you rest now. It's been... a long day for you."

She rose gracefully from the couch, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her jeans, her gaze darting briefly to the burgundy sweater still folded neatly beside where she'd been sitting. But she made no move to reclaim it. Instead, she turned toward the door, each step measured and deliberate.

"Wait," Max said, the word tumbling from her lips before she could second-guess herself.

Victoria went completely still, her hand frozen on the doorknob, though she didn't turn around immediately. Max could see the tension in her posture, the way her spine straightened imperceptibly at the sound of Max's voice. After a moment that seemed to stretch endlessly, Victoria slowly turned to face her, eyes guarded yet hopeful, her hand falling away from the doorknob.

Max looked at her, really looked at her, and found herself at a loss. The ball was in her court now. Victoria had laid herself bare with that meticulously crafted apology, had offered up her vulnerabilities like precious gifts, and now she was waiting for Max to respond. And Max knew she forgave her – had forgiven her somewhere between the second and third night of staring at her ceiling. But knowing it and saying it were different things entirely, and she found herself frozen in the face of Victoria's expectant gaze.

Was she still hurt? Yes. Was she still angry? Not really. Her thoughts tumbled over one another, searching for the right words, the right approach. What came out instead was something she hadn't planned to ask at all.

"What happens next time you're scared?" Max asked quietly, her voice steady despite all the emotions churning in her stomach.

Victoria blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. Her lips parted slightly, then closed again as she seemed to search for an answer. "I..." she began, then hesitated, her brow furrowing. "I'm not sure yet," she admitted finally.

Max nodded slowly, not surprised by the answer. She took a deep breath, her hands twisting together in her lap. "Well, if you get scared, and you need space to process that, you can just tell me," she said. "You don't have to hurt me to get that."

Victoria's face fell, a flash of shame crossing her features before she composed herself again. "I know," she said softly. "I know that, Max." She took a hesitant step back toward the center of the room, away from the door but not quite approaching the bed where Max sat. "I don't want to hurt you. That's the last thing I want."

"No, it is exactly what you want. At least when you're feeling the way you were," Max pointed out. "And it'll happen again. You'll want to push me away at some point. But you really can't take it out on me like that next time."

Victoria's eyes widened slightly at that, a flash of surprise in them as she registered what Max was really saying. It didn't go unnoticed by Max either, her use of 'next time', the way she'd just all but confirmed there was a future between them to discuss, a future in which they still had some problems but they handled them differently, together. Victoria swallowed visibly before speaking. "I wish I could promise you it won't happen again," she said. "But I don't... I don't want to make promises I'm not sure I can keep."

"I'm not asking for promises," Max clarified, shifting slightly on the bed. "I'm asking for effort. For awareness." She paused, searching for the right words. "For you to try to recognize when it's happening, when you're starting to feel like that, and to... to tell me instead of getting all... cruel and stuff."

Victoria winced, her fingers finding the edge of her jacket, twisting in the fabric as she nodded slowly. "I can do that," she said after a moment. "I can try. I mean—" She cut herself off. "No, not try. I will. I'll do that."

Max watched her, taking in the determined set of her jaw, the sincerity in her eyes. "And what about if people find out?" she asked, the question that had been weighing on her mind since their fight. "Because they might, and..." Max shook her head slightly, worrying her lip. "I— actually, I don't want to keep acting like I don't know you, Victoria. I'd like it if people knew. Eventually."

"I know, I figured you'd— yes, I get it," Victoria said, her voice strained but steady. "I've been thinking about that a lot these past few days."

"And?"

Victoria hesitated for a moment before moving back toward the couch. She sat down carefully, slowly, her posture much less rigid than before but still not entirely relaxed. "I don't know if I'm ready for everyone to know about us," she started, "I mean, us, like..." She gestured vaguely between them. "You know, the kissing and all of that." Victoria's eyes dropped to her lap, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "That's... that's even if you're still interested in that part of it. Which, no pressure. At all. I would completely understand if you weren't."

Max felt her own face warming as Victoria's words hung in the air between them. She hadn't actually considered the possibility of their physical relationship not resuming once they made up. The past few days had been a special kind of torture precisely because of that – while trying to process her hurt and anger, her mind rebelliously sought comfort in the very source of her heartache, conjuring the most vivid memories of Victoria: the softness of her lips, her hands threading through her hair, the weight of her body as she pressed Max into—

"But if you are still interested in that, I'm definitely not saying never to that either," Victoria continued, interrupting Max's increasingly distracting train of thought. She ran a hand through her blonde locks, leaving a few strands slightly out of place. "I just... I need time. To figure out how to navigate that. With my parents, especially. But I don't want to hide anymore either." Victoria straightened her shoulders then, some of her usual confidence returning to her posture. "We can be friends," she said with growing certainty. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with us being friendly in public. So if you want, we could... sit together, moving forward. And talk in the hallways. And study together. Normal friend stuff," she declared.

Max felt a small, tentative smile tugging at her lips. "Normal friend stuff," she repeated.

"Yes," Victoria nodded, her own lips curving upward slightly. "I mean, I practically own this school," she added, a hint of her characteristic arrogance slipping back into her voice. "Nobody can tell me shit about who I hang out with."

"There she is." Max's smile widened despite herself. "The Victoria Chase I know," she said, her tone lighter than it had been all evening, perhaps lighter than it had been the past five days.

Victoria's lips curled into a half-smile of her own, a flicker of genuine amusement momentarily displacing the tension that had hung between them. "She's still here," Victoria said softly. "Just... trying to figure some things out."

After a long stretch of silence, Victoria stood again, her movements fluid and precise as she smoothed down her jacket, fingers lingering on the pocket where she'd tucked away her notes. Her eyes drifted around the room, as if memorizing details, before finally settling on the door.

"Oh—" Max said, nodding toward the burgundy sweater still folded on the couch. "Your sweater. Thanks for lending it to me, by the way. I would've frozen without it."

Victoria glanced at the sweater, something unreadable passing across her features – not quite calculation, not quite nonchalance, but something in between. "Keep it," she said simply.

"Absolutely not," Max replied immediately, firmly. "That's even more expensive than the scarf. I won't—"

"I don't care," Victoria interrupted, already moving toward the door, the matter apparently settled in her mind. "Really," she added, softer now. "I want you to have it."

Max opened her mouth to protest further, but then stopped, recognizing that was a useless thing to do right now – she'd just leave it outside her dorm tomorrow. Victoria reached the door then, her hand resting on the knob but not turning it immediately. She stood there for a moment, her back to Max, shoulders rising with a deep breath before she turned partially, her profile outlined in the dim light.

"So," she said quietly, "friends?"

The word floated in the air, both offering and question. The term felt wildly inaccurate, but... "Yeah," Max finally replied. "Something like that."

Victoria's expression shifted subtly – not quite a smile, but a softening around her eyes, a loosening of something held tight within her. "Okay. Something like that," she echoed.

She opened the door, pausing on the threshold for just a heartbeat longer than necessary, as if there were words still waiting to be spoken. But the moment passed, and she stepped into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind her with a soft, definitive click.

Max sat motionless, listening to Victoria's retreating footsteps – the familiar cadence of her walk, confident yet measured – until she heard the door across the hall open and then close with a quiet finality. Only then did she exhale, a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her shoulders dropping as the tension of the evening gradually began to unwind.

She got up and crossed to her window then, drawing back the curtain to look at the night sky. Stars pierced the darkness, the same stars they'd watched together for months, the same stars that had watched over Chloe too, once upon a time. Max pressed her forehead against the cool glass, closing her eyes. The day's emotional toll finally caught up to her, bone-deep exhaustion seeping through her body. Her mind felt both empty and overflowing.

She turned back to her room, her gaze falling on the burgundy sweater. After valiantly resisting for days, Max finally gave up and walked over to it. The cashmere felt impossibly soft against her fingertips when she picked it up, and she'd truly been keeping herself from doing this since Sunday, had deliberately left it untouched like some kind of boundary she shouldn't cross. But things had kind of changed now, they were better, so Max finally slipped the sweater on again, the material enveloping her in immediate warmth, the sleeves falling past her wrists. And just as Max had hoped, Victoria's scent lingered in the fabric.

She moved to her bed and climbed under the covers without bothering to change or turn off the lights. Nestled in cashmere, Max reached for her phone, half expecting to see a message from Victoria. But the screen showed only the time and her wallpaper, a photo of a squirrel taken some weeks ago. She set it aside, surprisingly relieved at the absence of communication. They both needed space to process what had happened, what was happening still.

Chloe's birthday. Victoria's apology. The peculiar heaviness and lightness that came with both. It was too much to untangle tonight, too complex to parse into neat, understandable pieces.

Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow they would begin whatever came next – this 'something like' friendship that wasn't quite friendship at all. Tomorrow they would navigate hallways and classrooms and curious glances, would test the boundaries of what they'd discussed. Tomorrow there would be time for questions and answers and all the complicated emotions that lay between.

But tonight, in the quiet of her room, Max simply allowed herself to exist in the aftermath. Not healed, not whole, but perhaps beginning to understand that those weren't the only states worth inhabiting. That there was value in the in-between places too – in grief that softened without disappearing, in anger that transformed without vanishing, in connections that evolved without being fully understood.

She lay back against her pillows, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Across the hall, she imagined Victoria doing the same – perhaps sitting at her desk, or lying in bed, or staring out her own window at the same stars. Separate but connected, apart but not entirely alone.

And in that thought, Max found enough comfort to finally close her eyes and let sleep begin to claim her.

Chapter Text

March 12, 2014

Max's finger traced the contours of her camera absently, following the familiar curve of its body, feeling the worn edges of buttons she'd pressed thousands of times. The motion was automatic, thoughtless – a habit formed over years of seeking comfort in the solid weight of it. Mr. Carson's voice droned on about compositional balance, about tension and harmony, about the careful interplay of light and shadow. All things Max genuinely found fascinating, which was why she really should've been eagerly absorbing all his words. But today Max found her attention drifting elsewhere.

Specifically, to her left.

Victoria sat about six feet and seven inches away – not that Max had measured, of course not, but after months of sneaking glances between note-taking, she'd kind of figured that was the distance between their desks. And today she just couldn't stop looking her way, because Victoria looked... well, queen-like was really the only way to describe it. Her posture was impeccable as always, spine straight against the chair's back, shoulders positioned with deliberate precision. She wore an elegant cream skirt that highlighted the impossible length of her legs, paired with a sweater Max recognized instantly – Stella McCartney, the forest green one Victoria had worn on the roof that night. The night when she had pushed Max back against the blanket, the solid weight of her body pressing Max into the concrete roof. The insistent pressure of her thigh between Max's legs. The heat of her breath against Max's neck. The low, honeyed tone of her voice as she'd whispered praises against her skin – how good she sounded, how good she smelled, how good she tasted. Her tongue dragging torturously slowly over—

Max abruptly returned her attention to her camera, molten heat coiling in her stomach and spreading through her chest, making it difficult to breathe normally. She pressed her fingers harder against the cool plastic, willing her focus to return to the classroom, to Carson's lecture, to anything besides memories of Victoria. She even found herself wishing she could hold onto the resentment a little longer. If only to have some defense against the ridiculous butterflies that had returned with such infuriating persistence. But Victoria had been true to her words from last night and the tiny bit of anger that remained had been absolutely impossible to maintain.

It had started this morning at her locker.

Max had been digging through the usual chaos – textbooks stacked haphazardly, loose papers threatening to spill out, a collection of pens that had somehow multiplied when she wasn't looking. She'd been focused on locating her science notes when she first noticed it – the way the hallway's usual chatter seemed to dim, how conversations trailed off mid-sentence, how the constant background noise of Blackwell suddenly dropped as if someone had adjusted a volume dial. And then there had been the scent, that distinctive perfume that had surrounded Max all night as she'd slept with her nose buried in the collar of that burgundy sweater. The soft thud of a shoulder leaning against the locker beside hers came next, and Max had frozen immediately, her hands stilling on her science textbook.

"Good morning, Max," Victoria had greeted, her voice carrying that particular note of casual confidence that made everything she said sound both intentional and effortless.

Max had immediately glanced around, suddenly hyperaware of the eyes watching them – dozens of them, more than she'd expected, gazes filled with anticipation, confusion, surprise, curiosity. It had been enough to make her palms sweat, enough to send her heart into a frantic rhythm against her ribs. But she'd steeled herself, turning to Victoria as casually as Victoria had approached her.

"Good morning," Max had responded, forcing steadiness into her voice despite the sudden dryness in her throat.

Victoria's expression betrayed nothing beyond mild interest in whatever Max was doing. As if this was normal. As if they'd been greeting each other by lockers for years instead of purposefully avoiding any form of public acknowledgment for months.

"Did you sleep okay?" Victoria had asked.

"Yes. Good," Max had replied, and after a moment of hesitation, she'd added, "And you?"

"I slept fine," Victoria had said with a casual shrug. "Woke up earlier than usual today though. I took a longer run. Had a lot on my mind."

Max had just nodded then, finally retrieving her textbook and notes, closing the locker with a soft click that seemed to punctuate the strange normalcy of their first ever morning conversation in public.

But then, much to everyone's shock – Max's included – Victoria had walked her to her science class. She'd matched her pace to Max's shorter stride, maintaining a conversation about upcoming assignments with remarkable ease, steadfastly ignoring the looks they received from passing students. Which were a lot of looks, way more than this basic of an interaction warranted, certainly way more than Max was comfortable with. But Victoria had navigated them with the practiced grace of someone already accustomed to being the subject of speculation and attention, acting as though she were completely oblivious to the social earthquake she'd just triggered, as if she hadn't just upended the entire Blackwell hierarchy by publicly acknowledging Max Caulfield as someone worthy of her attention.

Max had noticed though, because of course she'd noticed, the subtle tension in Victoria's shoulders, and the way her fingers gripped her own textbooks just a fraction tighter than usual, and the occasional hard clench of her jaw. It was all signaling that Victoria wasn't unaffected by the stares, but she was choosing to push through them anyway.

Max had tried to ignore the swell of warmth that unfurled in her chest, even as it kept spreading from there to her very fingertips. She'd tried to remember that Victoria actually putting in effort to do this was normal, and expected, and exactly what they'd agreed on last night. It really wasn't that big of a deal. Except it totally was that big of a deal, and Max was kind of struggling to contain all the emotions that this whole situation was making her feel.

Later, sitting in class, Max had convinced herself that would be it for today. That a morning greeting and walking her to class was certainly all Victoria would do. It was their first day trying this new dynamic, after all. Baby steps. But Max's logic had an embarrassingly fatal flaw – she'd naively forgotten Victoria had never half-assed anything in her entire life. She was too stubborn, and too perfectionistic, and too Victoria Chase about everything she set her mind to. And it was becoming increasingly clear what she'd set her mind to this morning – making Max forget completely what she'd been so mad and hurt about to begin with.

Because the hallway theatrics hadn't ended with that first interaction. No, Victoria had continued to lean against lockers as Max retrieved her books, had continued to engage in casual conversation about assignments or weekend plans, had continued to walk her to her next class. And everyone had continued to stare, whispers following in their wake, growing in volume with each passing period. By fourth hour, Max had caught Dana and Juliet huddled together beside the bulletin board, their expressions equal parts shocked and intrigued as Victoria gently grabbed Max's bicep to stop her walking, fingers sliding down her arm to wrap around her wrist. "What do you think about this design?" she'd asked, nodding toward some new Vortex Club poster, her hand still wrapped around Max's wrist and staying there for several heartbeats longer than necessary – long enough that Max had become acutely aware of her own pulse beneath Victoria's fingertips, long enough that Dana's eyebrows had climbed steadily higher on her forehead.

And Max had wanted to pull Victoria aside then, to shake her, to ask her what exactly she was doing. Because this was a lot more than they'd agreed on last night. 'Normal friend stuff' had been the phrase Victoria had used, but this didn't feel like that at all. This felt like more. This felt like a public declaration of some sort. This was Victoria neglecting the actual normal friend stuff she was supposed to be doing with her actual friends. This was Victoria focusing almost exclusively on Max, making her feel like she was the only person in the world, and Max loved it, she obviously did, she could barely believe it was real, she honestly never wanted it to end. But it was too much. It was too sudden. Too visible. And Victoria would regret it. Because people would talk even more than they already were, and there would be rumors, and they'd reach her parents, and Victoria would freak out again, and—

Then came lunch.

Max had taken her usual seat at her regular table, where Kate had greeted her with a warm smile, Warren had immediately launched into a detailed explanation of his latest science project, and Brooke had offered a cursory nod that seemed chillier than usual. Max had found herself distracted by Brooke's apparent hostility, wondering if she and Warren had fought again, when something had compelled her to glance toward the Vortex Club table. Old habits died hard, after all.

Victoria had been engaged in conversation with the group, all her focus seemingly fixed on whatever they'd been talking about. But then – as if sensing Max's gaze upon her – she looked up, eyes finding Max's across the cafeteria with unerring precision. Max quickly glanced away, a reflexive response born from months of practiced avoidance. But she couldn't resist looking back seconds later.

And Victoria had been looking at her still, and then she'd smiled.

It wasn't her usual unguarded smile from the roof, the one that transformed her entire face into something almost ethereal in its genuine joy. But neither was it the fake smile she deployed in hallways and Vortex Club photos, all calculated curves and hollow brightness. This was something in between. Something small and shy, almost tentative, like she wasn't entirely sure if she was doing it right.

And Max had felt herself melt on the spot, her insides turning to liquid warmth as the butterflies in her stomach launched into frenzied flight. She'd offered a smile of her own in return, smaller and more tentative, and Victoria's gaze darted to her mouth for a moment before finally looking away to rejoin the conversation at her table.

So now, in the controlled environment of Mr. Carson's classroom, Max found herself stealing glances at Victoria yet again. Victoria, who was taking meticulous notes in her elegant handwriting, her pen moving across the page with the same confidence that characterized everything she did. Her profile was softened by the afternoon light streaming through the windows, highlighting the gentle slope of her nose, the perfect arch of her brow, the delicate curve of her—

The bell rang, its shrill sound jolting Max from her thoughts. She blinked rapidly, suddenly aware that she had no recollection of anything Carson had said in the last fifteen minutes. Around her, students began gathering their belongings, the rustle of papers and zip of backpacks filling the room as conversations immediately erupted. Max hurriedly tucked her camera into its protective case and shoved her notebook into her bag, not particularly surprised, but still a little bit disappointed to find that she'd taken exactly zero notes during the entire lecture.

Just as she stood up, slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder, Mr. Carson's voice cut through the classroom chatter.

"Victoria, Max – could you two stay for a moment, please?"

The room instantly quieted, all eyes swiveling between the two girls like some perfectly choreographed dance. Max froze mid-step, acutely aware of the whispers already beginning to ripple through the remaining students. For one delusional second, Max thought Carson was going to ask them what everyone was clearly dying to know – why were she and Victoria suddenly friends when they'd essentially ignored each other since the beginning of the school year? But then she mentally shook herself. He was a teacher. He would never insert himself into student social dynamics like that… right?

But then she remembered – the exhibition. That had to be it. He probably wanted an explanation for their refusal, or maybe he was going to try to persuade them to reconsider. Max felt her stomach twist with a combination of guilt, disappointment, and a small flicker of anger, at last; after all, they'd really missed out on a valuable opportunity just because Victoria couldn't bear the thought of someone seeing those photos and assuming they trusted each other.

Victoria and Max stood awkwardly near their desks as the room slowly emptied, the last few students casting curious glances over their shoulders on their way out. When everyone was finally gone, Max approached Mr. Carson's desk. Victoria followed, maintaining a careful distance, her expression professionally neutral.

"Max," Carson greeted with a smile, "I'm glad to see you back. Are you feeling better?"

"Yes," Max replied, slightly surprised by the question. "Much better, thank you."

"That's good." Mr. Carson nodded, seemingly satisfied with her recovery, then immediately launched into a stream of information Max couldn't really understand. "Victoria, since this was a concern of yours – I've double checked, and yes, the gallery's lighting does have adjustable temperature controls. Also, I've secured the east wall where the afternoon light will complement the warm tones in your golden hour compositions beautifully. It'll really enhance the atmospheric quality you both captured," he shared, his eyes lighting up with genuine enthusiasm. "I'll need your final print selections by Wednesday next week, so I can arrange for appropriate frames. I'm thinking simple black for both your series – it'll create a nice cohesion while letting the images speak for themselves."

"That sounds good, Mr. Carson," Victoria said.

Max blinked, struggling to follow.

"Now, regarding transportation," Carson continued, shuffling through some papers on his desk, "I've arranged for the mounted pieces to be delivered to the gallery by the university's courier service. What I wanted to check with you both is how you'll get there yourselves. It's a Reed College exhibition, so we can't use Blackwell's budget for student transport, but I could potentially—"

"I can drive," Victoria interjected smoothly. "It's really not an issue. We're both eighteen, so there shouldn't be any liability concern for either institution."

"Well, it's not quite that simple when it comes to liability," Mr. Carson began. "There are still considerations regarding institutional responsibility even with adult students, particularly when there's an implied connection to academic activities. You don't need to be enrolled in..."

Max's attention began to drift as Carson launched into what was clearly going to be a lengthy explanation of educational liability policies. His voice faded into background noise as her confused mind returned to the more pressing questions – What were they talking about? Why was Max here, hearing about it? Had Victoria said yes to the exhibition?

Max had to actively stop herself from grabbing her phone and checking her texts right there in front of Mr. Carson. She didn't need to, anyway. She remembered exactly what Victoria had texted her during her days of isolation. 'I talked to Carson.' That had been it. Four simple words with no explanation, no details. Max had obviously assumed rejection – how couldn't she after Victoria's explosion over Kate knowing they'd been meeting up? The idea that Victoria would willingly display those photos to the Oregon art community seemed impossible. Yet here was Mr. Carson, discussing frames and lighting and transportation as if it were a done deal.

"Max?" Mr. Carson's voice snapped her back to attention. "Does that timeline work for you?"

"I—" Max started, then faltered. "Yes. That works."

Carson smiled. "Excellent! This is going to be a wonderful opportunity for both of you. The Portland photography community is small but very supportive, and several gallery owners typically attend these student exhibitions. I'm truly looking forward to seeing your work displayed properly."

"Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Carson," Victoria said, her voice carrying that perfect blend of professionalism and genuine appreciation she reserved for authority figures. "We really appreciate your support."

"Yes, thank you," Max added, the words coming out slightly delayed. "It means a lot."

"No, thank you two. And thank you for staying behind. I know you have other classes to get to," Carson replied, gathering his papers. "We'll talk more details next week. Now, you girls have a good day. See you tomorrow."

And with that, he walked out of the classroom, leaving Max standing beside Victoria in the suddenly empty room. Max blinked a few times, trying to make sense of what'd just happened. She turned to Victoria then, whose fingers were already smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirt with practiced yet nervous movements.

"Alright," Victoria finally said, her voice pitched in that careful middle ground she'd been using all day – not quite the ice queen of hallways past, not quite the unguarded girl from rooftop nights. "So what's your next class? I can walk you."

"You told him yes," Max said instead, the words escaping before she could consider their delivery. Not accusatory exactly, but weighted with unresolved questions. "To the exhibition. You told him we'd do it."

Victoria's movements slowed, a nearly imperceptible pause before her hands moved from her skirt to now begin adjusting the strap of her designer bag. "Yes," she said simply.

"Why?"

"Because it is a great opportunity," Victoria replied, her tone suggesting this was self-evident, though something in her eyes betrayed a more complex calculation. "We talked about this, remember? How well-connected he is in the Portland art scene."

"Yes, I remember," Max said, her own fingers finding the strap of her messenger bag. "I also remember you not wanting to display them."

A subtle shift occurred in Victoria's posture – a tightening around her eyes, a slight tensing of her jaw, the kind of minute changes most people would miss entirely. "I never said I didn't want to display them," she countered, her voice carrying a hint of defensiveness beneath its measured control. "I was nervous to. That's it." Her gaze flickered briefly to Max's face, then away. "You said you didn't care either way, so why are you mad?"

"I'm not mad, Victoria," Max responded. "I'm just surprised. I thought you'd said no. Especially because it was the day after our fight."

Victoria let out a shaky breath at that, glancing toward the closed door, her expression shifting through several nearly imperceptible changes. But something about the normally seamless transitions between her social masks seemed disrupted today, Max noticed, almost as if the mechanisms that kept her walls perfectly maintained were slightly out of alignment. And for the first time since this morning, Max could finally see beyond the performance. Could see how the stares and whispers were accumulating, how they were weighing on Victoria's shoulders with each passing hour, how this situation had actually been exacting a toll that she'd desperately been trying to conceal.

When Victoria turned back to face her, there was something unfamiliar in her expression – not vulnerability exactly, that was too simple a word for the complex amalgamation of emotions crossing her features. It was something more nuanced: part uncertainty, part fear, part confusion, part question. Her eyes seemed to be asking something of Max, begging her for something, and Max didn't know what it was, couldn't read it the way she would've liked to. What Max did know however was that it stirred something in her stomach, an almost uncontrollable surge of protectiveness that caught her off-guard with its intensity. She suddenly realized she absolutely hated seeing Victoria like this – her composure threatening to crack any second, those green eyes shadowed with an uncertainty they were never meant to hold, her posture rigid with the instinct to fight or flee, but her body too tired to commit to either one. All Max wanted in that moment was to fix it, to erase that look from Victoria's face, to make it better.

"You've been incredible today," Max said, her voice gentle yet cautious. "You've kept your promise. More than kept it, actually. And you've been..." she paused, searching for the right words, "Brave. You've been so brave. You knew people would... notice, and they did, but even then you're still…" Max trailed off, hesitating for just a moment, then reached out and gently took Victoria's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I see how much it's costing you. I know how difficult it is. And I appreciate it. I really do. But you don't have to push yourself this hard, okay? It doesn't have to be all at once."

Victoria remained quiet, her eyes fixed on their joined hands, a small frown creasing her brow. Her thumb moved almost absently over the back of Max's hand, a gentle back-and-forth motion that sent a flutter through Max's stomach, a delicate ripple of sensation that traveled up her arm and spread through her chest.

"You do know I forgave you, right?" Max asked after a long moment.

Victoria's head snapped up, her eyes meeting Max's with a flash of surprise she couldn't quite conceal despite her best efforts, something vulnerable and hopeful flickering across her face before she could school her features.

Max squeezed her hand again, finding courage in Victoria's momentary openness. "And I like you. More than I've ever liked anyone," she said, deliberately mirroring Victoria's words from last night, her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart. "And yes, you hurt me. And it sucked. But you apologized – really well, actually – and now we're going to move forward. Because I want to keep doing whatever it is that we're doing. And I think you do too. So I'm pretty sure we're gonna be okay."

It seemed like that last phrase did the trick, because Victoria drew in a slow breath, something shifting in her expression as she seemed to gather herself. The mask slid partially back into place – not completely, not the impenetrable facade she typically wore, but enough to regain some semblance of her usual composure.

"I still want to walk with you," Victoria said, her voice finding its familiar confidence again, though a new softness lingered at its edges. "In the hallways. Between classes."

"What's your next class?"

"Chemistry," Victoria replied, straightening her shoulders slightly.

"Okay," Max said with a small smile, giving Victoria's hand one final squeeze before reluctantly letting go. "I'll walk you this time."

Victoria's lips curved into a hint of her signature smirk, a welcome glimpse of her usual self after the vulnerability of moments before. "I don't need a chaperone, Caulfield."

"I don't know," Max countered, adjusting her messenger bag. "Apparently you didn't know that even with adults there's still liability concerns. I'm not sure I can trust you in the hallway alone after that."

Victoria's smile widened at that, a genuine brightness reaching her eyes in a way that made Max's heart skip. "Fine," she conceded with mock reluctance. "Lead the way then."

And as they headed toward the door, Max felt something settling between them – not resolution exactly, but a beginning. A first tentative step into whatever came next.

Chapter Text

March 15, 2014

Max woke to the sound of her alarm blaring at 5:30 AM, the harsh electronic tone cutting through the peaceful silence of her dorm room. She groaned, one hand emerging from beneath her blanket to blindly swat at her phone, succeeding only in knocking it to the floor where it continued its relentless noise. With another groan, she reluctantly pushed herself up, the warmth of sleep still clinging to her body as she leaned over the edge of her bed, fingers fumbling in the darkness until they finally closed around her phone.

"I'm awake," she mumbled to no one in particular as she silenced the alarm, squinting at the too-bright screen. 5:31 AM. On a Saturday. This was legitimately insane. She dropped back against her pillow, eyes closed, the temptation to fall back asleep nearly overwhelming. Just five more minutes, she thought. Victoria wouldn't mind if she was a little late.

Except Victoria absolutely would mind. Victoria was probably already awake – had likely been up for at least fifteen minutes, executing her morning routine with military precision. And as crazy as it seemed, the thought of Victoria waiting for her, possibly checking her phone with increasing impatience, was enough to propel Max back into a sitting position.

With a deep breath, she switched on her bedside lamp, wincing as light flooded the small room. The dorms were eerily quiet at this hour, most students taking full advantage of the weekend to sleep until at least noon. Max envied them as she slid out of bed, her bare feet meeting the cold floor with a small shiver. She moved to her closet, pulling out the running clothes she'd laid out the night before – black leggings, a lightweight long-sleeve shirt, and a zip-up hoodie she hadn't worn in months.

Max hesitated, then reached for the burgundy cashmere sweater that had been carefully folded on her desk chair for the past four days. Victoria had insisted she keep it, but Max had been equally insistent on returning it, even carrying it to class in her bag yesterday with every intention of giving it back. Somehow, she'd never quite found the right moment, the sweater remaining in her possession like some sort of collateral neither of them knew how to address. Max's fingers moved over the soft material, and then she decisively put it back on the chair.

Today was about running (unfortunately), not about arguing because she wanted to return something she didn't actually want to return (thankfully).

She changed quickly, went to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and splashed cold water on her face in an attempt to fully wake up. Her reflection in the mirror looked about as enthusiastic as she felt – hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes puffy from sleep, an expression that clearly communicated exactly how much she was not a morning person. Max half-heartedly attempted to smooth down her hair, gave up after a few seconds, and headed back to her room.

As she sat on the edge of her bed to put on her socks and running shoes, her phone buzzed with a text. Max's heart immediately skipped a beat, though she tried to ignore the Pavlovian response her body had developed to the sound of an incoming message. It was ridiculous how quickly that fight-or-flight adrenaline rush had transformed back into anticipation. She reached for her phone, unsurprised to find Victoria's name on the screen.

'Parking lot. You better be awake. I'm not waiting all morning.'

Max smiled despite herself, typing back a quick response.

'I'm awake! Getting ready. See you in 5.'

She shoved her phone into the pocket of her hoodie, grabbed her dorm key, and headed for the door. The hallway was completely silent, the usual bustle of student life still hours away, so Max moved quietly, conscious of her sleeping neighbors as she made her way toward the exit.

The cool air hit her immediately as she stepped outside, a crisp chill that made her grateful for the layers she'd chosen. The sky was still dark, stars visible through patches of cloudless night, with just the faintest hint of indigo beginning to appear low on the eastern horizon. The parking lot was filled with cars, motionless and silent while their owners slept off Friday night's activities, enjoying dreams that wouldn't be interrupted by alarms for many hours to come.

Victoria was already there, leaning against her pristine grey BMW, arms crossed over her chest. She wore black running leggings that probably cost more than Max's entire wardrobe, a fitted gray long-sleeve top that seemed professionally designed for optimal temperature regulation, and a lightweight jacket that managed to look both practical and impossibly stylish. It seemed like Victoria was much better prepared for the cold than the last time they'd gone to the beach together – she had dressed in proper layers this time, making Max wonder if she intended to stay on the beach long this time too.

Max's stomach performed its usual gymnastics routine at the thought, and at the sight of her, of course. Four days of their new 'something like friendship' status had done little to dull the effect Victoria had on her pulse rate. If anything, the public interactions had only heightened her awareness of Victoria's presence, her proximity, her everything.

Victoria looked up at the sound of Max's approach, her features arranged into a mask of mild annoyance that didn't quite reach her eyes. "You're late," she said, checking her watch pointedly.

Max glanced at her phone. "It's 5:52. We said 5:50."

"Exactly. You're late."

"By two minutes?"

"Two minutes is still late," Victoria countered, but there was no real edge to her tone. Instead, her lips curved into that tiny half-smile she'd been wearing more frequently in public lately – small enough to maintain her reputation, genuine enough that Max could tell the difference.

"Sorry," Max said, though she wasn't really, and they both knew it. "Not all of us wake up automatically at the crack of dawn like robots."

Victoria rolled her eyes, pushing herself away from the car. "I don't wake up automatically. I use an alarm like a normal person."

"At what time? 4 AM?"

"5 AM," Victoria corrected, as if this were a perfectly reasonable hour to be conscious.

"That's inhumane. Should be classified as cruel and unusual self-punishment."

"It's called discipline, Caulfield. You might want to try it sometime."

"Oh, I'm disciplined," Max retorted, "just about things that don't involve torturing myself before sunrise."

Victoria ignored her, her attention shifting to Max's outfit instead, eyes moving down and then back up in a slow assessment that made Max's skin warm despite the cool morning air. "At least you dressed appropriately," she said finally, a hint of approval in her voice. "Better than those jeans you wore last time."

"Those jeans were perfectly appropriate for walking," Max defended herself. "But I figured actual running would require... you know, actual running clothes."

"Such wisdom," Victoria said dryly, and then gestured toward the path leading away from Blackwell. "Okay, so. Ready to go?"

"Well, not really. But let's go, I guess," Max muttered.

And with that they set off at a light jog, Victoria immediately adjusting her pace to match Max's. The campus was silent around them, morning dew glistening on the grass as they made their way toward the main entrance, and suddenly Max realized this really was happening, and it was five in the morning, and she was running with Victoria, and perhaps this actually wasn't that good of an idea.

"Shouldn't we stretch or something first?" Max asked, already feeling awkward in her attempt to maintain what might pass for proper running form.

Victoria gave her a look that was equal parts amusement and incredulity. "We walk to class every day. A light jog isn't going to tear your muscles."

"You don't know that. I could be very delicate."

Victoria's eyes flicked briefly to Max's body, then away, the ghost of a smile twitching at her lips. "Somehow I doubt that," she said, her voice carrying a note Max wasn't going to try to interpret right now.

They reached the sidewalk that would lead them down to the main road, their footsteps creating distinct sounds against the pavement – Victoria's fancy running shoes making a controlled, precise tap while Max's older sneakers produced a softer thud. Despite their different strides, they somehow fell into a synchronized rhythm, almost like a percussion duet in the early morning stillness. The steady cadence of their footsteps, accompanied by the occasional chirping of early birds, provided a pleasant backdrop, but Max couldn't fully appreciate it as she quickly discovered just how out of shape she really was. The air was cold enough that it stung her nose with each breath, making her nostrils flare wider as she tried to take in more oxygen. But with each labored inhale, cruelly enough, Victoria's perfume seemed to intensify – subtle, expensive, distinctive, and somehow more potent through Max's heightened breathing. It was embarrassingly distracting as they ran side by side, her awareness of Victoria's scent making it even harder to focus on maintaining any semblance of—

"Focus on your breathing," Victoria advised, noticing Max's increasingly labored inhalations. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. And try to keep a consistent pace."

Max nodded, concentrating on her breathing while trying to ignore both her perfume and the growing protest from her muscles. Victoria, meanwhile, moved with the effortless grace of someone who ran regularly – her strides even, her breathing controlled, her form impeccable. The next five minutes were somewhat manageable, almost nice even, as they made their way through the quiet streets of Arcadia Bay. The town was just beginning to wake up – a few lights appearing in windows, the occasional car passing by. The air felt refreshing against Max's face as she began to feel the first hints of perspiration forming, and she found herself settling into a rhythm that, while not exactly comfortable, was at least sustainable.

But then came the slight incline.

"You said it was flat," Max accused between increasingly labored breaths as they started up a modest hill. "You lied to me."

"I did not. I said it was mostly flat," Victoria corrected, not even slightly winded. "And this is barely a hill, Max."

Max tried, she really did, but it felt like her legs had transformed into lead weights, each step requiring more effort than the last. Her lungs burned with every gasp for air, and she could feel her heart pounding somewhere in her throat. The slight incline that Victoria dismissively called ‘barely a hill’ might as well have been a vertical wall to her oxygen-starved muscles. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple despite the cold morning air, and she silently cursed her decision to agree to this torture.

"This is... bad... for my lungs," Max gasped, slowing her pace considerably.

Victoria glanced over, her expression shifting from amusement to something closer to concern. "Need to walk for a bit?"

Max wanted to push through, to prove she could handle whatever Victoria's morning routine entailed, but her burning lungs and aching calves were making an extremely persuasive counterargument. "Maybe... just for a minute," she conceded, gradually slowing to a walk.

Victoria immediately matched her pace, showing no sign of disappointment. "I told you we could walk," she said, her tone surprisingly gentle.

Max drew in several deep breaths, grateful for the reprieve. "I was trying to keep up with you."

"Why?" Victoria asked, genuine curiosity in her voice. "I specifically said I'd adjust to your pace. I said it multiple times."

"I don't know," Max admitted, her breathing gradually returning to normal. "Didn't want to hold you back, I guess."

Victoria rolled her eyes, but the gesture held no real annoyance. "Max, I invited you. I knew what I was getting into."

"Which was babysitting an out-of-shape disaster?"

"Which was spending time with you," Victoria corrected, her eyes fixed straight ahead as if the admission were easier when not looking directly at Max. "The running was always secondary."

The words sent a flutter through Max's chest that had nothing to do with physical exertion. She glanced at Victoria, taking in her profile – the perfect line of her jaw, the slight flush across her cheeks that might have been from running or might have been something else entirely. And Max couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips.

"In that case, can we walk the rest of the way? I promise I'll try running again on the way back."

Victoria considered this for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. But you're coming with me tomorrow. And the day after. And as many mornings as it takes until you can actually run up this hill without dying." She said it offhandedly, eyes fixed on the path ahead, as if inviting Max to join her daily morning routine wasn't something unprecedented.

"Okay, sure. Deal," Max agreed quickly, her smile widening. She flexed her fingers at her side, suddenly aware of how close Victoria's hand was to hers, wondering what would happen if she reached out and took it. "Do we always have to leave this early though?"

Victoria seemed to genuinely think about it, her brow furrowing slightly in thought. "Maybe not on weekends," she said after a moment. "Tomorrow, if you want, we could come later. But on weekdays it has to be early because we have class."

"Yeah. Okay. Cool. Sounds good," Max replied eloquently, watching as Victoria's lips curved into a small but genuine smile, the kind that still caught Max off guard whenever it appeared. She curled her fingers into her palm, resolutely resisting the urge to bridge the gap between them, deciding that Victoria's smile was enough for now.

They continued walking, the road now leading them toward the coastline. The world around them was bathed in the soft blue-gray light of early dawn, the eastern horizon glowing with a pale wash of color that hadn't yet reached the vibrant hues of sunrise. Despite her earlier discomfort, Max found herself appreciating the beauty of the bay at this hour – the way streetlights were still on though barely necessary now, creating pools of warm amber against the gradually brightening blue, the peaceful emptiness of streets usually filled with noise and activity, the sense of witnessing a version of their town that most people never experienced. Everything felt hushed, expectant, as if the world was holding its breath waiting for the sun.

Victoria caught Max looking around, a knowing expression crossing her features. "See, this is precisely why I come so early," she stated, a hint of pride in her voice as if she'd personally arranged the atmospheric conditions. "The sunrise here is beautiful. And trust me, we'll reach the beach at the perfect moment – it'll be worth waking up for. The colors over the water? Like an exclusive showing of nature's best work."

Max smiled, finding Victoria's strangely smug attitude toward the sunrise endearingly typical. "Yeah, I bet. I used to catch sunrises before we moved to Seattle. They're really something special here on the bay."

They continued walking side by side, close enough that their arms occasionally brushed. Max found her thoughts drifting to Victoria's hand again, remembering how during their last beach visit she'd grabbed Victoria's pinkie, the small interlocking of fingers feeling both significant and safe. But they weren't quite there yet, she supposed. It'd been nine days since their fight. Nine days since their last kiss. Four days since Victoria's apology and their tentative reconciliation.

Max's mind wandered to that first day back, to how… dramatic Victoria had behaved, never leaving her side between classes, walking her everywhere as if to publicly declare their more-than-acquaintanceship. She'd dialed it back after, once Max had talked to her in Mr. Carson's classroom, settling into a more balanced approach. Now they walked each other to class at least twice a day and exchanged small smiles whenever they passed one another in hallways. Victoria no longer pretended Max didn't exist, and everyone had noticed, the change rippling through Blackwell's social ecosystem like a stone dropped in still water.

They reached the beach just as the horizon began to show the first hints of color – still mostly deep blues and purples with just a touch of pink beginning to bleed into the sky's edge. The ocean stretched before them, a vast expanse of dark water that seemed to merge with the sky at the distant horizon. The beach was completely deserted, waves breaking softly against the shore in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. The sand still retained the night's chill, and the air felt noticeably colder here with nothing to block the persistent sea breeze.

Victoria led them to what felt like the same spot as last time, somehow navigating with certainty despite the limited light. She lowered herself gracefully onto the dry sand, her movements precise and controlled even after their long walk. Max followed suit far less elegantly, adjusting her position several times to find a comfortable way to sit in her running leggings, which provided considerably less insulation than her jeans had during their previous visit.

She settled finally, acutely aware of Victoria sitting next to her – close enough that Max could feel her presence, the slight warmth radiating from her body, but not quite close enough for their shoulders to touch. Max fixed her gaze straight ahead at the gradually lightening horizon, forcing herself not to stare at Victoria's profile, not to notice the way the early light played across her features, not to remember how different their last beach visit had been. After a moment of awkward silence, desperately searching for conversation that wouldn't betray how her heart was still doing acrobatics in her chest, Max landed on a topic.

"So," she began, trying to sound casual, "have you heard any of the theories going around campus? About us, I mean."

Victoria let out a small, amused breath, not at all surprised by Max's question. "Yes, I've heard a few theories."

"And?" Max prompted, genuinely curious about what had made its way back to Victoria.

"And they're mostly ridiculous," Victoria replied, no edge to her tone. "Taylor is convinced you must be blackmailing me with something extremely scandalous."

Max let out an incredulous laugh. "Yeah, I've heard that one too. But I didn't expect Taylor to actually believe that. What could I possibly have on you that would be worth blackmail?"

"Max," Victoria scoffed with a hint of self-deprecating humor, "you actually do have plenty to blackmail me with at this point. Not that I'm trying to encourage you, but… yes, she's convinced that's what's happening. She spent the past few days trying to figure out what you know about me."

"And what did you tell her?" Max asked, drawing her knees to her chest against the sea breeze. "I mean, not about the blackmail. About why we're… you know."

Victoria's fingers began tracing idle patterns in the sand, a hint of nervousness in the gesture. "I told her that we got along well during our photography project, and that I..." she hesitated, her voice growing slightly less confident, "that I recognized your artistic perspective could be professionally beneficial. That you have an interesting eye for composition." She brushed some sand from her leggings, not meeting Max's gaze. "You know, making it sound like practical interest or whatever."

Max sighed quietly and rested her face on her knees, turning to look in the opposite direction of Victoria, out at the expanse of empty beach stretching into the pre-dawn darkness. The professional explanation stung a little, but still she understood why Victoria had framed it that way, still knew this was a huge improvement compared to the past months.

After a moment, Victoria spoke again. "What about your friends? What are they saying about all this?"

"Kate hasn't said anything," Max replied, her voice slightly muffled against her knees. "And when Warren or Brooke try to bring it up, she changes the subject. But, um..." she hesitated, "Warren thinks you're trying to copy my photography style or something like that. He keeps telling me to be careful."

"What?" Victoria's tone shifted immediately, a clear edge entering her voice. "What did you say to that?"

Max turned her head just enough to glance at Victoria. "I told him you wouldn't do that. That you're too proud to copy anyone's style, least of all mine."

Victoria frowned a little at that, looking at Max with an unreadable expression, then turned her attention back to the sand. Her fingers resumed their idle patterns, blue nails disappearing into the cool grains as she traced abstract shapes. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the rhythmic sound of waves washing against the shore.

Max watched Victoria's fingers until she finally gathered her courage and asked, "How does it make you feel? This whole thing, with everyone talking and making theories?"

Victoria seemed about to dismiss the question with her usual deflection, her mouth opening with what would likely be a practiced shrug of indifference. But something stopped her. She closed her mouth, reconsidered, and when she spoke again, her voice carried a rare honesty.

"I don't like it. At all," she admitted quietly. "It's infuriating and... a little scary, I guess. Having everyone watching, waiting for me to, I don't know, explain myself." She drew a sharp line through her sand patterns, erasing them. "And it really bothers me that people are talking about you so much. Speculating. Saying things that are just such—"

Victoria clenched her jaw then, muscles jumping beneath the skin, before she tilted her head up toward the ocean where the sky was transforming minute by minute, blues giving way to purples and pinks that reflected in patches across the water's surface.

"I'm really sorry about that part," Victoria continued. "If I weren't me, this wouldn't... No one would care who either of us spent time with." A small, bitter smile crossed her lips. "But Victoria Chase can't sneeze without it becoming Blackwell gossip, so…"

"It's not your fault, so you really don't need to apologize for that," Max said gently. "Plus, I don't care what people say. Really." She shrugged. "Kate and Warren and everyone who actually knows me understands I couldn't care less about climbing the social ladder or whatever. So the speculation doesn't bother me at all."

Victoria turned to look at Max then, their eyes connecting for what felt like the first time today. The sudden eye contact sent a jolt through Max's entire body, like electricity sparking from her chest outward. Victoria's eyes were so green even in this early light, bright and intense and focused entirely on her. Max felt her breath catch in her throat, momentarily forgetting what they'd been talking about, what she was doing, where they were – everything except those eyes looking directly into hers. But then Victoria's gaze moved, started searching Max's face instead, lingering on each feature for a moment before drifting down to settle on her lips as something shifted in her expression – a softening of sorts that made Max's heart race even faster – before her eyes moved back up to meet Max's again. She seemed to consider something, and then turned back toward the ocean.

"You haven't been coming to the roof," Victoria said unexpectedly, the words so quiet they were almost lost beneath the sound of waves.

At that, Max turned to face the ocean too, swallowing hard as she hugged her knees tighter against her chest, a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature running through her. Victoria was right – she hadn't been back to the roof since their fight. Eight nights now. Eight nights of lying in bed while staring at the ceiling, checking the time every few minutes, fighting all of the instincts that urged her to just get up and go.

"Have you? Every night?" Max asked, her voice equally soft.

"Pretty much," Victoria admitted. "Except the night after Dana's party. I was..." she hesitated, searching for the right word, "afraid. Of actually seeing you there after that moment in the courtyard. And I was busy anyway, starting to draft my apology." A faint smile crossed her lips. "Turns out it takes a long time to properly organize all the ways you've been an ass."

Max let out an amused breath, feeling something tight in her chest loosen slightly. She turned to look at Victoria again, watching as the morning breeze gently tousled her short blonde hair. The light was changing rapidly now, the sky now showing vibrant pinks and oranges, casting Victoria in a warm glow that softened her edges and highlighted the perfect curve of her cheekbone. And as her fingers twitched with the urge to trace it, she suddenly found herself wondering what she was doing, what she was waiting for, why she was keeping herself from doing what she wanted to do. Nine days since their last kiss. Four days since their reconciliation. How many more days would she let pass before she allowed herself to act on what she was feeling?

"I want to go back to the roof," Max said, finding that it was absolutely true. "I miss it a lot. I didn't realize how much going up there helped me sleep."

"I get that. I've been sleeping like shit," Victoria replied.

"You just said you've been going every night, though," Max pointed out.

Victoria just shrugged, the gesture saying everything she couldn't put into words – that it wasn't the same, that the roof without Max was just a roof, that it had never been the roof that helped her sleep. And something about that, something about that tired little shrug, something about her defeated expression, it really frustrated Max. So with a surge of bravery, Max scooted closer to Victoria, and closer, and closer, until there was barely any distance between them, until their sides were pressed together, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder.

Victoria tensed immediately, seemed to stop breathing altogether, but she didn't move away. Taking this as permission enough, Max almost aggressively dropped her head on Victoria's shoulder, then fixed her gaze ahead at the now-spectacular sunrise, as if challenging Victoria to say something, to object.

Neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the sound of waves and the occasional cry of a seagull. Gradually, and painfully slowly, Victoria's body relaxed, the tension melting from her muscles. Then, with a gentleness that actually made Max's heart ache, Victoria tilted her own head to rest it atop Max's.

And there was no mistaking the relief and joy that flooded through Max's entire system at that. She found herself moving even closer, drawn to Victoria's warmth, and Victoria turned her face slightly in response, her nose brushing Max's hair, and Max just—

"I really missed you," she breathed against Victoria's shoulder, the words tumbling out before she could stop them, muffled against the expensive fabric of Victoria's jacket but unmistakable in their honesty.

Victoria went still for a heartbeat, as if processing the confession. Then she turned, her movements suddenly urgent and decisive, pulling Max fully into her arms and against her chest. Her hands splayed across Max's back, one between her shoulder blades and the other at the small of her back, fingers pressing into the fabric of Max's hoodie as if afraid she might slip away. Max reacted instantly, her body responding before her mind could catch up, turning into the embrace, her arms wrapping around Victoria's waist, hands clutching at her jacket. She buried her face in the crook of Victoria's neck, breathing in that intoxicating scent that was uniquely Victoria – expensive perfume, high-end hair products, and something else that Max could never quite identify but that had come to mean safety, comfort, home.

Victoria's hand moved to the back of Max's neck then, fingers threading through her hair, cradling her head with unexpected tenderness. Max could feel Victoria's heart racing against her own chest, could feel the slight tremor in her hands, could hear the catch in her breathing.

"I missed you too," Victoria whispered shakily, her fingers tightening slightly in Max's hair, her other hand pressing more firmly against Max's back. "Nothing felt right. I was so stupid to risk losing this."

Max couldn't find her voice to respond, a lump forming in her throat, so she simply moved closer, impossibly closer, as if trying to merge with her. She pressed her face harder against Victoria's neck, letting the warmth of her cheek against Victoria's skin say everything she couldn't articulate.

They stayed like that for what could have been minutes or hours, time seeming to suspend itself as they held each other, the sunrise fully blooming across the sky now, bathing them in golden light. The tide had begun to come in, waves reaching higher up the shore with each passing minute, but neither seemed willing to move, to break the spell they'd fallen under.

Finally, Victoria shifted slightly, her arms loosening just enough to create a small space between them. But she didn't let go, her hands remaining on Max's shoulders as she pulled back to look at her face. Her green eyes searched Max's, bright and clear in the morning light, a hint of uncertainty lingering in their depths.

"Can we," Victoria began, then paused, seeming to gather her courage. "Can we go back to how things were? Before I..." she swallowed, looking away briefly before meeting Max's eyes again. "Before I messed everything up?"

Max considered this, her own hands still resting lightly on Victoria's waist. "I don't know if we can go back exactly," she said honestly. "But maybe we can figure out something new? Something better?"

Victoria's expression softened, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. "Something better," she repeated, as if testing the words. "I'd like that."

"Me too," Max said, her own smile forming in response.

Victoria's gaze dropped briefly to Max's lips before returning to her eyes, a question in her expression that made Max's heart race. But instead of leaning in, Victoria gently tucked a strand of hair behind Max's ear, her touch feather-light.

"Starting with the roof... tonight, maybe?" she asked, her voice carrying a tentative hope that made Max's chest ache.

"Yeah," Max agreed. "Starting with the roof."

Victoria nodded, seemingly satisfied with this promise of normalcy, of routine restored. Her thumb traced a gentle line along Max's cheekbone before she reluctantly dropped her hand. They gradually separated, though they remained sitting close enough that their shoulders still touched, both turning to face the ocean fully.

Chapter Text

March 18, 2014

"What do you think about this one?" Max asked, hesitating for a moment, fingers lingering on the edge of the polaroid before finally passing it to Victoria.

This particular shot hadn't been planned – she'd captured it on impulse while walking back from the library that afternoon. The golden hour light had caught the main building's windows just right, transforming ordinary glass into sheets of molten gold, and some lone student had been silhouetted against the brightness, their identity erased by the contrast, transformed into something more symbolic than human. It was a cool picture, if Max said so herself, but it was undeniably basic too, and Max knew Victoria would most likely point that out.

Victoria accepted the photo with curious yet careful fingers, her touch deliberately avoiding Max's skin, just as she'd done with every single photo Max had shown her tonight. Max had noticed, of course. She'd been noticing all night how Victoria had kept her body a solid ten inches away from Max's own, had noticed how her fingers would dance around the edges of Max's hand, never quite making contact, purposefully maintaining that maddening sliver of space between them at all times. Max tried not to let her disappointment show, but it was getting harder and harder each time. Because with every single exchange of photographs, Max had genuinely held out hope that it would finally be the one where Victoria's fingers would brush against hers, even if by accident. But Victoria's precision was flawless, her control absolute.

And she didn't seem to care. She didn't seem to even notice. It was as if she really had no idea that this was affecting Max at all. So instead of doing literally any of the things Max wanted her to do, Victoria just focused on holding the polaroid at a precise angle, ensuring the rooftop's dim security lights didn't create a glare on the glossy surface. Max watched her as she studied the image, the way her eyes narrowed slightly in concentration, the subtle shift in her expression as she moved from casual observer to critical reviewer. And god, this entire situation would be much easier if Victoria wasn't so breathtakingly beautiful when she focused like that, the lights catching the angles of her face just right, casting dramatic shadows beneath her cheekbones, illuminating the perfect arch of her brows, and making her eyes look so unfairly and ridiculously perfect. Her lips were slightly pursed, and red, unnaturally red, because she was wearing lipstick, because she clearly wasn't planning to kiss Max, because apparently she didn't want—

"This one's really good," Victoria finally said, her voice soft but firm with conviction. "The way you caught the light makes the building look almost unreal. And the person's silhouette creates this perfect focal point that draws your eye but then lets you drift to explore the whole composition." She traced the outline of the figure with her index finger, careful not to actually touch the developing surface. "There's this tension between the geometric structure of the building and the organic shape of the human form. It's... evocative. Melancholic, even."

Despite herself, heat spread through Max's chest at Victoria's words, at the careful consideration she'd given to understanding what Max was trying to capture. She'd approached each of Max's photos just like this – never rushing her critique and never defaulting to generic praise. She treated her work with a seriousness that made Max feel simultaneously validated and embarrassingly desperate for more. It was incredible and infuriating all at once, how Victoria could be so perfectly attentive while maintaining this godforsaken physical distance between them.

"I wasn't sure about that one," Max said, hugging her knees to her chest, mostly to stop herself from reaching across and doing something dumb, like holding her hand. "It felt a little obvious. Like, light and shadow, figure in silhouette – kind of Photography 101, you know? Too unoriginal."

Victoria shook her head, still studying the image. "No, Max. There's something about the timing. You caught the exact moment when the light hits at that specific angle. I mean, look at the windows. That's not easy." She finally looked up, meeting Max's eyes. "Sometimes the obvious shot is obvious because it works. Because it speaks to something universal. But you elevated it. Because that's your photography."

And it wasn't fair, it truly wasn't, how Victoria's eyes seemed to glow even in this dim light, how the green of her irises somehow managed to catch even the faintest illumination from the security lights. It wasn't fair how her voice dropped to that intimate cadence that made Max feel like they were the only two people in the world. And it definitely wasn't fair how her words could wrap around Max's heart and squeeze the way they just did.

"Thanks," Max managed eventually. "I actually like how it turned out too."

Victoria handed the photo back, no skin-to-skin contact this time either, and Max placed it on the small pile beside her on the blanket, adding it to the collection of polaroids they'd already discussed.

"Do you have any more?" Victoria asked then, settling back against the wall behind them.

Max's heart jumped, partly because she did have more photos to show, which meant more praise from Victoria and more chances for their fingers to brush, and partly because Victoria settling back meant her sweater pulled taut across her chest in a way that momentarily short-circuited Max's brain. Too long after it could ever be considered appropriate, Max finally caught herself staring, and slowly dragged her gaze upward toward Victoria's face, only to find her looking at her expectantly, as if she somehow hadn't noticed where Max's eyes had been lingering. Or maybe she had and was just too polite to mention it. Either way, Max felt heat creeping up her neck.

"Uh— yeah, I got a couple more," Max said awkwardly, reaching for her bag again. "But we don't have to go through all of them tonight. We've been here since ten o'clock, and I know you have to wake up at four tomorrow."

"Five, not four," Victoria corrected automatically, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. "And I'm not tired. Besides, I really like seeing your photos. It's kind of fascinating to see what your weird brain decides is worth capturing."

"Right. Yeah. Okay. Just let me…" Max said, not at all interested in trying to persuade Victoria to go to bed, digging through her bag and pulling out another picture. "Here. This one's of the fountain." She handed it over, mindful not to react when Victoria's fingers once again rudely avoided hers with surgical precision.

Victoria examined the photo, and Max watched her quietly, her fingers twisting in the blanket beneath her, trying and failing not to think about how this was already their third night spent up here since that morning on the beach.

The first night back had been awkward – both of them overly polite, carefully selecting topics that wouldn't stray into dangerous territory, sitting with an almost comical amount of space between them. The second night, last night, had felt more normal, falling back into their old rhythm of conversation, though still with that invisible barrier firmly in place. Tonight had been great, almost perfect really – the conversation flowing easily, Victoria's enthusiasm when Max had mentioned she'd spent all afternoon taking photos absolutely adorable, her critiques thoughtful and insightful, their laughter coming more freely.

And now it wasn't just the rooftop meetings either. They'd been running together every morning too, Max getting a little better each day even if she still couldn't quite make it up the hill without taking several breaks, Victoria patiently slowing her pace to match Max's labored strides. They'd always arrive at the beach just in time to watch as the sky transformed into the most beautiful colors, Victoria's face peaceful, and gorgeous, and open, and real.

Victoria was literally the last person she saw at night and the first person she saw each morning. And on top of that, because apparently that wasn't enough, Victoria still acknowledged her in public – not just acknowledged, but actively sought her out, walking her to class, sitting near her in the library, catching her eye across the cafeteria with that small, private smile that made Max's insides melt every single time. They'd been spending so much time together the past three days. More than ever before. Hours upon hours upon hours. It was exactly what Max had been dreaming of for months. She should be ecstatic. And she was. She really was. But—

"I like how you caught the light reflecting off the water," Victoria said, breaking into Max's thoughts. "The way the droplets are suspended in the air..." Her eyes narrowed slightly as she tilted the photo. "It's a little crooked though, isn't it? See how the horizon line isn't quite level?" She pointed to the edge of the frame as she glanced up at Max with a raised eyebrow, a small, almost playful smile tugging at her lips.

And Max couldn't help but smile back, secretly thrilled that Victoria had noticed the slight imperfection, and also because Victoria was really pretty and was smiling at her, so how could she ever not smile back?

"I know it's a little crooked," Max responded. "I took it while walking."

Victoria scoffed at this new information, shaking her head in exaggerated disappointment. "Honestly, Caulfield, would it kill you to stand still for two seconds? I swear you must have some kind of physiological aversion to keeping the camera straight."

"You might be onto something. You think I should carry a tripod everywhere I go from now on?"

"Deliberate imperfection," Victoria said with that dramatic flair of hers instead of responding, her playful smile transforming into something warmer as she casually handed the photo back to Max. "It's all just part of your signature. It's what gives your photography character. Don't use tripods."

"So what you're saying is," Max replied as she placed the photo on the growing pile beside her, "my flaws are actually my strengths?"

"What I'm saying is," Victoria countered, "there's a reason why I have to get up at five while you can roll out of bed two minutes before class and somehow still look perfectly Max."

An amused yet unmistakably confused sound left Max's lips at that, her heart doing that stupid little flip it always did. "Perfectly Max?" she echoed. "Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?"

"You know what? Take it however you want, Caulfield."

But there was something in Victoria's gaze – something teasing but also warm, and steady, and almost tender, and it made Max's pulse quicken, and it made the butterflies in her stomach take flight, and it made her fingers twitch with the urge to fix that strand of blonde hair that had fallen across her forehead, and Max held eye contact for only a moment longer before dropping her gaze to the blanket, a small laugh escaping her lips as her hands automatically moved to pull yet another photograph from her bag, more to have something to do than because she actually wanted to show it.

The truth was – she'd been dragging out this evening on purpose, finding excuses to stay just a little longer, to prolong their time together in the hopes that something might shift, in the hopes that something might happen, in the hopes that Victoria might finally close this ridiculous distance between them. But with each photo review, each conversation topic, each hour that passed, the ache in Max's chest grew more pronounced, more insistent. A gnawing hunger that started somewhere behind her ribs and spread outward, making her hyperaware of every inch of her skin, like her body was one raw nerve ending, alive and electric with the need to be touched. She even found herself taking deeper breaths, as if inhaling Victoria's scent could somehow satisfy this overwhelming craving that Max had.

And sure, Max knew they'd fought. She knew she'd avoided Victoria for almost a week afterward. And she, of course, knew that when Victoria had finally apologized, they'd agreed to be friends. Or something like friends. Whatever that meant in the complex universe of Victoria Chase. Max was also painfully aware that three days ago at the beach, she'd suggested they tried something new, something better than before.

But when Max had said that, she had not meant this. She liked being acknowledged in public, she liked Victoria being more open about them knowing each other, she liked Victoria being excited about displaying their photos in Portland. That was something new and something better, and something like friends. Max loved it, she did, it was everything she'd hoped for when it came to the topic of public interaction with Victoria. Max was thoroughly satisfied with it. What she wasn't satisfied with was everything else. Because where the hell was everything else, exactly? Where was the touching? The kissing? The barely breathing and hair pulling and nails raking down her back in Victoria's room? All those moments that replayed in Max's mind on endless loop, that kept her awake at night, that made her skin burn with remembered sensation?

While some things were certainly moving forward, others were definitely going backward. That first day of their public friendship, their shoulders had brushed together sometimes as they walked the Blackwell hallways, and Victoria had done that thing where she'd grabbed Max's wrist to ask her about that poster. The following days had been similar – small moments of contact, Victoria's hand briefly touching Max's shoulder to get her attention, their fingers accidentally brushing when exchanging notes. And then at the beach, Victoria had hugged her. Actually held her, arms wrapped around her like she never wanted to let go.

But ever since that day, there had been nothing. Absolutely nothing. Despite spending more time together than ever before thanks to the morning runs, Victoria had somehow managed not to touch her at all. It was impressive. Or it would've been if it wasn't making Max go insane. She glanced at Victoria again only to find her completely oblivious to Max's turmoil, just meticulously examining the latest photo that had been handed to her – a close-up of a weathered bench near the Tobanga totem, its wooden slats bearing years of carved initials and faded graffiti. Max relaxed her jaw when she realized she'd been clenching it, and looked down at her own hands instead, her nails still painted that same light blue Victoria had chosen for her. They were definitely chipped now though, the polish flaking at the edges from weeks of wear. She wondered, almost petulantly, if she could make them worse, if she could pick at them until they looked truly terrible – if maybe then Victoria would suggest painting them again, if maybe then Victoria would cradle Max's fingers between her own like she had that night.

Max sighed quietly. There was a special kind of torment in knowing Victoria actually did want that aspect of their relationship back too. Max knew she did. She could tell. Victoria kept looking at her mouth whenever she thought Max wouldn't notice. Her eyes would widen slightly whenever Max leaned too close. Her breath would catch when their shoulders nearly brushed. The want was there, unmistakable. And it was, unfortunately, becoming increasingly clear what was actually happening here:

Victoria expected Max to make the first move.

And Max had been trying to deny this realization. Because it upended their silent agreement, the unspoken dynamic they'd established over months of spending time together. Max made the first move when it came to talking about feelings and opening up; Victoria made the first move physically. That's how it had always worked. Victoria had been the one to keep a point of contact between their bodies at all times, she'd been the one to constantly adjust Max's bangs when they'd been too long, she'd been the one to find any excuse to fix her scarf, she'd been the one to play with her hair and kiss her neck that first time, she'd been the one to push her up against the wall, her body expertly holding Max's against the rough surface until it started raining, she'd been the one to press her back against the blanket, to lie on top of her, to push her thigh between Max's legs, to run her lips and tongue over her neck with abandon. But now...

Now Victoria was waiting. Holding back. Giving her space. Giving her control. After everything that had happened, Victoria was letting Max set the pace, letting her decide when and if they moved beyond this friendship they'd reconstructed. It was considerate. And mature. Sweet, even. And it made Max want to cry. Literally. And not in a good way.

"I like the texture in this one," Victoria said then. "The way you captured all these little details in the wood. It's... almost like you can feel the roughness through the image." She tilted her head slightly. "It's impressive. Polaroid cameras aren't exactly known for their high definition. But still, somehow this photo is very tactile."

Tactile.

"Victoria, do you ever think about that day in your room?" The question escaped before Max could consider its implications, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.

Victoria went very still, her fingers tightening slightly on the edges of the photo. Several beats passed, Max's words hanging between them for a long moment. "What?" she finally said.

"That day in your room," Max repeated, her heart hammering hard against her ribs. "Before Taylor interrupted us. Do you ever think about it?"

Victoria blinked, then cleared her throat, then carefully set the photo down on the pile. "I... yes," she admitted, her tone almost cautious. "I think about it sometimes."

"Sometimes," Max echoed. Because she thought about it constantly, obsessively even. The way Victoria had looked above her, how she'd looked beneath her, how she'd felt, what she'd said, what she'd promised to do to Max. The memory of it haunted Max's dreams, followed her through her days like a shadow she couldn't shake.

Victoria's gaze remained fixed on the photos, her fingers now smoothing invisible wrinkles from the blanket. "Why do you ask?"

Max shifted her position, turning to face Victoria more directly. "I think about that day too. A lot, actually."

Victoria finally looked up, meeting Max's eyes with an expression that made Max's breath catch – caution warring with something else, something that made Max's stomach flip and her pulse quicken.

"Max—"

"I also think about the roof that one night," Max continued. "When you were on top of me. When your thigh was between my—"

"I remember," Victoria cut in, her voice suddenly tight, strained.

Max studied her face, noting the slight flush spreading across her cheeks, the way her breathing had quickened almost imperceptibly. And so with deliberate slowness, trying her hardest not to chicken out for once in her life, Max finally reached out, firmly placing her hand on Victoria's leg, just above her knee.

Victoria's eyes immediately dropped to Max's hand, her expression shifting subtly as she processed the contact. She seemed to hold her breath for a moment, the muscles in her jaw tensing visibly before her eyes lifted to meet Max's once more.

"You're really pretty," Max said, the words coming out a bit rushed, a bit awkward, but sincere nonetheless. "Like, ridiculously pretty. I don't think I tell you that enough."

Victoria's brows furrowed slightly, looking momentarily confused by the sudden shift. "Okay. Thank you?"

Max's confidence wavered slightly at Victoria's uncertain reaction, but she couldn't stop now, couldn't bear the thought of another night of this. If Victoria wanted her to make the first move, then Max would make the first move. Whatever. She wasn't scared. Except she definitely was. But she was more frustrated than scared at this point, so her hand moved higher up Victoria's leg, feeling the warmth of her through the denim, feeling the firm muscle beneath her palm.

"Your eyes are pretty too. The way they catch the light, they're like... I don't know, like some kind of fancy gemstone. Emeralds or something." She winced internally at how trite that sounded, but kept going. "And your hair. It's so perfect. Like, how do you get it to do that thing where it just..." she gestured vaguely with her free hand, "falls exactly right?"

"Good hair products." A small, bemused smile began to form on Victoria's lips. "Max, what are you doing?"

"Complimenting you," she replied, trying to sound casual despite the way her face burned and the way her heart was practically trying to escape through her throat. "Is that not allowed?"

"No, it's allowed. It's allowed," Victoria responded. "It's just that..." She trailed off then, her eyes flickering back down toward the hand that still remained on her thigh, clearly distracted by Max's thumb, which had just started moving in small circles over the fabric of her jeans.

"What about your body? Can I compliment that too?"

Victoria's eyebrows shot up, the small confused smile that had been adorning her face now transforming into something both surprised and amused. "My body?"

"Yeah," Max nodded, committing fully to whatever this disaster of an attempt at flirtation had become. "It's really... good. Like really, really good. The way you move is great. Uh, graceful. Especially when you run. You're in really good shape, you know? And your legs are just so..." Max made another vague gesture with her hand.

"My legs are just so what, Caulfield?"

"Long," Max finished, actually cringing slightly. "Amazing," she corrected quickly. "And perfect. The best legs I've ever seen, honestly. And I've seen a lot of legs, so I know what I'm talking about."

Victoria laughed then, the sound soft and genuine in the quiet night. "Maxine Caulfield, are you trying to flirt with me?"

Max felt her face burn hotter, but she met Victoria's gaze steadily, driven by something stronger than embarrassment now. "Maybe. Is it working?"

"It's..." Victoria seemed to search for the right word, biting her lower lip slightly, trying to hide a wider smile, "endearing."

"Endearing," Max repeated flatly. "That's not really what I was going for."

Victoria's expression softened, her hand finally, finally coming to rest on top of Max's where it still lay on her leg. The simple contact sent a jolt of electricity through Max's entire body, made her breath catch and her heart skip and got her stomach performing extremely complicated flips. "What were you going for then?" Victoria asked.

Max swallowed, suddenly very aware of how close they were sitting (had Victoria moved?), and very aware of the way Victoria was looking at her now – all traces of amusement gone, replaced by something far more intense, something that made the heat in Max's stomach coil tighter.

"I don't know," Max admitted quietly. "I just... really miss you."

Victoria's brow furrowed slightly. "I'm right here, Max," she said, her fingers tightening over Max's gently.

"No, I mean, I miss..." Max paused, struggling to articulate what she'd been feeling without sounding embarrassingly pathetic. "I miss how we were. Before. And I know I said I didn't know if we could go back to the way we were. And I meant that. But I kind of meant the bad stuff only, you know? Like…" Max shook her head, trying to find the words. "Don't get me wrong. You've been doing great. So great. I love the way things are now. I am so happy. But I... god, Victoria, I miss touching you. And I miss you touching me, and..." her voice dropped lower, "it's been twelve days since we last kissed."

"You've been counting?" Victoria asked, her voice dropping to match Max's.

"Haven't you?"

Victoria didn't answer, but her thumb began tracing slow patterns on the back of Max's hand, sending cascading waves of sensation up Max's arm and across her chest. "I wasn't sure if you... I mean, I thought you might need time."

"I don't need time," Max said quickly, the words coming out more forcefully than she'd intended. "I only needed you to apologize for being mean. And you did that. Almost a week ago. What I need now is for you to stop being afraid to touch me."

Victoria's expression shifted, something vulnerable flashing across her features before she composed herself again. "I'm not afraid to touch you, Max. I'm afraid of pushing too far. Of assuming things."

"You're not assuming anything," Max insisted, her voice catching slightly as Victoria's thumb continued its maddening patterns against her skin. "I'm telling you what I want."

"And what is that, exactly?"

"You," Max responded without hesitation. "I want you. I want you," she repeated, emphatically. "In any way you'll have me. But if it's in a slightly more physical way than the past twelve days, then I… well, I'd like that a lot."

Victoria's eyes searched Max's face as if looking for any sign of uncertainty, any reason to maintain the distance she'd been keeping. But whatever she saw in Max's expression must have satisfied her, because she reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind Max's ear, her fingertips lingering against the skin there, tracing the shell of her ear with feather-light pressure.

And even that small contact was almost too much after days of nothing. It made Max's skin tingle, made her lean into the touch without even meaning to, desperate for more.

"You're sure?" Victoria asked then.

Max nodded, unable to find her voice as Victoria's fingers continued their gentle exploration, now tracing the line of her jaw with a touch so light it was almost reverent. But Victoria didn't move any closer, didn't close the final distance between them. Instead, her hand came to rest on Max's cheek, her thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone in a gesture that was both familiar and frustratingly insufficient.

So insufficient that Max herself leaned forward without a second thought, heart pounding so hard it almost hurt, blood rushing in her ears as she began closing the distance between them. She paused then, their faces so close she could feel Victoria's breath against her lips, giving her one last chance to pull away. But Victoria didn't move, her hand still cradling Max's cheek with impossible gentleness. And then Max felt it – the slightest pressure from Victoria's fingers on her face, almost imperceptible, but still beckoning her forward with the gentlest persuasion. Victoria's eyes held hers, no longer guarded, no longer careful – they were open, vulnerable, pleading.

And Max couldn't take it anymore. She finally closed the remaining distance between them and pressed her lips to Victoria's. It was soft at first, tentative – just the barest press of lips, a question more than a demand. But when Victoria responded immediately, her hand sliding from her cheek to the back of Max's neck to pull her closer, Max's hesitancy instantly evaporated.

Max melted into the kiss, relief and desire flooding through her in equal measure. Victoria's lips were just as soft as she remembered, moving against hers with a perfect mix of gentleness and hunger that made Max's head spin. Twelve days of wanting, of wondering, of missing this exact sensation – and now it was happening again, and it was somehow even better than she'd remembered, even more perfect than the countless times she'd replayed it in her mind.

Victoria's fingers threaded through her hair, tilting Max's head to deepen the kiss, and Max made a small sound in the back of her throat that seemed to break something loose in Victoria, because suddenly there was nothing tentative about the way Victoria was kissing her – it was all heat and need and barely restrained hunger, her other hand leaving Max's own and finding her waist instead, pulling Max closer still.

Max's hands found Victoria's face, fingers sliding along her jawline as she kissed her harder, all of her pent-up longing pouring into the contact. She shifted closer, nearly climbing into Victoria's lap in her eagerness to eliminate any remaining space between them. Victoria made a soft sound against Max's mouth then, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and the vibration sent a shiver down Max's spine. Emboldened, she traced Victoria's lips with her tongue, seeking entrance, and Victoria responded immediately, parting her lips and deepening the kiss.

"You taste like lipstick," Max murmured against Victoria's mouth some moments later, not pulling away in the slightest.

Victoria broke the kiss just enough to respond, her breath warm against Max's lips. "Sorry," she said, though her tone suggested she wasn't particularly remorseful. "I didn't exactly plan for this."

Perhaps Max should've replied, but instead she immediately leaned in to capture Victoria's lips again. Victoria's hand tightened in Max's hair in response, pulling her closer as the kiss deepened once more. Max could feel Victoria's lipstick smearing between them, could taste the waxy flavor of it, could imagine how it must be spreading across Victoria's mouth, across her own mouth, and the thought made her press closer, made her kiss Victoria harder, made her fingers, which still rested on Victoria's jawline, start gripping rather than just tracing.

But then Victoria's lips began to curve upward against hers, making it increasingly difficult to maintain the kiss. Max tried to follow the movement, adjusting the angle of her head, but Victoria was definitely smiling now, her lips stretched too wide for proper kissing. And the feeling of Victoria smiling against her mouth was so unexpectedly perfect that Max couldn't help but smile in return, their teeth almost clicking together as the kiss dissolved into matching grins.

"What?" Victoria asked, pulling back just enough to look at Max's face, though her fingers remained tangled in her hair.

"What?" Max echoed. "You started it."

"Started what?"

"Smiling," Max said, her own smile growing wider. "You can't kiss and smile at the same time. That's not how mouths work."

Victoria let out a small laugh, the sound so genuinely delighted that it made Max's heart flip in her chest. "I wasn't smiling," she insisted unconvincingly.

"You absolutely were. And still are."

"Well... maybe," Victoria conceded, her eyes bright with amusement. "But only because you make this little sound when we kiss. It's cute."

"What? I do not make sounds," Max protested. "And even if I did, they wouldn't be cute."

Victoria raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "No? What would they be then?"

"I don't know. Alluring, maybe? Something more dignified than cute."

Victoria laughed again, the sound bubbling out of her like she couldn't contain it. "Oh, Max," she said, her thumb brushing across Max's cheekbone. "They're definitely cute."

Max tried to maintain her indignant expression, but Victoria's laughter was infectious, and she found herself giggling too. The tension that had been building between them transformed into something lighter, warmer, their bodies still pressed close but now vibrating with shared amusement rather than desperate need.

Victoria's eyes drifted to Max's mouth then, and she brought her thumb to Max's lower lip, gently wiping at what must have been a smear of red lipstick. "I've made a mess of you," she said, her voice soft.

Max felt her heart stutter at the gentle touch. "I don't mind," she replied honestly.

Victoria's eyes met hers, something light and fond in her gaze as she continued to carefully clean Max's lips with her thumb. "This shade of red isn't really your color," she said teasingly. "Maybe we should try something more subtle. Like the mauve from last time."

"I like the red," Max said. "It looks good on you."

Victoria's smile widened at that, her hands dropping from Max's face once she finished wiping away the lipstick there. Max didn't move, her own hands still framing Victoria's face, her eyes flickering to her mouth, which was thoroughly smudged red, the perfect outline of her lipstick now blurred and messy.

After a long moment of them just looking at each other, Victoria finally spoke again: "Aren't you going to help me?" she asked, her tone expectant, gesturing to her own mouth.

Max pretended to consider it, tilting her head slightly. "No," she decided with a small smile. "Not this time."

"Why not?"

"Because I want to keep kissing you," Max replied easily, her voice growing softer as she leaned closer. "It'll just get messy again. Seems... inefficient."

Something flickered in Victoria's eyes then – surprise and amusement and wanting all mixed together. "Mmm, okay," she murmured. "I suppose that's sound reasoning."

"That's me. Very logical."

"That's you," Victoria agreed, fingers sliding into Max's hair again, tightening slightly and pulling her forward as she closed the distance between them once more. "So practical," she whispered against Max's lips before kissing her again, softer this time, slower, but with an intensity that made Max's entire body burn.

Time slipped away unnoticed as they remained tangled together on the roof, the rest of the world fading into irrelevance. They eventually parted ways sometime after 2 AM, whispering "goodnight" in the hallway between their rooms with the knowledge it would only be a few hours before they'd meet again.

Chapter Text

March 23, 2014

Max sat perched on the edge of Victoria's bed, fingers curling into the impossibly soft comforter beneath her as she kept her eyes firmly, determinedly, almost painfully shut. The sound of hangers scraping against the metal rod inside Victoria's closet filled the otherwise quiet room, occasionally punctuated by a soft rustle of fabric or a thoughtful hum. Every so often, Victoria would mutter something under her breath – too low for Max to catch the exact words, but the tone of mild frustration was unmistakable.

This was the fifth outfit. The fifth. And Max had thought Victoria looked absolutely stunning in all four previous ensembles she'd tried on. But apparently none of them had been quite right, each dismissed with a critical shake of Victoria's head and a litany of specific complaints that Max couldn't fully comprehend but nodded along to anyway.

"The silhouette is all wrong," Victoria had said about the first outfit, a sleek black pantsuit that had made Max's mouth go dry. "The color washes me out," she'd declared about the second, a sophisticated navy blue dress that had made Max's heart skip several beats. "Too casual," for the third, tailored gray slacks paired with a cream silk blouse that had looked anything but casual to Max's untrained eye. "Too formal," for the fourth, an elegant emerald green dress that had matched Victoria's eyes and made Max temporarily forget how to form coherent sentences.

Each time Victoria had given those telltale signals that clothes were about to come off – fingers drifting to buttons or zippers, Max had dutifully closed her eyes. Not because Victoria had asked her to, but because it seemed like the polite thing to do. The respectful thing to do. The thing that might prevent her brain from short-circuiting completely at the sight of Victoria Chase in various states of undress.

But even with her eyes closed, Max's imagination was working overtime. The sounds of fabric sliding against skin, the soft clicks of hangers being moved, the quiet zip of a zipper being pulled down – each innocent noise painted vivid pictures in Max's mind. Pictures of smooth pale skin and elegant curves and—

"You can look now. I'm decent."

Max's eyes flew open at Victoria's voice, relief and anticipation mingling in her chest. But the relief immediately evaporated, replaced by something that felt dangerously close to cardiac arrest.

Victoria stood before her in a red dress.

Not just any red dress – a red dress. The kind that seemed designed with the sole purpose of making people forget how to breathe. It hugged Victoria's body in a way that could only be described as reverent, the rich crimson fabric clinging to every perfect curve before flowing gracefully to just above her knees. The neckline dipped low enough to be captivating but not so low as to be inappropriate, offering a tantalizing glimpse of collarbones that shouldn't be so fascinating but absolutely were. Thin straps revealed the elegant lines of Victoria's shoulders, drawing attention to the perfect posture she maintained even when simply standing still.

Max tried to speak, but her voice seemed to have abandoned her entirely. She could only stare, wide-eyed and motionless, as Victoria watched her with an expectant expression that gradually transformed into something slightly more self-satisfied.

"Well?" Victoria prompted, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arching upward.

Max finally managed to find her voice, though it came out embarrassingly strained. "Wow, yeah, it's... wow."

"Wow isn't exactly a comprehensive critique," Victoria replied, but the corners of her lips were twitching upward, betraying her amusement at Max's obvious speechlessness.

"You look incredible," Max elaborated, her fingers clenching harder into the comforter beneath her, needing something to hold onto as she fought the overwhelming urge to cross the room and touch Victoria. "That dress is just... perfect."

Victoria's lips curved into a small, knowing smile then – it was this particular smile that was making the butterflies in Max's stomach perform complicated aerial maneuvers. It was this smile that said Victoria knew exactly what effect she was having, and she was enjoying every second of it, every second of Max's obvious struggle to maintain composure.

"Let me do a full turn," Victoria said, her voice carrying a hint of something almost playful. "So you can see the whole effect."

Before Max could prepare herself, Victoria was turning slowly, deliberately, giving Max an unobstructed view of how the dress hugged her curves from every angle. The back was just as devastating as the front – perhaps even more so, with a lower cut that revealed a tantalizing expanse of skin. Max's eyes traveled downward of their own accord, lingering for perhaps a beat too long on the perfect curve where Victoria's back met her backside, the fabric clinging to its shape in a way that made Max wonder if the dress had been designed specifically to highlight that particular feature.

"So you think this would work for the exhibition?" Victoria asked, completing her turn and facing Max once more.

Max nodded enthusiastically, quickly moving her eyes up from where they'd obviously been fixed, still trying to gather her scattered thoughts. "It's really, really good. You look amazing in it."

Victoria's smile widened, but it took on an almost teasing quality that made Max suddenly uncertain. "Clearly my fashion lessons haven't had much impact," she said, amusement coloring her tone.

Max's hands released their grip on the comforter, moving to smooth nervously over the denim covering her thighs. She let out an awkward laugh, her fingers fidgeting against the rough fabric. "Why? What's wrong with this one?" she asked.

"Max, this isn't a dress for a gallery opening," Victoria explained, gesturing down at the red fabric. "At least not one where I'm presenting as a photographer rather than attending as a guest. It's far too... attention-grabbing."

Max blinked as she processed Victoria's words. Silence stretched between them for some moments, and then: "Oh," she said lamely, her brow furrowing slightly. "But why did you even try it on then?"

Victoria shrugged nonchalantly. "I wanted to see your reaction."

Heat immediately bloomed across Max's cheeks, spreading down her neck and across her chest. "My… reaction?"

"Mm-hmm," Victoria hummed, taking a small step closer to where Max remained perched on the edge of her bed. "It was very informative."

Max swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. She watched as Victoria shifted her weight slightly, an intentional movement that somehow made the dress look even more exquisite against her skin.

"You don't have to close your eyes when I change, you know? I never asked you do that," Victoria said then, her tone casual despite the bombshell implication that she was okay with Max watching her undress.

"Uh— I've just... I've just been trying to be polite. Give you privacy," Max managed, her voice emerging higher than she'd intended.

"None of my friends look away when I change," Victoria countered, reaching up to adjust one of the thin straps of her dress, fingers lingering on her own shoulder in a way that seemed purposefully designed to draw Max's attention. "Taylor and Courtney are always in here when I'm getting dressed. It's not something that's ever bothered me."

Max felt something twist in her stomach at the comparison – a flicker of insecurity quickly followed by a surge of something bolder. "Victoria, I'm really attracted to you," she blurted out, the words escaping before she could second-guess them. "You do know that, right?"

Victoria's eyes widened slightly, her composed expression faltering for just a moment. She recovered quickly, but not before Max caught that flash of genuine surprise in her eyes. "Yes," she said, her voice steady despite the slight flush now coloring her cheeks. "I've noticed."

"Which means," Max continued, her heart pounding so hard she was certain Victoria must be able to hear it, "that looking at you changing... I wouldn't feel the same way Taylor or Courtney feel."

Victoria went quiet as she considered Max's words, the tension between them thickening, electric and heavy. Max waited, barely breathing, as Victoria's face transitioned from slightly surprised to almost exasperated, this look of fond impatience crossing her features as if Max had stated something stupid and painfully obvious.

"Yeah, I know, Max. I know you'd feel differently," Victoria finally said. "That was the point of asking you and not them."

Max felt her pulse quicken even further at that. "What do you mean?"

Victoria looked at her then – really looked at her – her green eyes unusually open, vulnerable in a way they rarely were, clearly trying to communicate something to Max that she wasn't quite getting. "I'm really attracted to you," she said, echoing Max's words. "You do know that, right?"

Max's hands pressed down firmly on her knees, fingers digging into the denim to anchor herself against the unexpected rush of emotions in her chest, her throat suddenly tight as Victoria continued to hold her gaze. Before Max could even think of what to respond, Victoria turned back toward her closet, movements slightly less certain than before, as if she'd revealed more than she'd initially planned to. She started moving hangers around, quickly and almost absentmindedly assembling outfits on the rack. But then her fingers paused, hovering over the fabrics, hesitating.

"Can you help me with the zipper?" she asked suddenly, gesturing over her shoulder at her back.

Max didn't move immediately, her brain taking an extra second to process the request. The zipper in question was perfectly positioned for Victoria to reach herself – they both knew this. And Victoria knew that Max knew this.

"Sure," Max replied anyway, pushing herself up from the bed on slightly unsteady legs.

She crossed the small distance between them, hyperaware of each step, of the soft carpet beneath her feet, of Victoria's perfume growing stronger as she approached. Victoria remained perfectly still, her back to Max, waiting. With fingers that trembled only slightly, Max reached for the small zipper pull at the top of the dress, just below Victoria's neck.

Max inhaled shakily, Victoria's skin warm beneath her knuckles as she slowly, carefully began drawing the zipper downward. Each inch revealed more smooth skin, the elegant line of Victoria's spine gradually coming into view. The black strap of her bra appeared, stark against her pale skin, and Max's breath caught involuntarily at the sight. But she managed to continue, drawing the zipper lower and all the way down to where it ended.

"Thank you," Victoria said softly.

Then, without further preamble, she shrugged her shoulders and the red dress slid down her body with a whisper-soft sound, pooling like liquid fire around her ankles. She stepped forward, gracefully extracting herself from the circle of fabric, now clad in nothing but matching black underwear.

Max forgot how to breathe entirely.

Victoria seemed to focus on her closet, reaching for the next outfit as if this were the most normal thing in the world – as if she weren't standing there in just her underwear, as if Max weren't mere feet away trying desperately to remember how lungs worked. The black fabric contrasted starkly with her pale skin, her body pretty much on full display as she sorted through her clothing options.

Max took several steps backward until her legs hit the edge of the bed, and she sat down heavily, unable to tear her eyes away. Victoria was perfect, absolutely perfect, Max had always known this, but actually seeing it was an entirely different thing – she was all long, lean lines and subtle curves, somehow even more breathtaking than anything Max could've imagined. Short blonde hair fell perfectly at the nape of her neck, shoulder blades moving beneath her skin as she reached for a hanger. Delicate vertebrae disappeared beneath the black strap of her bra, the graceful arch of her back leading down to the curve of her backside, perfectly encased in matching black underwear. The fabric hugged each curve with incredible precision, clearly expensive and definitely chosen for aesthetics rather than functionality. Max had never understood the obsession with asses, had always rolled her eyes at guys in the hallways whose gazes followed that particular feature, but she suddenly understood it now. Well, she'd been getting it for some time now, the way her eyes would linger whenever Victoria walked ahead of her hadn't gone unnoticed, but now... god, it was perfect. Max's hands clenched involuntarily against the bedspread again, her fingers digging into the soft material as she forced herself to remain seated, to not reach out toward what she was seeing.

Max forced her gaze away then, fixing it firmly on the carpet between her feet as heat flooded her face. This was torture – exquisite, voluntary torture. She could leave. She could close her eyes again. She could do anything except sit there and stare. But she didn't want to do any of those things. She wanted to keep looking, in fact. She wanted to memorize every inch of Victoria's body.

But when Max finally gathered the courage to look up again, Victoria was sliding a sleek black skirt over her hips, and she watched as each inch of perfect skin slowly disappeared beneath the expensive fabric. Victoria then followed immediately by shrugging on a crisp white blouse, the fabric settling over her shoulders and back, instantly concealing the line of her spine and the black bra that had stretched across her shoulder blades.

Victoria turned to face her then, and Max clenched her jaw, forcing herself to actually pay attention to the clothes themselves, to the way the material draped perfectly, to the craftsmanship of the seams – anything to regulate her uneven breathing. And as soon as Max actually managed to look at the outfit, she knew that this was the one, this was what Victoria had been searching for.

Max cleared her throat. "This one's really good," she said, trying to inject as much normalcy into her voice as she could.

"Mm, you think so?" Victoria asked, her gaze lingering on Max's face for a moment, studying her expression before turning to look at herself in the mirror again, adjusting the outfit slightly as she evaluated her reflection.

"Yeah," Max responded. "Professional but still, you know, you. And it's really elegant without being... distracting."

"Unlike the red dress," Victoria added, her tone carrying a teasing edge again.

"Right. Unlike the red dress," Max confirmed.

Max's eyes found the aforementioned red dress still pooled on the floor, that vibrant puddle of crimson against the pristine carpet of Victoria's room. The sight of it just lying there, discarded so casually after Victoria had modeled it just to gauge her reaction… Max was still trying to process what had just happened, what was still happening, when the distinct sound of a zipper being pulled down sent a jolt through her entire body.

Without thinking, Max whipped her head away, angling her body toward the headboard of Victoria's bed, suddenly finding Victoria's pillow the most fascinating object in the universe. She fixed her gaze on the crisp white pillowcase, listening as fabric rustled, as something – the skirt, she presumed – dropped to the floor with a soft whisper. Max drew in a careful breath, then another, and then another, trying to steady the rapid beating of her heart.

Her hand moved of its own accord then, sliding across the perfectly made bedspread until her fingers brushed against Victoria's pillow. She needed something, anything, to ground herself, to distract from the awareness that Victoria was behind her, possibly wearing very little, possibly wearing nothing except that perfect lingerie, because that's what that was, wasn't it? Lingerie. Max's fingers were almost desperately curling into the soft material of the pillow when she suddenly remembered the last time she'd been here. She remembered how she'd found her old hoodie tucked beneath this very pillow, how Victoria had reacted with such surprising possessiveness when Max had grabbed it.

But there was no hoodie now. Not the well-worn gray one she'd given Victoria that morning at the beach, and not the blue one she'd left here that day when Taylor had interrupted them. The absence struck her as surprisingly significant, and before she could stop herself, the question tumbled from her lips.

"Where are my hoodies?"

The rustling behind her paused. "What?" Victoria's voice sounded genuinely perplexed.

"My hoodies," Max repeated, keeping her eyes fixed on the pillow, her fingers tracing nervous patterns on it. "You know, last time one of them was under here," she gestured vaguely at the pillow, "and the other one... the last time I saw it, you kicked it under your bed or something."

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft sound of more fabric moving, shifting. Max clenched her jaw, fighting the overwhelming urge to turn around. The quiet that followed her question lasted so long that Max began to wonder if she'd somehow crossed a line, if she'd stumbled onto something Victoria wasn't ready to discuss.

"I washed them," Victoria finally said, her voice carrying a strange mix of defensiveness and hesitation that Max had rarely heard from her. "They're in my dresser."

"Oh." Max nodded, still facing away. "Okay."

More silence followed, more sounds of movement, and then Victoria spoke again, her voice slightly closer now. "I was thinking you could have them back."

That made Max frown, a small twist of something uncomfortable forming in her stomach. "What? Why?" The question left her lips before she could fully process the implications, and in her confusion, Max turned her head, only to immediately freeze at the sight before her.

Victoria stood just a few feet away, having apparently decided against trying on more outfits for the exhibition. She'd put on a pair of faded designer jeans that hugged her hips perfectly, but she hadn't yet put on a shirt. Instead, she stood there, arms crossed loosely beneath her chest, wearing nothing but those jeans and the black bra Max had glimpsed earlier.

Max's breath caught painfully in her throat. Victoria's breasts were perfectly framed by the delicate black lace, the material both revealing and concealing in a maddening dance of shadow and skin. They were smaller than Max might have guessed, but still proportional to her slender frame and unquestionably, positively perfect. The skin above the cups was pale and smooth, and Max could just barely make out the faint blue trace of veins beneath the skin, the gentle curve of her cleavage accentuated by the precise cut of the expensive lingerie.

Similarly to the ass thing – Max had never quite understood the fascination with breasts, the way men would lose their train of thought mid-sentence when a low-cut top walked by. But now, staring at the curves of Victoria's chest, at the way the black fabric contrasted against her fair skin, at how the slight rise and fall of her breathing created subtle movements that Max couldn't look away from... suddenly, she understood completely. Her fingers itched to reach out, to trace along that edge where lace met skin, to discover if the skin there was as soft as it looked. Her lips were practically tingling with the desire to feel her skin, wondering if Victoria would let her undo the clasp that rested between her shoulder blades, if she'd let Max's lips move lower, if she'd let Max—

"You only gave me the gray hoodie. The other one you forgot. And I think you should have it back. Well, both of them," Victoria said, suspiciously not making any teasing comments about Max's obvious staring. Instead, her fingers moved to adjust one of her bra straps, a gesture that seemed both absent-minded and intentional at once. "But I was thinking maybe you could give me the gray one back?" Her voice took on an unusual quality then, almost hesitant. "After you've, um, worn it?"

Max blinked several times, her eyes finally dragging themselves away from Victoria's chest to meet her gaze. Victoria's cheeks were flushed, but she held Max's gaze steadily, almost defiantly, as if challenging her to question the request.

"You... want me to wear it?" Max asked slowly, trying to make sense of what Victoria was asking.

Victoria's jaw tightened slightly, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "Yes," she said, her voice steadier now, though her fingers had moved to fidget with the button of her jeans. "And then give it back to me."

Max felt her own face warming as understanding slowly dawned. "So it'll smell like me," she said, not a question but a realization.

Victoria's flush deepened, but she didn't look away. "Is that weird?" she asked, the question carrying a note of genuine concern beneath its defensive tone.

"No, no," Max answered immediately. "I don't think it's weird."

A flicker of relief passed over Victoria's features then, quickly concealed beneath her more familiar expression of controlled composure. But something vulnerable remained in her eyes, something that made Max's heart ache.

"I thought about giving them back," Victoria admitted, reaching up to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Multiple times, actually. But I..." she trailed off, seeming to search for the right words. "I liked having them. It made me feel like you were, uh... You know, it was just—" She stopped herself, letting out a small, frustrated sound. "God, this is embarrassing."

"It's not," Max insisted, rising from the bed without thinking, moving toward Victoria as if pulled by some invisible force. "It's really not embarrassing."

Victoria watched her approach, arms still crossed beneath her chest, but her posture had softened slightly. "I wore them to bed," she confessed quietly. "Pretty much every night. But especially that week after our fight." Her voice grew softer. "It helped me sleep."

The admission hit Max with unexpected force, a wave of tenderness washing over her that was so intense it almost hurt. She stopped just a foot away from Victoria, close enough to see the vulnerability she was trying so hard to mask with her usual defiance.

"Victoria," Max breathed, her own voice unsteady.

"It's stupid," Victoria said quickly, breaking eye contact to look at some point over Max's shoulder. "I know it's stupid. And clingy. And probably creepy. You can just have them back."

"No," Max said firmly, her hand reaching out to touch Victoria's arm, fingers gently wrapping around her wrist. "It's not any of those things. It's..." She searched for the right word, something that would encapsulate the warmth spreading through her chest, the ache behind her ribs. "It's sweet. Really sweet."

Victoria's eyes snapped back to hers, narrowing slightly as if checking for any sign of mockery. When she found none, her expression softened, but still, she let out a soft scoff. "It's humiliating."

"No, it isn't," Max insisted, her thumb brushing lightly against the inside of Victoria's wrist, feeling the rapid pulse beneath the skin. "And you can have them back. Both of them. After I've worn them. And then you can keep them for as long as you want."

Victoria visibly tried to fight it for a long time then, but a small, uncertain smile tugged at the corners of her mouth anyway. "Yeah, well, I guess that's just…" Victoria started, clearly intending to mock Max, or herself, or something else entirely, but then she stopped herself. "Thank you," she said, "I know it's silly, but…"

"I've lost count of how many times I've slept in your sweater because it smells like you," Max admitted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "So, I get it. Trust me, I get it. It's the only reason I haven't returned it yet."

Victoria's eyes widened, surprise flashing across her features before her expression shifted to something warmer, more pleased. But then suddenly, her brows furrowed. "Caulfield, you cannot sleep in cashmere," she said, her voice taking on that familiar exasperated tone. "Do you have any idea how expensive that sweater is?"

Max just shrugged sheepishly, a small smile playing at her lips. Victoria sighed dramatically in response, though there wasn't really any edge to it. And then they just stood there, looking at each other, Max's fingers still wrapped gently around her wrist. She became, once again, acutely aware of Victoria's state of undress, and her eyes drifted down involuntarily, taking in the elegant line of Victoria's neck, the perfect curve of her shoulders, the gentle swell of her breasts above the black fabric.

"My eyes are up here, Caulfield," she said, but her tone was teasing, not reproving, and when Max's gaze snapped back up to meet hers, she found Victoria looking at her with an expression that made her breath catch.

"Sorry," Max mumbled.

"I'm not," she responded.

And then Victoria's hand moved – the one not captured at the wrist by Max's fingers. It lifted with a certain hesitation that quickly transformed into calculated purpose as she reached for Max's face. Her touch was impossibly gentle as she brushed Max's bangs aside, the gesture achingly familiar. But unlike all those times before, her fingers didn't retreat afterward. Instead, they traced a slow, deliberate path down Max's cheek, lingering at the corner of her jaw before continuing their journey along the curve of her neck.

Max remained perfectly still, afraid that even breathing might somehow break whatever spell had fallen over them. Victoria's fingertips came to rest at the edge of Max's collar, just barely touching the fabric of her worn t-shirt.

"The exhibition is next week," Victoria said. "Have you thought about what you're wearing?"

The question seemed absurdly mundane given the situation, but Max responded anyway. "Not really," she said, her voice way too breathy. "I figured I'd just wear some nice pants and a button-up shirt."

Victoria's lips curved into the faintest smile. "I could help you choose something. If you want." Her finger began to move again, tracing a line down the center of Max's chest with agonizing slowness. "It matters more than you think. First impressions with gallery owners, with critics."

Max nodded, though she couldn't have repeated a single word Victoria had just said. Her entire world had narrowed to that single point of contact – that fingertip now drifting over her sternum, between her breasts, down her abdomen. Each inch it traveled left a trail of heat in its wake, like a match dragged across her skin.

"I know," Max breathed, the words automatic, disconnected from any coherent thought.

Victoria's eyes never left hers, watching Max's reactions with an intensity that made her face burn. When Victoria's finger reached the hem of her t-shirt, it paused, hovering at the boundary between fabric and skin. But then her hand confidently slipped beneath the cotton, her palm warm and sure as it pressed against Max's stomach. The touch was electric, sending currents of sensation through Max's body. She felt herself swaying toward Victoria, closing the small distance between them like a plant leaning toward sunlight, instinctive and inevitable, and—

Three sharp knocks shattered the moment.

Victoria exhaled slowly, her eyes closing as frustration washed over her features. The hand against Max's stomach tensed but didn't withdraw.

"V?" Taylor's voice called through the door. "We brought the notes you asked for. And coffee from that place on Oak Street."

"You'll never believe who we ran into!" came Courtney's eager addition.

Victoria opened her eyes, meeting Max's again, something apologetic in her gaze. But then her expression shifted, a flash of determination crossing her face. Her hand slid around to Max's lower back, pulling her closer with sudden urgency.

"One second," she called toward the door, her voice impressively composed.

Before Max could process what was happening, Victoria leaned in and kissed her. Max's fingers immediately released Victoria's wrist, both hands rising to Victoria's face instead, pulling her closer with an urgency that surprised them both. Victoria responded instantly, her own hands sliding fully beneath Max's shirt, palms pressing against her bare skin, fingertips digging into her lower back as she eliminated any remaining space between their bodies. The kiss deepened, Victoria's lips parting against Max's with a hunger that made Max's head spin. They separated just long enough to draw ragged breaths, and then Victoria tilted her head, adjusting the angle before capturing Max's lips again, their bodies completely pressed together, Victoria's still-exposed skin burning against Max through the thin fabric of her t-shirt.

They didn't usually kiss standing up like this. Max wasn't quite used to Victoria's height advantage in this position, but there was something about the way Victoria had to bend slightly, the way Max had to tilt her head back, that sent the butterflies in her stomach into an absolute frenzy. Victoria's fingers splayed across her bare back, one hand drifting higher, tracing the bumps of her spine, the other gripping her hip with possessive intensity. Max made a pleased sound into Victoria's mouth, a soft, low hum that vibrated between them as her hands slid from Victoria's face into her short hair, fingers threading through the silky strands before tightening slightly, the way she now knew Victoria liked. And liked it she did – a small groan escaped Victoria's throat at the gentle tug, the sound sending a shiver down Max's spine.

Victoria walked them backward then, her lips never leaving Max's, letting herself be guided across the room until the backs of her legs hit the edge of Victoria's bed. Just as another series of impatient knocks echoed from the door, Victoria gently but firmly pushed Max down onto the mattress, breaking their kiss as Max sank onto the edge of the bed.

Max looked up at Victoria, feeling thoroughly disoriented, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps, her lips tingling with sensation. Victoria stood above her, still half-dressed, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, her pale skin now painted with a rosy blush. For a moment, Victoria just stared down at her, looking torn between finishing what she'd started and answering the increasingly persistent knocking.

Victoria seemed to make a decision because she stepped back, looking slightly dazed despite being the one who initiated the kiss. She moved to her closet with practiced efficiency, selecting a dark blue blouse and slipping it on.

"They always do this," she said quietly to Max as she buttoned it, her back to the door. "I tell them I'm busy and they show up."

"V!" Courtney called. "Come on! This is way more than one second."

Max took several deep breaths, watching as Victoria moved to her vanity mirror, quickly assessing the damage Max's eager hands had done to her hair. She ran her fingers through the short blonde strands, rearranging them with practiced precision until almost no evidence remained of Max's grip just moments before.

A wave of anxiety began to rise in Max's chest as she took in the state of the room – clothes scattered across the floor, that vibrant red dress still pooled by the closet, and she could feel the heat radiating from her own face, knew her lips must be visibly swollen. The last time they'd been interrupted like this, Victoria had kicked her out almost immediately, Taylor insulting her before she'd even left the room, making some comment about her being a weirdo while Victoria had just stood there, silent and distant. And then the next day Kate had told Max she knew about them meeting every night, and then when Max had told Victoria about Kate knowing, Victoria hadn't taken it well, and she'd been really cruel, and then she'd turned around and left Max crying on the roof alone, and then they hadn't talked for a week, and that had been Victoria's reaction to Kate knowing they were friends. Max's heart began racing for an entirely different reason now, because what would Victoria's reaction be, what would she do, if Taylor and Courtney, arguably the most judgemental people in the whole school, knew or even suspected that there was something else going on between—

Victoria turned from the mirror, her eyes meeting Max's with unexpected intensity. "Stay," she commanded, her voice quiet but firm, and then strode across the room and pulled open the door.

"Finally," Taylor said, pushing past Victoria with Courtney right behind her, the two of them carrying notebooks and cups of coffee.

They both stopped abruptly at the sight of Max perched awkwardly on the edge of Victoria's bed. Surprise registered on their faces, quickly followed by distinct reactions – Courtney's features pinching with clear annoyance while Taylor's expression hardened into something closer to concern or suspicion.

"I don't recall inviting you in," Victoria said coolly, closing the door behind them despite her words.

Taylor placed a stack of notes on Victoria's desk, her eyes never leaving Max. "Didn't realize you had company," she said, the statement technically neutral though her tone suggested otherwise. "Max, hey," she offered, the greeting stiff and obviously forced.

"Hi," Max replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

Courtney didn't bother with a greeting, her attention already drawn to the clothing scattered across the floor, eyes lingering on the red dress with obvious recognition.

Victoria moved to stand between her friends and Max. "I was trying on outfits for Mr. Carson's exhibition," she explained, her tone casual but calculated.

Courtney's brows furrowed, her eyes still on the red dress. "But isn't that your Valentino? Don't think that's appropriate for a college gallery opening."

"That's exactly why it's on the floor," Victoria replied smoothly. "It didn't work."

Taylor reluctantly tore her gaze from Max to look at Victoria. "You could've asked us for help. We always help you pick outfits for important events."

"It wasn't necessary. Max helped me this time," Victoria said simply, as if that explained everything.

Courtney let out a sharp laugh at that, her eyes moving to Max with unmistakable disdain. She gestured toward Max's well-worn jeans and simple t-shirt with an exaggerated sweep of her hand. "She helped you?" The disbelief in her voice was cutting. "Seriously?"

Max felt her face burn hotter, a knot forming in her stomach as she registered the contempt radiating from both girls. Everything in her body was screaming at her to leave, to escape this suddenly hostile environment. For a brief, desperate moment, she even considered breaking her solemn promise to herself never to use her powers again – just one small rewind to before they arrived, enough time to slip out of Victoria's room unnoticed.

"Yes, Courtney. She helped me," Victoria replied, her voice carrying that dangerous edge Max recognized from months of hallway encounters before they'd become whatever they were now.

"Maybe I should go," Max murmured then, rising from the bed on unsteady legs.

Victoria moved with surprising quickness, crossing the space between them in two elegant strides. Her hand came to rest on Max's shoulder – not forceful, but unmistakably firm, her touch warm through the thin cotton of Max's shirt.

"You don't have to go," she said, her voice softer than Max expected, her eyes searching Max's face.

Max hesitated for a moment, then slowly sank back down onto the edge of the bed, the action feeling strangely like surrender. Victoria's hand lingered on her shoulder for a moment longer before stepping away.

Taylor watched this exchange with raised eyebrows, a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh escaping her lips. She was looking at Victoria like she'd completely lost her mind. "Okay, so are we going to talk about this?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

Victoria turned to face her. "About what?"

"About what everyone is talking about," Taylor responded, leaning back against Victoria's desk. "About the fact that you hated her for months and now suddenly she's with you all the time? Everyone's noticed, V. Everyone's asking questions."

Victoria's expression remained calm, though Max could see the tension gathering in her shoulders. "Carson assigned us to work together. We got along. We both really love photography. That's it." She shrugged, as if it were the most natural development in the world. "It's not my fault Daniel was a shitty partner, T. I'm sorry you two got a B, but don't take it out on me."

Taylor scoffed, clearly offended by Victoria's deflection, but Courtney just snorted, her eyes moving dismissively over Max again. "Maybe she likes photography, but she certainly doesn't like clothes. Why would she help you with that?"

"The exhibition is for our project," Victoria explained with forced patience. "Our photos. We have to go together, present as a unified team. It makes sense to coordinate."

"You gave her a four-thousand-dollar Chanel sweater," Taylor jumped in. “You wore it for literally two hours before handing it over to her like it was nothing. Right there in the courtyard. Right in front of me."

Victoria's posture stiffened, irritation flashing across her features. "We already talked about that, Taylor. I explained it to you."

"Yeah, and it made no fucking sense then either," Taylor shot back. "None of this makes sense."

Courtney stepped closer to the bed, her gaze fixed directly on Max with unexpected intensity. "What do you have on her, huh?" she demanded, her voice low and accusatory. "What do you even want? Money?"

Max recoiled slightly, genuinely shocked by the question. This open hostility felt different than the casual cruelty she'd experienced in Blackwell's hallways – this wasn't just random bullying or social hierarchy enforcement. This was personal. The realization made the knot in Max's stomach tighten further.

"I don't—" Max began, but Victoria was suddenly there, physically inserting herself between Max and Courtney.

"Fuck off," Victoria said, the words sharp and cold, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "Seriously, Courtney. Fuck off. Not another word."

The room went silent, the tension thick enough to suffocate. Taylor's eyes widened slightly, genuine surprise replacing her skepticism. Courtney took a step back, looking as if Victoria had physically struck her.

"I explicitly told you two this morning that I would be busy today. Yet here you are," Victoria continued, her voice low and controlled but edged with anger. "I let you in because I didn't want to be rude, but if all you're going to do is stand here and insult my friend, then I'd rather you both just get the fuck out of my room now."

"Okay." Max stood up. "I really should go."

Victoria turned toward her immediately, frustration flashing across her features. "Sit, Max," she commanded, her tone definitely gentler than the one she'd used with her friends, but still leaving no room for argument.

Max instantly sank back onto the edge of the bed, losing count of how many times she'd stood and sat in the last hour. She felt like a puppet caught in some complicated performance, unsure of her role but unable to exit the stage.

"Oh, alright. So she's your friend now then," Taylor said.

"Yes, Taylor. She is my friend."

Taylor exchanged a quick glance with Courtney, the latter letting out a sound of disbelief as Taylor turned back to Victoria. "Two weeks ago, you barely knew her. One week ago, she could suddenly be useful for your future because she's a good photographer. And now you're… friends?" Taylor's eyes drifted to Max briefly before returning to Victoria. "What happens next week, V? Is she gonna be your best friend? Is she gonna join the Vortex Club?"

"It's honestly none of your business," Victoria snapped, her patience clearly evaporating.

Courtney stepped forward again, her expression softening into something that looked surprisingly genuine. "We're worried about you, V," she said. "You've been acting so... different lately."

"Not just lately," Taylor interjected. "For months now."

Courtney nodded, glancing at Max with a mixture of suspicion and what almost seemed like pity. "It's not about her specifically. It's just... weird. You haven't been yourself."

"Yeah," Taylor continued, her voice taking on a gentler tone that somehow made everything worse. "We think whatever this is," she gestured vaguely toward Max, "is just a symptom of something bigger going on with you."

Max found herself taking measured breaths, trying to appear calm while her fingers traced restless patterns on Victoria's comforter. The plush material caught against her fingertips as she tried to reconcile the absurdity of the situation – just minutes ago Victoria had been half-dressed and kissing her senseless, and now they were in the middle of whatever this intervention was.

Victoria sighed heavily, and the mattress suddenly dipped as she sat down beside Max. Not close enough to touch, but near enough that Max could feel her presence, could sense the warmth radiating from her body.

"I'm fine," Victoria said, her voice softening unexpectedly. "I'm good, actually. I'm feeling better than I have in... probably ever." She glanced briefly at Max before looking back at Taylor and Courtney. "I appreciate the concern, but I'm seriously fine. If it's a symptom of anything, it's of me doing better."

The two friends exchanged looks again, something unspoken passing between them. Courtney bit her lip, hesitating before asking, "Is this because of your secret boyfriend?"

Max felt a sudden chill wash over her, her fingers freezing mid-motion on the comforter.

Victoria spluttered, genuine confusion crossing her features. "My secret what?"

"Jonathan," Taylor clarified, watching Victoria's face with uncomfortable intensity. "The sexy lawyer from Valentine's Day? According to you, the best date you've ever had? Ring any bells?"

Victoria stiffened beside Max, a flicker of something – frustration, panic, guilt – crossing her features as she briefly glanced sideways at Max. "I told you both I never saw him again after that dinner," she said, her voice carefully measured.

Taylor rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right. You've been sneaking out to see him every night. You're never in your room after eleven."

"And we know you've been sneaking out with him before Valentine's Day too," Courtney added.

"Yeah, since October," Taylor said, crossing her arms. "At least."

Victoria ran a hand through her hair at that. "I drive. I go for drives at night. Sometimes I park at the beach. The Nathan stuff... it fucked me up. I've told you that."

"Bullshit," Taylor said flatly. "This is about Jonathan."

"You talked about him differently than the others," Courtney said. "You actually seemed interested after that date."

"Yes, you like him," Taylor pressed. "We could tell."

"I do not like him. I don't know him. I never saw him again," Victoria said firmly. "And there is no boyfriend."

"What? Did you guys break up or something?" Courtney asked.

"I think that's why she was in such a shit mood two weeks ago," Taylor added, looking at Courtney. "The break-up is recent."

"Jesus Christ," Victoria muttered, pressing her fingers to her temples.

"We've been..." Max began, her voice emerging unexpectedly even to herself.

Suddenly, three pairs of eyes snapped to her – Taylor and Courtney's filled with surprise that she'd dared to speak, Victoria's widening slightly with something that looked like alarm, the tension radiating from her palpable, her body going completely still beside Max on the bed.

"We've, um," Max continued, swallowing hard against the dryness in her throat, twisting her fingers in her lap nervously. Because Victoria was clearly stuck, afraid of lying in front of Max and upsetting her, which was an understandable fear, given their fight – but Max wasn't about to sit here and watch her accidentally out herself and potentially freak out again. So if Victoria couldn't lie, then Max would do it for her. "Victoria has been teaching me how to use, uh, digital cameras. For some time now. I asked her for help and she agreed. Sometimes we go at night. Because, you know, the Nathan stuff kind of fucked me up too." Max risked a glance at Victoria, whose expression had shifted from panic to something unreadable. "It helps me get tired and sleep better," she added, looking back at Taylor and Courtney. "I asked her not to say anything because it's embarrassing. Having to ask for help, I mean. And like, how desperate do you have to be to ask the Victoria Chase for help, right? I mean, she hated me. You guys know that," Max finished, letting out a forced, awkward laugh.

Taylor's eyebrows rose incrementally with each word Max spoke, her skepticism evident, but she remained silent. Courtney looked slightly less convinced, her gaze flickering between Max and Victoria as if trying to detect the lie.

"That's why I was helping her pick outfits today," Max continued, gaining momentum. "Since we've been working together on this photography stuff for a while, the exhibition feels like… validation, I guess." She shrugged, aiming for casual despite her racing heart. "Anyway, that's all it is. I don't know anything about the boyfriend stuff, though," she added as an afterthought.

"There is no boyfriend," Victoria repeated firmly, now looking directly at Max, her tone serious, as if she'd been nervous Max had somehow believed her friends' theories.

"Photography lessons," Taylor said flatly. "At night."

"Night photography is actually really interesting," Max said, turning to Taylor, surprised by how steady her voice sounded now. "The way light behaves differently, how you have to adjust settings. Victoria's been really patient explaining everything."

"And you've been doing this since October?" Courtney asked, still looking unconvinced.

"Around then, yeah. After..." Max answered, hesitating for a moment, knowing she was treading dangerous ground, "after everything that happened in that bathroom, it seemed important to learn to document things properly. I like analog photography, but that's not always good enough, you know? And Victoria knows more about digital photography than anyone else at Blackwell."

She felt rather than saw Victoria move beside her, the mattress shifting as some of the tension finally left her body.

"Why didn't you just tell us that?" Taylor asked, directing the question to Victoria rather than Max.

Victoria shrugged, recovering some of her usual composure. "Like Max said, she asked me to be discreet about it. And honestly, I didn't think it was that big a deal."

Taylor studied them both for a long moment, something calculating in her gaze. "So all those nights you've been 'going for drives' or whatever, you've actually been giving Caulfield photography lessons?"

"Yes, pretty much," Victoria confirmed, her voice steadier now.

"What the fuck?" Courtney said.

"Right," Taylor agreed. "What the fuck?"

"What?" Victoria asked. "Is it really that hard to believe that I can be nice?"

"Kind of, yeah," muttered Courtney.

"Why would you lie to us for so long, Victoria? That's six fucking months," Taylor said, her voice betraying a hint of hurt. "That's literally almost the entire school year."

Victoria seemed taken aback by that. She opened her mouth to respond, closed it, then opened it again, but was interrupted by the sudden, jarring sound of Max's phone ringing. Max jumped slightly, grateful for the distraction as she leaned down to retrieve her messenger bag from the floor. She fished around inside it, finally extracting her phone to see her mom's face lighting up the screen.

Max felt a rush of relief course through her immediately. Her mom would undoubtedly lecture her about not returning her last three calls, but even that conversation seemed infinitely preferable to whatever was happening in Victoria's room right now.

She held up the screen toward Victoria, an apologetic look on her face. "It's my mom," she needlessly pointed out. "I really need to take this." She glanced briefly at Taylor and Courtney, who were still watching her with unconcealed skepticism and distaste. "I should go," Max added, already standing and gathering her things. "Thanks for, uh, the exhibition clothes stuff."

Victoria's expression shifted subtly – something flashing in her eyes that looked almost like betrayal as Max headed for the door, phone still ringing in her hand, ready to leave her with her friends who would definitely keep grilling her with uncomfortable questions. Max felt a pang of guilt but continued moving, unwilling to let her mother's call go to voicemail when it offered such a perfect escape.

"Bye," she said softly, the word directed primarily at Victoria before she slipped out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

Once in the hallway, Max leaned her forehead against the door, closing her eyes and exhaling deeply as she tried to collect herself, the cool wood somehow comforting against her skin as she took several steadying breaths.

"You okay, Max?"

Max's eyes snapped open, immediately turning to find Dana and Juliet exiting the bathroom further down the hall, both watching her with raised eyebrows and curious expressions. Dana's lips curved into a smile that made Max want to disappear into the floor – because of course leaning against Victoria Chase's door with her eyes closed wasn't suspicious at all, especially after weeks of whispers about their sudden friendship.

"Yeah, are you okay?" Juliet asked, her voice carrying that particular note of someone who had just stumbled onto gossip gold.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Doing good. Just… tired," Max managed, quickly stepping away from Victoria's door as if it had suddenly burned her. She offered them an awkward wave goodbye, then hurriedly answered her phone.

"Hey, mom."

"Oh, Maxine! Good to know you're still alive," her mother's voice came through immediately, the familiar tone of exasperation making Max wince.

"Sorry I missed your calls," she replied, moving quickly down the hallway away from Victoria's door, away from Dana and Juliet's curious looks, away from whatever had just happened and whatever it meant moving forward.

Chapter Text

March 23, 2014 – Later

Max trudged through the underbrush, her sneakers crunching on fallen twigs and dead leaves as she followed Victoria's confident strides. The beam of Victoria's tactical flashlight cut through the darkness ahead of them, illuminating a narrow path between the trees. Behind them, Taylor and Courtney whispered to each other, their voices carrying just enough for Max to catch fragments of complaints about the cold, the dark, and the decidedly unglamorous adventure they'd somehow invited themselves along on.

Max shifted her camera bag to her other shoulder, trying not to think about how spectacularly her day had imploded. One moment, she'd been perched on Victoria's bed watching her try on a red dress that had made her brain temporarily stop functioning. The next, she'd been fabricating a six-month history of secret night photography sessions to explain away their increasingly obvious connection. And now, somehow, she and Victoria were leading Taylor and Courtney into the woods to maintain that very fabrication.

"I cannot believe this is what you've been doing all these months," Courtney said for what must have been the fifth time. "Like, literally trudging through the woods in the middle of the night."

"It's not the middle of the night. It's, like, barely 8:30," Victoria called back over her shoulder. "And we're almost there."

"You said that ten minutes ago," Taylor grumbled, the beam of her phone flashlight swinging wildly as she navigated the uneven ground. "My shoes are definitely ruined."

"Our usual spot is just ahead," Victoria said with a pointed glance at Max.

Max quickly cleared her throat at that. "Yeah, we're really almost there, guys," she added, as if she knew where they were going, as if this trek through the woods was a familiar routine rather than a hastily arranged charade.

When her mom's call had ended earlier that day – after twenty minutes of gentle scolding about unreturned calls and unanswered texts – Max had paced around her room, uncertain about what to do. She kept replaying the scene in Victoria's bedroom: Victoria in her underwear, the perfect curves of her body, the kiss that had left Max breathless, and then the abrupt and unfortunate interruption that had ended with Max practically fleeing. Guilt had been gnawing at her for leaving Victoria alone to face her friends' interrogation, and Max was determined to make it up to her. So, after waiting what she figured was enough time for Taylor and Courtney to have left, right when Max was about to cross the hall to check on Victoria, her phone buzzed with a text:

'T & C joining us for night photography tonight. Parking lot, 8:00pm :)'

That smiley face had nearly given Max a heart attack. It was pretty much the digital equivalent of a hostage blinker – a silent scream for help that Victoria couldn't otherwise express. And so Max had immediately panicked, of course. She abandoned the idea of going to Victoria's room to apologize in favour of diving for her laptop. The next several hours had been a frantic YouTube marathon, devouring video after video on night photography techniques. She'd hysterically scribbled notes, muttering terminology under her breath like a panicked student before a final exam. Aperture settings. ISO recommendations. Star trails. Light painting. She'd absorbed it all with the desperate intensity of someone whose entire life might depend on convincingly pretending she'd been doing nothing but night photography the past six months.

"We could literally be murdered out here and no one would find our bodies for days," Taylor muttered.

"Jesus, Taylor. Dramatic much?" Victoria replied, but Max silently agreed with Taylor's assessment. The woods were definitely murder-y tonight.

She glanced around at the surrounding forest, suddenly too aware of how deeply dark it was beyond the small circle of Victoria's flashlight beam. The towering pines created impenetrable shadows that seemed to swallow all light, and every small rustle of branches or distant snap of twigs made her nerves tighten. Were there bears in Arcadia Bay? Wolves? Max couldn't remember ever seeing any, but then again, she did once see a whale in the middle of a road. Before Max could work herself into a spiral imagining all the deadly wildlife of Oregon's coastal forests, they finally reached a small clearing.

"We're here," Victoria announced as she swung her flashlight in a wide arc, the beam catching on the ghostly white bark of the birch trees surrounding them. She then set the powerful light down on a flat rock, positioning it to illuminate their immediate area.

Max followed her into the open space, relief immediately washing over her as the claustrophobic press of trees gave way to a patch of night sky. Above them, stars punctured the darkness, somehow even brighter here than on Blackwell's roof. It was breathtakingly beautiful. Perhaps the night photography lessons lie hadn't been that bad of a—

"Seriously?" Courtney asked the second she stepped into the clearing, voice full of genuine confusion and disbelief. "This is where you've been disappearing to for months?"

"Sometimes here, sometimes other places," Victoria replied casually. "Depends on what we're shooting."

Max nodded in agreement, though she wasn't sure anyone was even looking at her. Then, she watched as Victoria put down her equipment bag. She took a deep breath, feeling wholly unprepared for whatever Victoria had in mind for tonight. She'd never done night photography before. She'd always been interested, of course, but she'd never really found the right time to try it out, nor had she ever really had the proper equipment for it. But now she was here, and she had the equipment, and she had Victoria, who knew more about photography than anybody else Max knew, and yet… Max honestly had no clue about what to do now, or where to start, or what to take a photo of, or what it even meant to— "I'll get the tripod," Max said in a rush when she noticed that Victoria's friends were coming closer to her, clearly intent on speaking. Max wasn't quite prepared to act like she'd been taking photos in the dark for six months, but she was even less prepared to talk to Taylor and Courtney on her own.

So Max quickly moved toward Victoria, kneeling down beside her on the damp ground to unzip the compartment where she'd put her tripod.

"Thanks," Victoria said as Max extracted the carbon fiber legs, extending them to their proper height. "Can you set it up over by that bush? I think the composition will work better from there."

"Sure," Max replied, carrying the tripod to the spot Victoria had indicated. She adjusted the legs to compensate for the uneven ground, silently thanking that one YouTube tutorial she'd watched earlier that had taught her how to do just this.

Taylor and Courtney made their way to a fallen log, perching on it with visible reluctance, their expressions a mixture of discomfort and regret. Taylor was hugging herself against the cold, her thin jacket clearly inadequate for the night chill, while Courtney was rapidly typing on her phone, the blue glow illuminating her frowning face.

"No signal," she announced after a moment, holding her phone higher as if that might help. "Fucking perfect."

"Great," Taylor groaned. "We can't even call for help when the ax murderer shows up."

Victoria ignored them, joining Max by the tripod instead. She carefully mounted her camera, adjusting it to what Max supposed was an appropriate angle for capturing the night sky. With practiced movements, Victoria turned on the camera and removed the lens cap, the small LED display illuminating her face with a soft glow. Victoria bit her lip as she navigated the settings of her camera, brow slightly furrowed in concentration, and Max couldn't help but wonder how it was possible that, even here, even now, Victoria still looked this unfairly attractive. The light of the camera highlighted all the perfect angles of her face, and it would be so much better to be taking photos of her instead of the night sky. Max's hands instinctively moved to her own camera, wondering if her Polaroid could take a somewhat decent picture of Victoria with this little light.

"It's fucking freezing," Taylor complained loudly. "Did you two really come here in the middle of winter? In the snow?"

And that was a totally fair question, one which Victoria didn't seem to know how to respond to, judging by her suddenly very rigid shoulders. "Some of the best night sky photography happens in winter," Max jumped in. "Um, Victoria, what about ISO tonight? Should we do eight hundred like last time?"

Victoria's eyes moved to Max, something like gratitude flickering in their depths. "Uh, no. Let's maybe try a thousand this time? The sky's clearer."

"Okay, yeah, good call," Max said, her fingers quickly finding what she hoped was the ISO button on Victoria's fancy camera. She pressed it tentatively, the display now showing a lot of green numbers that were most certainly not the ISO settings. She turned to Victoria with mildly panicked eyes.

Victoria moved closer then, her shoulder brushing against Max's as she leaned in to look at the display. Her fingers moved over Max's on the camera, subtly guiding them to the right dial. Max felt a small jolt at the contact, Victoria's touch both practical and intimate as she helped her turn the dial until the display showed ISO 1000.

"I guess I get that there's less light pollution here or whatever, but honestly, I don't see why you'd leave so many Vortex Club parties early for this," Courtney's voice cut through the quiet, her tone a mixture of disbelief and disdain.

Victoria's fingers immediately dropped away from Max's, creating a sudden void of warmth that left Max feeling strangely bereft. "Photography is my future career," she replied evenly. "It's more important than getting wasted on cheap vodka."

Taylor snorted at that. "Since when? You used to live for those parties."

"Yeah, well. People grow up, T. Things change," Victoria said simply, turning back to the camera.

Max watched as Taylor and Courtney exchanged a quick glance, eyebrows raised in silent communication. Taylor tilted her head slightly with a clear 'what the fuck?' expression, while Courtney responded with a subtle eye-roll that plainly said 'I have no idea what's going on with her.'

Max promptly turned back to Victoria, an uncomfortable silence falling over the clearing. She kept her head down, pretending to be absorbed in watching how Victoria adjusted her camera settings all while actually feeling increasingly out of place. Because this truly wasn't Max's world, was it? She really wasn't supposed to be here at all – not with Blackwell's social elite, not when she was pretty much entirely responsible for creating this awkward rift between the Queen Bee and her two most loyal subjects.

A pang of guilt twisted in her stomach, irrational and stupid as it might be. Because it was Max's fault that Victoria's friends kept suspecting she'd gone insane. It was Max's fault that everyone kept making up ridiculous rumours about her at school. Max was an intruder who had somehow managed to disrupt Victoria's social life, and now they were all stuck in this cold, dark forest pretending to take photos because of it. Max glanced back at the girls, finding Courtney absently scrolling through her phone – pointless in these woods with no signal – while Taylor now seemed entirely focused on frantically moving her hands up and down her arms, clearly desperate for warmth as shivers wracked her body. She cupped her palms in front of her mouth, blowing breath into them before pressing them against her cheeks, which had taken on an alarming pallor.

Before Max could second-guess herself, she was already unzipping her jacket. She walked over to the log, cautiously, as if approaching a wild animal, and held the jacket out toward Taylor. "Here," Max started, a bit awkwardly, "take it. It might be a little small on you, but it's warm, I promise," she said, offering what she hoped was an inoffensive, friendly smile.

Taylor looked up in surprise, something distrustful and defensive in her expression. She made no move to accept the jacket. Max swallowed around the sudden anxiety in her throat, seeing Courtney's own bewildered stare from the corner of her eye. But still, Max stood her ground, her arm outstretched. Another shiver wracked Taylor's body then and practical need won out. "Thanks," she said, accepting the jacket and quickly pulling it on over her own insufficient layers.

Max hurriedly turned around, making her way back to where Victoria stood by the camera, the cold already seeping through her thin hoodie. Victoria didn't say anything, didn't react at all to neither Max's departure nor her return. They stood together in silence, Victoria now needlessly adjusting and readjusting the angle of the camera, betraying for once that she didn't really know much about night photography either. Across the clearing, Taylor and Courtney now had their heads together, whispering and occasionally glancing in their direction. Max shifted uncomfortably, wondering what they were saying about her. About them. Maybe the jacket thing had been a mistake. Maybe coming here had been a mistake. Maybe this whole entire thing about befriending and possibly becoming more with Victoria Chase had been a—

"They're probably plotting ways to get back to a heated building as quickly as possible," Victoria whispered after following Max's gaze, clearly noticing her mounting anxiety.

"Can't really blame them," Max whispered back, feeling relieved that Victoria was finally talking to her without her friends listening. "It's freezing out here. Much colder than on the roof."

"Yeah, it's because of all these trees, I guess," Victoria replied, turning her eyes back to the camera. Then: "That was surprisingly cordial of you."

"What do you mean?" Max asked, leaning slightly closer to hear her better.

"Giving her your jacket."

"Oh," Max said, straightening a little. "I mean, she was cold."

"And she was awful to you. As recently as five minutes ago on the way here," Victoria pointed out, her voice still low enough that only Max could hear.

"Yeah, well," Max replied, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, "sometimes you've gotta be the bigger person. Plus, she's your friend, so I have to be, you know…" she gestured vaguely, "nice."

"Nice," Victoria echoed quietly, a playful lilt entering her voice. "First you give me your hoodie and now you give her your jacket. Do you offer your clothes to every shivering girl you meet, Caulfield?"

Max glanced up at that, catching the slight quirk of Victoria's eyebrow, the barely-there tug at the corner of her mouth. She was definitely being playful, but underneath the playfulness, Max thought she detected something else – a hint of possessiveness, perhaps, or maybe just curiosity about where exactly she stood in Max's hierarchy of people-worth-giving-clothes-to.

"I don't offer my clothes to every girl," Max replied, playing along. "Just… some. I'm very selective."

Victoria hummed, finally pressing the camera's shutter button to start the long exposure capture. "So if I started shivering right now..."

"I think you'd have to get in line behind Courtney," Max said, nodding toward the other girl who was now rubbing her hands together vigorously. "She looks about ready to build a campfire with your fancy tripod."

Victoria glanced over her shoulder at Courtney and Taylor, still huddled together on the log whispering to each other. "And somehow I don't feel particularly inclined to give her my jacket," she responded, turning back to Max. "Not like I did for you that day in the courtyard."

"Oh?" Max raised an eyebrow, butterflies immediately taking flight in her stomach. "So I'm the only one who gets Victoria Chase's designer clothes?"

Victoria glanced once more at her friends, making sure they weren't paying attention, then turned more fully toward Max. "Yes, Max," she said simply, her voice low and firm, green eyes locked on Max's. "You are the only one."

Max's heart pounded against her ribs, the butterflies in her stomach performing acrobatics that would put Olympic gymnasts to shame. She tried to play it cool, as if Victoria saying stuff like that to her was just something she dealt with every day, but the effect of her forced coolness was definitely undermined by the earnest smile she couldn't quite suppress. Because this was flirting. Victoria Chase was actually flirting with her, in the middle of a freezing forest at night, with her friends just feet away.

"So forgive me for being a little upset to find out I'm not special," Victoria continued.

Max bit her lip, genuinely trying to control her smile. She wanted to say ‘Of course you're special' but what actually came out was:

"You're jealous."

Victoria arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow at Max's accusation, or perhaps at the almost child-like wonder in Max's tone. Either way, her lips curved into an infuriating half-smile that made Max's stomach flip over itself.

"And what if I am, Max?" she asked then, licking her lips, a quick, subtle movement that immediately drew Max's eyes downward. "What if I am jealous? What would you do about that?"

The question hung between them, Max's eyes almost having to drag themselves upward from Victoria's lips, requiring genuine effort to return to Victoria's eyes – only to find Victoria's own gaze traveling the same path, lifting from Max's mouth to meet her eyes.

"Depends," Max whispered back. "What would you want me to do about it?"

The camera's shutter clicked loudly in the quiet forest, signaling the end of the long exposure. But Victoria didn't turn toward it, didn't move to check the result of their supposed photography session. Instead, her eyes remained fixed on Max. Her look was searching, almost hungry, and definitely not something she should be directing at Max right now.

"What I want you to do right now," Victoria began, slowly, her voice barely audible, "isn't appropriate for our current location," she said, her eyes briefly scanning Max's body before meeting her gaze again. "It requires significantly fewer layers than this cold allows. Plus, this forest floor would probably keep you from staying on your knees as long as I'd need you to."

Max felt a rush of warmth despite the cold night air. Victoria's words, subtle but clear, sent molten heat coursing through her veins, pooling low in her abdomen with startling intensity. The image formed with vivid clarity in her mind: herself on her knees before Victoria, looking up at her, her hands gripping Victoria's bare thighs just below the hem of her skirt. She could almost feel Victoria's fingers threading through her hair, then tightening their grip to guide her closer, and closer, and closer, until her mouth was exactly where Victoria wanted it to be, where Max wanted it to be, really.

"You're turning a very interesting shade of red, Caulfield," Victoria teased, though her voice was slightly breathier than usual. "Something on your mind?"

Before Max could formulate a response, Victoria was turning back toward the camera, tapping a button to display the image they'd just captured. Max tried to focus, but the ache that had suddenly awakened between her legs made it difficult to concentrate on anything other than how close Victoria was standing, and how her perfume seemed to wrap around Max's senses, and how desperately she wanted to tell her that forest floor be damned, she'd be thrilled to risk bruises and scratches and pine needle imprints if it meant Max would be on her knees for her.

"Look how it turned out," Victoria said, gesturing toward the small screen.

Max swallowed hard, forcing herself to glance down, her eyes taking in the image Victoria was showing her. It was a stunning picture – genuinely breathtaking. The night sky spread across the frame like a canvas of infinite depth, stars gleaming with crystalline clarity against the velvet darkness. It was the sort of photograph Max had always dreamed of taking. And yet, right now, she found she genuinely could not care less about it.

"It's…" Max cleared her throat, trying to sound normal, "it's beautiful."

"It really is," Victoria agreed. "The clarity is perfect. Even the faintest stars showed up." She adjusted something on the camera then, her fingers moving with familiarity despite this supposedly being her first attempt at night photography too. "Let's do a star trails shot next. Fifteen-minute exposure should be enough."

"Sure, sounds good."

Victoria glanced up at Max, a dangerous gleam returning to her eyes as she probably noted Max's still-flushed cheeks and the way she kept shifting her weight. She leaned closer to Max under the pretense of checking another camera setting.

"Next time I take my clothes off," she whispered, her breath warm against Max's ear. "Don't look away." Max's fingers gripped the edge of the tripod to steady herself. "I don't want that bullshit about being polite or respecting my privacy. I want you to look." She then pulled back just enough to meet Max's gaze. "Is that okay?"

Max was frozen, Victoria's request so forward and unbelievably perfect that she could barely process any of it. Thankfully, she recovered quickly and nodded her head, her heart pounding so hard she was certain Victoria must hear it. "I— yes. Yes," Max managed. "That's okay. I'll do… that. Next time."

Victoria's lips curved into a satisfied smile before she stepped back. And the forest stretched dark and dense around them, countless shadowy paths leading deeper into the trees, away from Taylor and Courtney's watchful eyes. The thought formed before she could stop it – how easy it would be to suggest checking another location, to guide Victoria just far enough into the darkness that they could disappear for a few minutes. Just far enough that she could press Victoria against a tree trunk, could feel those perfect lips against her own again, could touch her skin, and grab her hair, and make her make those little sounds she makes sometimes, and— Max's eyes scanned the perimeter of the clearing, mapping escape routes, calculating distances and timing.

But then she heard the click of the shutter button, the camera emitting a soft mechanical sound, the internal mirror lifting as the sensor began its fifteen-minute collection of starlight.

"Taylor, Courtney," Victoria called out, her voice transforming instantly into its usual commanding tone, startling the two girls who'd been quietly talking to each other this entire time. "We're doing a long exposure now. For star trails. Fifteen minutes."

Twin groans immediately erupted from them.

"Fifteen minutes?" Taylor whined, pulling Max's jacket tighter around herself. "We'll be popsicles by then."

Max released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her shoulders relaxing slightly as Victoria stepped away from the tripod and made her way toward the fallen log where her friends sat.

"You're the ones who insisted on coming," Victoria reminded them. "I don't know what you expected besides night photography, which is exactly what I told you we'd be doing, by the way," she said, settling herself next to Courtney on the log.

"I kinda thought we'd find Jonathan hiding somewhere out here," Taylor admitted.

"Same," said Courtney.

Victoria sighed. "I met the guy once," she said with an eye-roll.

Max hesitated for just a moment before approaching, the only remaining space on the log being beside Taylor. With careful movements, Max lowered herself onto the weathered wood, wincing slightly as she settled onto the hard surface, her body still embarrassingly hypersensitive from all those images she'd conjured up of herself doing decidedly inappropriate things to Victoria Chase.

"What the fuck even is long exposure?" Courtney asked suddenly, her arms wrapped tightly around herself against the chill. "Like, seriously, why are we sitting in the freezing cold for this?"

"Oh my god, Court," Taylor groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Long exposure is, like, Photography 101. Seriously."

"Well, I don't take Photography," Courtney shot back defensively. "And I don't care. I just want to know why we have to stay here for fifteen whole minutes."

Taylor nudged Max with her elbow, making her jump slightly. "Why don't you explain it?" she asked, her tone somewhere between genuinely curious and mildly accusatory. "Since you're so good at photography you got Victoria coming out here every night."

All three pairs of eyes turned toward Max, Courtney's skeptical, Taylor's challenging, and Victoria's... something else entirely, a gleam of concern mixed with anticipation and amusement as she waited to see how Max would handle this test.

"Um, well," Max began, clearing her throat as she forced her mind to focus on the photography question rather than the lingering sensation of Victoria's breath against her ear. "Long exposure is basically keeping the camera's shutter open for a long time. It lets more light in, which is really useful at night when there isn't much light to begin with." Max warmed to the subject as she continued, grateful for the hours of panicked research she'd done earlier. "For star trails specifically, we keep the shutter open for several minutes. Since the Earth is rotating, it makes the stars look like they're moving across the sky. The way the camera captures it – it basically creates these circular lines around the North Star."

"Right," Victoria added, her tone shifting to the cadence she reserved for discussing photography. "And the longer the exposure, the more complete the circles become. Fifteen minutes should give us small, partial arcs. But if we had several hours, we could get full star circles."

Courtney didn't seem to particularly care about what Victoria said, instead she stared at Max with undisguised bewilderment. "I'm sorry, but it's just so weird to hear her talk like that. I think that's the most I've ever heard her voice in one go." She turned to Victoria with raised eyebrows. "You actually got the hipster to speak in full sentences?"

"Courtney," Victoria warned immediately.

"God, Court, could you be any ruder?" Taylor sighed, though her expression suggested she somewhat agreed with the sentiment.

Max fidgeted uncomfortably on the log, feeling compelled to say something, not wanting Victoria to keep defending her and potentially create more issues between her and her friends. "I mean, yeah, I'm usually pretty quiet," Max offered awkwardly. "But I do know how to talk. I just save all my words for special occasions. Like freezing cold forests in the middle of the night."

The joke fell flat, met with blank stares from Taylor and Courtney. Victoria's lips twitched slightly, but even she didn't laugh outright. The silence stretched uncomfortably, broken only by the distant hooting of an owl.

"Right," Max mumbled, dropping her gaze to her shoes. She leaned forward, busying herself with retying laces that didn't actually need retying.

"So anyway," Victoria said smoothly, redirecting the conversation away from Max, "we should get some good results if the clouds stay clear. The weather forecast said minimal cloud cover tonight."

"Have you ever had a boyfriend?" Courtney asked abruptly, her question aimed directly at Max. Victoria's elbow shot out, seemingly catching Courtney sharply in the ribs. "Ow! What the fuck?" Courtney yelped, rubbing her side with an indignant expression.

"I told you she's my friend," Victoria hissed. "Be nice."

"It was a normal question, oh my god," Courtney protested, shifting away from Victoria to avoid another potential jab. "People ask each other that all the time."

Max looked up from her shoes, uneasy by what was clearly shaping up to be a mean girl type interrogation. She glanced briefly at Victoria, whose jaw was clenched tight enough that Max could see the muscle working beneath her skin.

"Uh, not really. No boyfriends," Max answered carefully, deciding to rescue Victoria from having to defend her again. "The closest thing was, uh… I guess this guy back in Seattle who kind of had a thing for me, but..." She trailed off, shrugging awkwardly.

"But what?" Taylor asked, her interest piqued.

Max glanced instinctively toward Victoria again, suddenly realizing that despite talking about pretty much everything over the past months – from photography techniques to childhood memories to their deepest fears – they'd both carefully avoided discussing romantic interests, whether past or present. Victoria's expression remained neutral, so Max decided to proceed with caution.

"Um. We hung out a couple of times," Max continued. "But it didn't go anywhere."

"Why not?" Taylor pressed.

"I don't know," Max answered nonchalantly, or at least so she hoped. "I just wasn't really… I mean, I guess he just wasn't my type."

"And what is your type?" Courtney immediately pounced on the opening, leaning forward with unexpected interest. "Like, what kind of guys are you into?"

The question hung in the air between them, loaded with implications that Max wasn't prepared to address. She shifted on the log, acutely aware of Victoria's gaze fixed on her, waiting for her answer.

"I don't really have a type," Max finally replied. "I care more about connection than appearance."

"Oh, bullshit," Courtney said, rolling her eyes. "You literally just said he wasn't your type. Which means you do have a type."

"It was just a figure of speech," Max tried.

"Caulfield, come on. We're all girls here," Taylor said. "Do you like them tall? Athletic? Artsy?"

"Maybe hipsters like you?" Courtney supplied. "Lumberjack types?"

"I really don't know," Max insisted, mindful that her type was sitting right there and looked nothing like a lumberjack. "I've never thought about it."

"Well, then think about it now," Courtney pressed. "What kind of guys make you look twice? What guys do you see and immediately go 'oh, shit, I'd climb that like—"

"Okay," Victoria cut in. "Are you guys literally twelve? This isn't some middle school sleepover. We're here to take pictures."

"Come on, V," Courtney protested, seemingly undeterred by Victoria's sharp tone. "We've talked about types so many times before." She turned back to Max. "So?" she prompted.

"Artsy types," Max said quickly, lest Victoria feel she needed to intervene again. "I think I like artsy types."

"But like, what kind of artsy, though?" Taylor leaned forward. "Musicians? Actors?"

Max blinked. "Um, I think more, uh… the ones that work with visual arts?" she replied carefully. "You know, drawing, painting... that kind of thing."

"Oh my god," Courtney exclaimed, suddenly animated. "I heard from Juliet, who heard it from Dana, who heard it from Ashley, who heard it from someone in the art department that painters are, like, really good at sex."

"Jesus Christ," Victoria muttered.

Taylor burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the quiet forest. "Why would painters be good at sex? That makes literally zero sense."

"Because they have to study the human body," Courtney explained with an exaggerated eye roll, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "They know how it works, all the curves and stuff. They're, like, trained to pay attention to detail." She paused. "Plus, they're good with their hands, I guess."

Max felt her face burning, grateful for the darkness that concealed what she was certain was a spectacular blush. She stole another glance at Victoria, whose expression was caught somewhere between annoyance, mortification and amusement.

"That's... really not how it works," Victoria finally said. "Knowing how to use a paint brush doesn't magically make someone good in bed."

"How would you know?" Courtney challenged. "Have you ever been with a painter?"

Taylor snickered, clearly enjoying the direction the conversation had taken. "Yeah, V, ever gotten down with any tortured artist types we don't know about?"

"No," Victoria replied flatly. "I have not."

"Shame," Courtney said. "You could've settled this debate for us."

Taylor turned her attention back to Max, who had been silently praying for the forest floor to open up and swallow her whole. "So, Max," she began. "Have you fucked any painters? Or anyone at all, really?"

"Taylor!" Victoria snapped, the single word sharp enough to cut through the night air.

"What?" Taylor asked innocently. "Don't you keep saying she's your friend? I want to get to know her."

"I, um—" Max started.

"Don't answer that," Victoria said firmly to Max, her voice carrying a dangerous edge as she rose to her feet in one fluid motion. "Come check the exposure with me." It wasn't a request.

So Max immediately stood, grateful for the rescue yet uncertain about what exactly was supposed to happen now.

"We'll be right back," Victoria added, not waiting for a response from Taylor or Courtney as she strode toward the tripod with purposeful steps. Max followed, quickly closing the distance between them. The moment they reached the camera, Victoria leaned in close, ostensibly examining something on the display screen, though Max couldn't see what.

"Sorry about them," she whispered. "They're being absolute assholes tonight."

"It's okay," Max whispered back. "I mean, it's not your fault."

"It is my fault, actually," Victoria insisted. "I should've figured out a better way to handle this whole situation. We shouldn't even be here right now."

"It's okay," Max repeated. "Really. I can survive a couple of questions about my personal life."

"I'm ending this. Now."

Before Max could question what she meant, Victoria pressed the shutter button. The camera made a soft click sound as the shutter closed, effectively ending the exposure prematurely.

Max blinked in surprise. "But it's only been, like, five minutes," she said. "The star trails won't have formed yet."

"Nine minutes. And I don't care," Victoria replied, already moving to detach her camera from the tripod.

Max blinked again, surprised and confused at the sudden turn of events. "Hey, it's really not that big of a deal," Max said, and she meant it. "It's a little awkward, sure. But I can handle your friends for a while longer. We don't have to go yet."

"I know you can handle them, Max. But you shouldn't have to."

"I really don't mind."

"Well, I do," Victoria replied, a hint of frustration in her voice, her eyes meeting Max's for a brief moment before returning to the camera, fingers working at the mounting plate to carefully detach it from the tripod. "I mind," she said, more softly this time. "But I don't know how to keep things… balanced. I don't know how to keep them from treating you like that without it being super obvious how I—" she stopped herself abruptly, shaking her head. "Whatever. It doesn't matter."

Max wanted to say many things then – that she understood it was difficult for her, that she appreciated what she'd been doing, that she could see how hard she'd been trying, and that she didn't expect perfection, and that it really was fine, that she genuinely didn't care about what Taylor or Courtney said to her. But seeing the slight discomfort and unease in Victoria's expression, Max decided to try to lighten the mood instead.

"Okay, yeah, we should probably go," Max said then. "Because I've actually been kind of worried about a bear showing up this whole time. I'd have to fight it off to save you and I'm a little rusty, to be honest."

Victoria let out a small, amused breath at that. "Yeah? Been a while since you last wrestled a bear?"

"Yeah. A couple of years."

Victoria smiled, looking at Max for a moment before pulling the camera closer to herself and adjusting something on the display. "I actually googled it before coming here today," she admitted. "There are black bears in all of coastal Oregon, but apparently they don't usually come to this area." She closed the camera menu then and looked up. "I'm more worried about rabid raccoons, honestly."

"Oh, yeah, I get that," Max agreed easily. "They have those little hands. It's creepy."

"Right. And they're nocturnal," Victoria continued. "So they're definitely out right now. Watching us, probably."

Max's eyes darted between the trees, scanning the darkness beyond their small circle of light. No glowing eyes, no rustling bushes, no signs of raccoons plotting an attack. But still: "Do you want me to go check for raccoons? I could do a quick patrol." She took a couple of exaggerated steps back toward the darkness. "If I don't come back in five minutes," she said solemnly, "avenge my death. And don't tell anyone my last words were 'oh no, a raccoon' because that would be embarrassing."

"Get back here, you idiot," Victoria replied with a small laugh, her hand shooting out to grab Max's arm and pull her back toward her, closer than she'd been before. "I'd rather you stay right here with me, okay? No raccoon patrol tonight." She squeezed Max's arm gently, the touch lingering for a moment before she suddenly seemed to remember Taylor and Courtney nearby. She quickly let go and cleared her throat. "Besides," she added, "we need to check how the photo turned out."

"Right, yes," Max said, her arm tingling pleasantly where Victoria had grabbed it. "Let's check it out."

"Okay, let me just…" Victoria pressed some buttons to bring up the captured image on the camera's display. Then she angled it toward Max.

"Oh," Max breathed, genuinely surprised as she leaned closer to see. "Wow. Wait, that's— wow." The photograph was amazing – arcs of starlight traced across the night sky, each trail a perfect record of the Earth's rotation beneath their feet. "That's amazing. I can't believe the trails actually showed up after only nine minutes."

"It's a good photo," Victoria said, sounding slightly surprised herself. "Really good, actually."

"Let me see!" Taylor called from the log suddenly. She and Courtney stood up, both wincing slightly after sitting motionless in the cold for so long. They approached somewhat hesitantly, perhaps aware that Victoria wasn't too pleased with their interrogation from earlier.

But Victoria simply tilted the camera display toward them. "See? Star trails."

Taylor moved closer at that, studying the image, her expression shifting from skepticism to surprise. "Oh. Whoa. That's actually cool," she admitted. "Those lines are the stars moving?"

"It's the Earth's rotation. The stars don't move. We move," Victoria corrected.

"That's so weird to think about," Courtney added, her head tilted slightly as she examined the photo. "We're just standing here, but we're actually spinning around in space the whole time." She paused, then glanced up at the night sky with a new appreciation. "Kind of makes you feel small."

"Kind of makes you want to throw up," Taylor added, leaning even closer to the screen.

"Yeah, but it's so cool to see, though," Courtney replied.

Max and Victoria caught each other's eyes as Courtney and Taylor focused on the photo. Victoria's lips quirked up in a tiny, mischievous smile that made the corners of her eyes crinkle slightly, and she gave Max the smallest, almost imperceptible wink. The unexpected playfulness sent a flutter of butterflies through Max's stomach, and she had to bite her lip to keep from grinning too widely.

"That's what's so great about photography," Max said, mostly to distract herself from Victoria, whose eyes she could still feel on her. "It shows you things that are happening right in front of you that your eyes miss – like the Earth moving, or how, um… if you take a picture of something from a different angle, like a flower, or a blade of grass, or a puddle of water, or even, like, someone's smile… it just turns into something completely different. Goes from ordinary to extraordinary. You know, all these moments and views and things that would be gone forever, that you'd never even know happened, if you hadn't captured them with a camera."

Max looked up again, only to find Victoria already watching her with this soft, almost tender expression that instantly made Max's chest tighten.

"God, is this the kind of hipster crap you listen to every night, V?"

"Taylor," Victoria snapped, her expression instantly hardening.

"Down, girl." Taylor rolled her eyes. "Jesus, I swear I've seen attack dogs less protective."

Victoria's cheeks immediately flushed, though whether from anger or embarrassment wasn't clear. "We should pack up," she simply said, her fingers angling the camera display away from the others and quickly pressing buttons to power down the device.

Courtney hummed. "I get it, though," she said to Max. "It's cool. The things that can be done with photography."

It wasn't much, but it felt somewhat significant, so Max nodded, offering Courtney a small smile. "Thanks," she said.

"Whatever," she responded.

"Alright, let's head back before we get hypothermia," Victoria said.

"Finally," Taylor said, already turning toward the path they'd come from. "My toes went numb like twenty minutes ago."

Victoria packed the camera into its case, making sure everything was secure while Max began dismantling the tripod.

"I'll go first," Courtney announced, switching on her phone's flashlight. "I know the way back."

"Yeah, because the path is literally a straight line from where we parked," Taylor said, falling into step beside her.

The two girls headed toward the path, their phone flashlights bobbing ahead like erratic fireflies. Victoria shouldered her equipment bag and motioned for Max to follow, letting a few feet of distance develop between them and her friends.

They walked in silence for several minutes, the only sounds being the crunch of leaves beneath their feet and Taylor and Courtney's voices drifting back – something about Dana's party tomorrow and whether Logan would be there. The forest was darker now, the tree branches above them blocking out most of the starlight, but the narrow beam of Victoria's flashlight kept them safely on the path.

As they navigated around a fallen tree trunk, Victoria's hand suddenly brushed against Max's. It could have been accidental – the path was narrow, after all – but then Victoria's fingers deliberately sought out Max's, intertwining them for just a moment before letting go. The brief contact sent a jolt of electricity up Max's arm, making her stomach flip and a smile automatically spread across her face.

"What?" Max whispered, turning to look at Victoria in the dim light.

Victoria's face was partially shadowed, but Max could still make out the contemplative expression in her eyes as she glanced ahead to make sure Taylor and Courtney were still out of earshot. "Let me make it up to you," she said quietly, her voice barely audible above the sound of twigs snapping beneath their feet.

"What?" Max asked again, confusion mingling with the butterflies still fluttering in her stomach.

Victoria kept her eyes on the path ahead, her profile illuminated by the soft glow of her flashlight. "Tonight was a disaster," she said. "I dragged you out to this freezing forest, made you lie to my friends, and subjected you to their version of the Spanish Inquisition."

"It wasn't that bad," Max said honestly. "And the photo turned out amazing."

Victoria gave her a skeptical look. "You gave Taylor your jacket and then had to listen to her call your very insightful comment about photography 'hipster crap'. All while pretending we've been sneaking out here for months. I owe you, Max."

"You don't owe me anything, Victoria," she insisted. "I'm here because I want to be."

"It's still early," Victoria continued, her voice dropping lower. "Not even ten yet."

The implication in her voice made Max's heart skip a beat. "Right."

"So, I was thinking..." Victoria paused, carefully stepping over a tree root. "Instead of our usual meeting spot, maybe we could... relocate."

"Relocate?" Max repeated.

Victoria glanced at her, a mixture of nervousness and determination in her eyes. "To my room," she clarified. "Or yours."

Max swallowed hard, memories immediately rushing back – Victoria in her black lingerie, the heat of her skin, Victoria's teasing comments just earlier about not looking away, about fewer layers, about Max on her knees... The thought of being alone with Victoria again, in her room, with no interruptions and all those unspoken possibilities hanging between them…

"What about our new roof streak?" Max asked, mostly to have something to say while her brain processed the invitation.

Victoria shrugged, a small smile playing at her lips. "I don't know about you, but I've had enough of the outdoors for one night. And although Blackwell sucks, the dorms have the distinct advantage of being warm." She paused, then added more quietly, "And private."

Max's face burned. She opened her mouth to respond, but they were interrupted by Taylor's voice calling back to them.

"Hurry up! Some of us want to get back to civilization before we actually freeze to death!"

Victoria rolled her eyes but picked up her pace slightly, Max matching her stride. They continued walking in charged silence as they followed the bobbing lights of Taylor and Courtney's flashlights through the darkness.

Chapter Text

March 23, 2014 – Even later

Max paced the short distance from her door to her bed, fingers nervously tugging at the hem of her soft gray t-shirt. Freshly showered, her damp hair curling slightly at the ends, she felt simultaneously too warm and too cold, her skin still pink from the almost scalding water she'd subjected herself to in what had probably been the quickest yet most thorough shower of her life.

That had been thirty-one minutes ago.

She knew the exact time because she'd been checking her phone approximately every ninety seconds since.

10:22 PM: Shut her door, tossed her shower caddy onto her desk, and panicked.

10:25 PM: Realized she owned exactly four sets of pajamas – all of them childish or threadbare – and had a minor crisis.

10:30 PM: Settled on a plain t-shirt and cotton shorts after vetoing all other options.

10:33 PM: Dried her hair as best she could with her towel, finger-combed it into some semblance of order, and wondered if she'd made the worst mistake of her life by not using the fancy hair products Victoria's stylist had given her.

10:39 PM: Started cleaning her already fairly tidy room, cramming dirty laundry into the closet, and throwing a full water bottle at Lisa the plant because she was kind of dead again and that was definitely a bad look.

10:45 PM: Changed the sheets on her bed for reasons she refused to examine too closely.

10:53 PM: Begun pacing, overthinking, and spiraling into an increasingly anxious state.

"Stop it," Max whispered to herself, fingers pressing into her temples. "Just stop. You're being ridiculous."

But she couldn't help it. Because this wasn't their usual meeting. This wasn't the roof with its safe, open-air neutrality. This was her room. Max's room. Her private space. And she had been the one to suggest it too – after Victoria had floated the idea of 'relocating' from their usual spot, right before finishing the trek to Victoria's car, Max had been the one to specify her room instead of Victoria's, offering a rambling justification about how her space only shared a wall with the bathroom, not another dorm room, meaning they could talk without bothering anyone. Unlike Victoria's room, which shared a wall with Kate.

That rationale made perfect sense, of course. It was completely logical. There was nothing more to it.

Except there was. Because Max knew damn well her real reasoning had nothing to do with keeping Kate from hearing them talk through the wall. Instead, it had everything to do with the way Victoria had said 'private' in that low, suggestive tone that made Max's insides turn to liquid heat. It had everything to do with the memory of Victoria undressing apparently just so Max would look at her, with the memory of that toe-curling kiss right before her friends came in, with the memory of that whispered threat-promise about Max on her knees. It had everything to do with the possibility that Victoria might finally make good on all those increasingly explicit comments and touches that had been building between them for weeks now, and Max didn't want Kate – sweet, innocent Kate – to hear what would inevitably be some very non-PG sounds coming through the wall.

But it was presumptuous. Max was definitely being presumptuous. She collapsed onto her bed and buried her face in her pillow. Because what if she was completely misreading Victoria's intentions? What if Victoria really just wanted to hang out in a warmer location than their usual rooftop? What if Max had somehow fabricated all that subtext, translating innocent suggestions into something they weren't? Or what if – most terrifyingly – Victoria actually did want what Max thought she wanted? What then? What then?

Max forced herself to take several deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart, and failing miserably. Because this was about sex. Actual sex. Actual sexual relations in which Max would have to be an active participant. And that would be fine, great even, if it weren't for the fact that Max had never had sex before. The furthest she'd gone was what she'd done with Victoria – and while those moments had been intense and absolutely mind-blowing, they were still firmly in the realm of 'making out.' Lots of kissing. Some touching over clothes. A little touching under clothes. That one incredible time Victoria had been on top of her with her thigh pressed between Max's legs, but even that had been cut short.

The prospect of going further was both terrifying and thrilling. Max wanted it – god, did she want it – but she had no idea what she was doing. She'd watched some videos, of course, but those weren't particularly educational. She'd read some things online too, but the vast gulf between reading about something and actually doing it felt insurmountable.

"What if I'm terrible at it?" she whispered to her empty room. "What if I do something wrong and she hates it?"

The thought was almost paralyzing. Victoria was so put-together, so confident, so experienced (probably). Max was none of those things. Victoria deserved someone who knew what they were doing, not some fumbling, inexperienced—

Three soft knocks on her door made Max literally jump, her heart leaping into her throat.

For a moment, she froze in place, face still half-buried in her pillow, eyes fixed on the door like it might suddenly grow fangs and attack her. But then she realized she was being ridiculous, because on the other side of that wooden barrier was Victoria, and Max kind of really wanted to let Victoria in, because Max kind of really wanted to spend time with Victoria kind of all the time. So she peeled herself away from the safety of her bed, stood up, smoothed down her t-shirt, ran a hand through her hair, and crossed the short distance to the door.

When she opened it, Victoria was standing there in fancy silk pajamas – a matching set of shorts and a camisole top in deep emerald green. Her hair was damp, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, and her skin – which there was a lot of on display, her shorts barely reaching mid-thigh and her top revealing perfect shoulders and collarbones – was tinged pink from what had clearly been a recent and very hot shower. Either way, Victoria looked beautiful, and gorgeous, and stunning, and absolutely perfect. As usual. What was not so usual, however, was her expression – her signature confidence had been replaced by something that made her eyebrows draw together in what looked almost like concern or... nervousness?

That was when Max finally noticed that Victoria's arms were held suspiciously behind her back, clearly hiding something.

"Hey," Victoria said then, her voice softer than usual. "Can I come in?"

"Yes, of course," Max replied, stepping aside to let her enter. She closed the door behind Victoria, trying to ignore the quiet click sound it made when she locked it.

Victoria stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, still hiding whatever she'd brought behind her back. Max found her own nerves immediately beginning to dissipate, replaced instead by bubbling curiosity. Her eyes darted from Victoria's face to her hidden arms and then back again.

"What's that?" Max asked.

Victoria glanced around the room, avoiding the question. "Your room is nice," she said, her eyes traveling over the photos on Max's wall, the clutter on her desk, the fairy lights strung above her bed. "Last time I was here, I couldn't really tell you that. I was supposed to be apologizing, so I think you wouldn't have taken it well if I'd just started talking about your room, I think."

Max took a step to the side, trying to peek behind Victoria's back, but Victoria smoothly pivoted, keeping whatever she was holding out of sight.

"But it is nice. Your room. It has character," Victoria continued. "It's a little chaotic. But cozy. Lived-in. It suits you."

Max tried again, stepping to Victoria's other side, but Victoria turned once more, maintaining the mystery.

"Victoria."

"Yes?"

"Are you going to tell me what you're hiding back there?"

Victoria smiled a little, though it didn't quite mask the nervousness in her eyes. "I wasn't aware you were so impatient, Caulfield."

"You entered my room with something hidden behind your back," Max pointed out. "It's a matter of personal safety to know what it is."

Victoria let out a small laugh at that. "You know what? Fair point," she replied, her smile still a little shaky as she shifted her weight once more. "It's nothing, Max. It's just, um…" She cleared her throat, as if bracing herself, and then finally brought her arms forward, revealing a rectangular package wrapped in midnight blue paper. "It's just something I got. For you."

"Oh," Max breathed out, looking at the box in Victoria's hands with undisguised surprise. "It's a gift."

"Yes. For you," Victoria repeated.

Max felt a confused jumble of emotions then – excitement bubbling up alongside a sort of flattered disbelief. She looked from the package to Victoria's face, feeling as a smile formed on her lips. She hadn't expected Victoria to bring her anything, let alone an actual gift, and the gesture was making something warm spread through her chest alarmingly quickly. "Why?"

A hint of color immediately spread across Victoria's cheeks. "There's no specific reason. I just— I actually, uh…" she let out a small, self-deprecating half-laugh. "You see, I actually got this when... when we weren't talking. You know, after our fight," she said, hesitating, her fingers adjusting the wrapping paper unnecessarily. "I went to Portland. I think I'd mentioned that to you before. But, um… I kept thinking about you, and..." She trailed off, looking more shy and vulnerable than Max had seen her in a long time. "I was planning to give this to you after the exhibition. But since I have to make it up to you for this disaster of a night, I figured I could—"

"It wasn't a disaster," Max cut in, her heart doing a complicated flip in her chest. "I had fun. Really."

"I forced you to lie, my friends interrogated you like you were on trial, and you spent most of the night freezing because you gave your jacket to someone who's been nothing but awful to you."

"It was fine," Max insisted. "And I got to see you do night photography, which was pretty cool."

Victoria studied Max's face for a moment, as if trying to determine whether she was being sincere. Whatever she saw must have reassured her, because her shoulders relaxed slightly. "Okay. Well… anyway," she said, holding out the package. "Here."

Max accepted it, immediately surprised and intrigued by its weight. It was way heavier than she'd expected, solid and substantial in her hands. She stared at it, the wrapping paper thick and textured beneath her fingertips, her stomach fluttering with anticipation.

"Can I open it now?" she asked, trying to inject coolness into her voice so as not to sound like a child on Christmas morning, though she clearly failed judging by the slightly amused look in Victoria's eyes.

"Yes, go ahead," she replied.

Max quickly moved to sit on her bed, placing the package firmly in her lap. She carefully began unwrapping it, trying not to tear the beautiful paper. Her fingers slid beneath the tape, gently loosening each fold, aware that Victoria was watching her with that usual intensity of hers. When she finally finished removing the paper, she found herself holding a plain white box with no markings or labels.

She looked up at Victoria with a small, questioning smile. Victoria stood a few feet away, arms now crossed nervously over her chest. She gave Max an encouraging nod, one hand briefly gesturing for her to continue.

Biting her lip, Max finally lifted the lid – and then froze. Inside, neatly stacked and perfectly arranged, were stacks and stacks of Polaroid film packets – about twenty of them, possibly more. No, definitely more. At least thirty, Max realized, her fingers hovering over the pristine packets before she picked one up, confirming that she was indeed looking at legitimate Polaroid 600 film, the exact type her camera used. Her mind automatically did the math: at roughly twenty dollars per packet, this had to cost—

"Victoria, this is hundreds of dollars worth of film," she said, suddenly alarmed, looking up at Victoria. "I can't accept this. I literally can't accept this. It's too much."

"Okay, so – I knew you'd say that," Victoria replied, her voice soft but steady. "But it's not. Too much, I mean. Because it's an investment. In your art."

"Victoria—"

"You do such amazing things with your camera," Victoria continued, moving a step closer. "It's special, Max. Really special. And you shouldn't be limited by something as trivial as running out of film. I just…" She paused, shrugging in an almost self-conscious way. "I just think you deserve better than that. Your talent deserves better than that."

"But Victoria, this… this is…" Max trailed off, looking down at the box again, actually feeling a bit overwhelmed.

Polaroid film was expensive – she knew it better than most, given how carefully she rationed her own limited supply. Every shot had to count. Every photo had to be worth the cost of the film itself, worth the knowledge that taking one picture meant not being able to take another later.

Owning all this film would be absolutely incredible. It would give her so many opportunities, so many moments to capture without the constant mental calculation of whether a shot was worth the risk. It was such a thoughtful gift, one that showed Victoria really understood. Much to her horror, Max felt heat building behind her eyes, a telltale pressure that warned of tears she wasn't ready to let fall, not when Victoria was standing right there watching her reaction.

"I don't know what to say," Max admitted finally, careful to keep her voice steady despite the emotion threatening to crack it, still staring at the contents of the box.

"You don't have to say anything," Victoria responded softly. "You just have to accept it."

Max cleared her throat, subtly rubbing at the corner of her eye with her knuckle before looking up at Victoria again. She found her wearing an expression that looked almost like guilt, as if she knew she'd done something extravagant and possibly inappropriate, but couldn't bring herself to regret it. Her eyes held a defiant vulnerability, challenging Max to make her feel bad about a gesture she clearly believed in.

And there she was – classic Victoria Chase. Doing something that made no sense and then daring you to call her out on it, somehow making you feel like you'd be the unreasonable one for pointing out the obvious. Max felt herself already giving up the fight before it had properly begun. She loved the gift too much to refuse it, and seeing Victoria standing there, nervous but stubborn…

"This really must have cost a fortune," Max tried anyway.

"It was much cheaper than the Hermès scarf," Victoria replied. "And definitely much, much cheaper than the Chanel sweater you stole."

Max let out a surprised laugh at that, the sound catching in her throat as she fought the pressure behind her eyes. "Wow, okay. That doesn't really help your case," she said, her smile growing despite herself. There was something disarming about Victoria's straightforward acknowledgment of her insane gifts. "And I didn't steal that sweater," Max added, meeting Victoria's gaze with mock indignation. "I tried to return it and you told me to keep it."

"Semantics, Caulfield," Victoria said, waving a dismissive hand. "The point is, this isn't a big deal."

"But it is a big deal," Max insisted, carefully setting the box of film down on the bed beside her. She stood up, taking a step toward Victoria. "You can pretend it's not, but it is."

Victoria shifted her weight. "But... you like it, right? The gift?" The question came out softer than she probably intended, a hint of genuine uncertainty creeping into her voice.

"I love it," Max said firmly, and before she could second-guess herself, she closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around Victoria's waist. She hugged her tightly, burying her face against Victoria's shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice slightly muffled against the silk of Victoria's pajama top.

Victoria seemed surprised by the sudden embrace, her body momentarily stiffening before she relaxed into it. Her arms came around Max, one hand sliding up to cup the back of her head. "You're welcome," she murmured, her breath warm against Max's hair.

Max adjusted her position slightly, turning her face until it was nestled in the crook of Victoria's neck. She inhaled deeply, letting the familiar scent of Victoria's perfume fill her senses – that same intoxicating fragrance she'd grown absolutely addicted to over the past months.

"You're crazy," Max murmured, still not letting go.

Victoria's arms tightened around her slightly. "No, I'm just practical," she replied, her voice vibrating against Max's cheek. "Money just isn't a problem for me."

"So what you're saying is you're a rich crazy person. Literally the worst type of crazy person."

"Shut up," Victoria responded as she gently pulled back, just enough to look at Max, a small smile playing on her lips. "I'm trying to be nice and you're calling me crazy. That's rude, Caulfield."

Without overthinking it, Max reached up and took Victoria's face in her hands, pulling her down for a brief but firm kiss, an unspoken thank you that words couldn't quite capture. When Max pulled away, Victoria's eyes were still closed, her lips slowly curving into a smile as her eyelids fluttered open, revealing those beautiful green eyes that Max could never look away from.

"What was that for?" she asked softly, her hands settling more comfortably on Max's waist.

Max's own hands slid from Victoria's face as her arms wrapped loosely around her neck. "Well, besides the obvious," she said, nodding toward the box of film on her bed, "I just wanted to… Is that okay?"

Victoria nodded, her eyes briefly dropping to Max's lips before meeting her gaze again. Without another word, she closed the distance between them, capturing Max's lips in another kiss – this one deeper, more deliberate than the last. Victoria's lips were warm and so soft against hers, tasting faintly of mint toothpaste. The contact sent a bolt of electricity racing down Max's spine, sparking through her limbs and settling as a heavy warmth in her stomach. Her fingers instinctively tightened in the damp hair at the nape of Victoria's neck, drawing a soft sound from Victoria's throat that made Max's knees feel suddenly weak.

Victoria's hands tightened slightly on Max's waist as she continued kissing her, walking her backward with gentle but insistent steps. Max hummed against Victoria's mouth, surrendering to the slow dance until the back of her legs bumped against the edge of the bed.

The kiss deepened then, Victoria's tongue tracing the seam of Max's lips in a silent question. Max answered immediately, parting her lips with a soft sigh as Victoria's tongue slid against her own. The sensation sent sparks along her nerve endings, feeling like they stood there for both seconds and hours, lost in the increasingly urgent press of lips and tongues. Victoria's hands roamed from Max's waist to her lower back, pulling her closer as the kiss grew more heated. Max's fingers threaded through the damp strands of Victoria's hair, nails lightly scraping against her scalp and drawing a quiet moan from Victoria that she swallowed eagerly.

But Victoria continued pressing forward, her body insistent against Max's, pushing her against the solid edge of the bed. "If you keep doing that, I'm going to fall," Max murmured against Victoria's lips, not quite breaking the kiss.

"Then lie back," Victoria whispered, her breath warm against Max's mouth.

The words sent another rush of heat through Max's body, settling low in her abdomen and then going directly between her legs, a vivid reminder of exactly what she'd been thinking about when she'd suggested her room for tonight's roof replacement. Victoria's hands slid to her hips, her thumbs tracing small circles against the fabric of Max's shorts. The touch was light, almost questioning, giving Max every opportunity to pull away if she wanted to.

But pulling away was the last thing on Max's mind. So Max nodded against Victoria's lips, her hands sliding up to Victoria's shoulders. "Okay," she whispered, sinking down onto the mattress and scooting backward until her head rested against her pillow.

Victoria followed her down, one knee on the edge of the bed as she carefully positioned herself beside Max. Their legs intertwined naturally, Victoria's silk-covered thigh sliding between Max's as she settled against her. The warmth of Victoria's body pressed against hers made Max's heart race even faster, every point of contact sending little jolts of electricity through her system.

Victoria brushed Max's bangs from her forehead with fingers that weren't quite steady, her expression a mixture of tenderness and unmistakable hunger as she studied Max's face. "You never answered Taylor's question, you know," she said, her voice slightly husky in the small space between them.

"What question?"

"About your type," Victoria replied, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she shifted her weight, the movement creating a delicious friction between their bodies.

"I did answer," Max said, her hands finding Victoria's waist, fingers curling into the silky material of her top. "I said I liked artsy types."

"But you weren't specific," Victoria countered, her fingers trailing from Max's hair down to trace the outline of her jaw, her eyes following the movement of her own hand. "Musicians? Painters?" Her voice dropped to almost a whisper, the words brushing against Max's lips. "Photographers?"

"I said visual arts," Max replied, her hands sliding from Victoria's waist up along her sides, fingers tracing the subtle curve of her ribs through the thin silk. "I definitely include photographers in that category."

Victoria hummed, her hand continuing its deliberate path down Max's neck until her palm rested lightly against her throat. The gentle pressure sent shivers racing down Max's spine, making her breathing quicken, each inhale pressing her neck more firmly against Victoria's palm.

"What about you?" Max asked, her voice slightly breathier than she intended. "What is your type?"

Victoria's lips curved into a smirk, the expression somehow both playful and predatory. "I can appreciate everything," she said, slowly lowering her head until her mouth replaced her fingers on Max's neck. She pressed feather-light kisses against the sensitive skin, each one sending sparks of sensation through Max's body. "Athletic types," Victoria murmured, moving up toward Max's jaw. "Intellectual types." Another kiss, this one just below Max's ear. "Business types." Her lips traced a path back down Max's throat. "Trust fund types." Her tongue darted out briefly against Max's pulse point, drawing a sharp intake of breath. "Artsy types," she added with exaggerated inflection, clearly mocking Max's earlier answer.

Max would have laughed if she could remember how to breathe properly. Instead, she found her hands sliding into Victoria's hair, fingers tangling in the strands as Victoria continued her torturous exploration of Max's neck.

Without warning, Victoria's teeth grazed against the sensitive spot where Max's neck met her shoulder, then bit down – not hard enough to hurt, but with enough pressure to send a shock of sensation through Max's entire body. A surprised sound escaped Max's throat, something between a gasp and a moan.

"But lately," Victoria murmured, her breath hot against the spot she'd just bitten, "I have a very, very specific type."

"Yeah?" Max managed.

"Yeah," Victoria confirmed, her lips never leaving Max's skin as she continued her path downward. Her tongue traced a line along Max's collarbone, teeth occasionally grazing sensitive spots. "I think it's more than a type, though. It's almost like an actual requirement these days."

"And what's that?" Max breathed.

She pressed open-mouthed kisses along the edge of Max's t-shirt, her breath hot through the thin fabric. "Dark hair. Blue eyes. Freckles." Each trait was punctuated with a kiss, her mouth moving progressively lower. "Drives me crazy."

Max tightened her grip in Victoria's hair and gently but firmly pulled, guiding Victoria's head up until their faces were level again. Before Victoria could say anything, Max pulled her down into a kiss that was immediately deep and urgent, all pretense of patience abandoned. Their lips crashed together with newfound intensity, Victoria's weight pressing Max deeper into the mattress as the kiss grew more heated, their tongues sliding against each other in a rhythm that made coherent thought impossible. Victoria's hands moved to Max's sides, fingers digging slightly into the fabric of her t-shirt, bunching it upward to expose a strip of skin at her waist.

Max tightened her grip in Victoria's hair and gently but firmly pulled, guiding Victoria's head up until their faces were level again. Before Victoria could say anything, Max pulled her down into a kiss that was immediately deep and urgent, all pretense of patience abandoned. Their lips crashed together with newfound intensity, Victoria's weight pressing Max deeper into the mattress as the kiss grew more heated, their tongues sliding against each other in a rhythm that made coherent thought absolutely impossible.

Victoria's hands moved to Max's sides, fingers digging into the fabric of her t-shirt, clutching, bunching and tugging at the fabric as if struggling with some internal debate. Max broke the kiss just enough to whisper against Victoria's:

"Take it off."

"What?"

"My t-shirt," Max clarified, her voice steadier than she expected given what she was saying and how hard her heart was hammering in her chest. "Fewer layers. Right?"

Victoria didn't respond. Instead, she immediately sat up, adjusting her position until she was straddling Max's hips, the new arrangement sending a wave of heat through Max's body. With deliberate slowness, Victoria reached for the hem of Max's t-shirt. Her eyes never left Max's as she began to pull the fabric upward, revealing inch by inch of skin. Max fought the urge to close her eyes, to hide from the intensity of Victoria's gaze as more of her torso was exposed. The shirt reached just beneath her bra when Victoria paused, taking in the sight before her with such open appreciation that Max thought felt her entire body burning.

Then, without warning, Victoria scooted backward on the bed. Max made a small sound of confusion that quickly transformed into a gasp as Victoria leaned down, pressing her lips against the exposed skin just below Max's navel.

The contact was electric – Victoria's mouth warm and soft against her stomach, sending shockwaves of sensation through Max's entire body. Max's hands found their way to Victoria's hair once again, fingers threading through the soft strands. Victoria paused, looking up at Max from her position, and the sight did something visceral to Max – Victoria Chase between her legs, lips pressed against her stomach, green eyes looking up at her through dark lashes. Max's fingers tightened almost subconsciously, applying gentle pressure downward instead of guiding her upward.

Victoria's lips curved into a knowing smirk against Max's skin, clearly understanding the silent request. She maintained eye contact as she deliberately lowered her mouth, pressing her lips directly against the waistband of Max's shorts. Then her tongue darted out, tracing a hot, wet line right where fabric met skin.

The sensation sent a jolt of electricity straight through Max's body. Her hips bucked involuntarily, a strangled sound escaping her throat. The sudden movement shifted the mattress, and there was a momentary confusion as something heavy slid off the edge of the bed, followed by the distinctive sound of multiple objects spilling across the floor.

They both froze, turning toward the noise in unison. The box of Polaroid film had fallen, its contents now scattered across Max's dorm room floor, packets of film fanned out in disarray.

"Oh. Oh no," Max gasped, immediately concerned despite the haze of desire still clouding her thoughts. She pulled her hands from Victoria's hair, pushing herself up onto her forearms to get a better look at the scattered packets. "The film!"

Victoria stared at the spilled packages for a moment as well, then let out an amused breath. She rested her cheek on Max's stomach with a small sigh, looking up at her with a mixture of frustration and resignation. "It's okay," she murmured, her breath tickling Max's skin. "The film will be fine. It's designed to survive a lot worse than falling on your floor."

Max let herself fall back onto the bed with a soft thump. "I know. But it's not just film. It's your gift," she said, dramatically draping one arm across her eyes. "It has sentimental value."

Victoria chuckled at that. "Already sentimental about something I gave you less than fifteen minutes ago?"

"And now you're just being mean."

"I'm not," Victoria protested. "I'm curious – is it really that easy for Max Caulfield to get sentimental?"

Max moved her arm from her eyes and looked down at Victoria, whose cheek was still resting on her stomach, with her perfect hair mussed from Max's fingers, with her face still flushed from what they'd been doing, with her lips still pink and swollen from their kisses, and positioned so, so very close to between Max's legs. She was suddenly, acutely aware of the wetness that had gathered there, of how sensitive she felt, of how easily Victoria could just move forward and…

"Um," Max managed. "It's just the... the thought behind it. That's what makes it sentimental."

Victoria looked at her for another long moment, and then, with a reluctant sigh, she pushed herself up and off the bed. A small, involuntary sound escaped Max's mouth – a whine of disappointment at the loss of contact. Her cheeks immediately flushed with embarrassment, but Victoria didn't hear it, or at least pretended not to, as she instead knelt on the floor and began gathering the scattered film packets.

"Wait, I'll help," Max said, getting up too. She tugged her shirt down with as much dignity as she could muster, smoothing the wrinkled fabric over her stomach where Victoria's mouth had been just moments before.

They worked in companionable silence then, fingers occasionally brushing as they reached for the same packet, exchanging small smiles. When the last packet had been returned to the box, Victoria placed it safely on Max's desk, well away from the edge.

"There," she said, turning back to Max with a playful smirk. "Now it's safe from your enthusiasm."

"Great. Thanks." Max tucked her shirt into her shorts, then untucked it immediately when she realized how awkward the motion was. She smoothed her hands down her sides and cleared her throat. "So, I counted 36 packets," she said, nodding toward the box.

Victoria leaned against the desk, crossing her arms with a casual shrug that didn't quite mask her pleased expression. "Yeah, I know. I would've gotten more, but it's all the store had in stock. The guy said they don't get shipments that often."

"You bought out an entire store's supply of Polaroid film?" Max asked, eyes widening. "Victoria, that's—"

"A good decision," Victoria finished. "Because you liked it. And it'll be useful. And next time, when you need more, I'll just buy a reasonable amount. I promise."

Max found herself trying very hard not to outwardly react to the casual use of ‘next time’ even as her heart skipped a whole beat. "Okay," she said, her voice sounding too loud in the quiet room. "Okay. Thank you again. For the film."

"You're welcome. Again," Victoria replied, a hint of amusement in her voice as she shifted her weight against the desk.

They fell into silence then, just looking at each other across the small distance that separated them – Victoria standing against the desk while Max stood by the bed.

"So..." Max ventured.

"So..." Victoria echoed.

Max swallowed. "That was..." she started, then faltered, searching for the right word. Incredible? Overwhelming? Life-altering? "Fun," she finished lamely.

A small smile played at the corners of Victoria's mouth. "Yes," she agreed. "It was fun."

"I was enjoying it," Max admitted, feeling heat creep up her neck at her own understatement.

Victoria's smile widened. "I could tell,” she said, then added: "I was enjoying it too."

Max nodded. "Good, good." She sank down onto the edge of her bed, the mattress still warm from where they'd been lying just a little while ago. After a moment's hesitation, Victoria pushed herself away from the desk, crossing the short distance between them and lowering herself onto the bed beside Max, close enough that their thighs were almost touching, close enough that Max could smell her perfume again.

Sex. Sex was definitely going to happen. If not today, then soon. It seemed obvious. Inevitable, even. Whenever they spent any time alone together, things got increasingly… close. So maybe, for the sake of the both them, it would be wise if Max just—

"So," Max started again, staring down at her hands in her lap. "Taylor also asked something else today." She hesitated, her fingers twisting together nervously. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Not to say extremely embarrassing. Borderline humiliating. She shouldn't say anything. She really shouldn't say— "She asked whether I'd… whether I'd been with… well, she asked about painters specifically at first, but…" she trailed off, gesturing vaguely with her hands.

Victoria was quiet for a moment. Then: "I remember, yeah. It was rude," she said, her hands smoothing over her silk-covered thighs. "I'm sorry she—"

"I've never been with anyone," Max blurted out, the words tumbling past her lips before she could reconsider. "Like that, I mean. Just so you know."

The silence that followed felt endless, stretching between them like an elastic band pulled too tight. Max kept her eyes fixed firmly on her hands, afraid to look up, afraid of what she might see in Victoria's expression. Pity? Disappointment? Amusement? Disgust?

"Yeah," Victoria finally said, her voice softer than Max had expected. "I mean, I figured."

Max looked up at that, her eyes meeting Victoria's. "And is that okay?" she asked, hating how small her voice sounded.

Victoria's brow furrowed, genuine confusion crossing her features. "Yes, of course it's okay," she said, as if the question itself was absurd. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't know. It's just..." Max hesitated. "I guess, since you do have experience. I thought maybe you wouldn't be too… happy… because it means I might not be very…" she trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

"Max, I don't..." Victoria began, then paused, seeming to search for the right words. "I mean, it doesn't matter to me. At all. Honestly," she said firmly. "Plus, I've never really done it before either. Not with a girl, anyway. So it would be pretty hypocritical of me to care about that."

Max blinked in surprise at Victoria's easy acceptance of her inexperience. She didn't know what she'd been expecting, exactly – she certainly knew Victoria wouldn't be cruel about it, not on purpose, anyway. But she hadn't quite expected Victoria to volunteer information about her own inexperience either.

Victoria shifted slightly on the bed, turning more toward Max. "I mean, the stuff you and I have done is kind of the furthest I've ever gone," she clarified. "And it's fine, you know, like…" She shrugged, an almost self-conscious gesture. "We can figure it out. Together. Right?"

A weight Max hadn't even realized she'd been carrying suddenly lifted from her shoulders. Max nodded. "Yes," she replied. "Figuring it out together sounds good to me."

"Good," Victoria said, her eyes studying Max's face for a moment longer, her expression slowly softening into a small smile. "Okay, so, will you tell me about your photos? The ones on the wall. I saw them the first time I came here and I've been wanting to know the stories behind them."

Max felt a small smile of her own spread across her face. Without thinking, she leaned forward, pressed a quick kiss to Victoria's cheek, and then said, "Which one do you want to hear about first?"