Chapter 18 Max
EIGHTEEN
MAX
I don’t know what the hell he thinks he’s doing, offering me something like that. A family. A home. His mom. As if it’s that simple. I could just slide into his world and everything would be fine.
The invite sits heavy in my chest all the way back through the snow, burrowing under my ribs no matter how many walls I try to stack against it.
He doesn’t push, doesn’t even bring it up again, but I can feel it radiating off him.
The part of him that shines too bright, that keeps reaching for me even when I don’t deserve it.
By the time we hit the dorms, my head is a mess and my chest is tight. We stomp the snow from our boots in the lobby, and the hum of the lights overhead greets us for the first time in what feels like days, even though it’s been less than twenty-four hours.
The power’s back.
I clear my throat, needing to cut through the silence between us before I say something I can’t take back. “Guess we don’t need to stay together to conserve warmth anymore.”
It comes out gruff, and when I glance at him, Eli’s tongue pokes into his cheek like he’s biting back words. He nods once, slow, agreeing even though every line in his body says otherwise.
The ache that pulls at my chest nearly makes me take it back.
It almost makes me gather him up in my arms and beg him to let me come back to his room with him.
But instead, I turn toward my side of the building, boots squeaking on the wet tile.
Hands shoved deep in my pockets, shoulders hunched like if I make myself small enough, I can avoid the weight pressing on me.
But something makes me glance back.
Eli’s standing there in the middle of the lobby, snow still melting in his hair, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
He’s watching me go, his expression bright on the surface, but then he shakes his head, just once, as though he can’t believe I’m doing this.
I’m sure he's disappointed, or worse—hurt.
It twists something deep in my chest. My stomach knots, and for a second, I almost stop, almost close the distance between us.
Instead, I look away and keep walking, every step heavier than the last. Because this is safer.
The walk down the hall feels endless. Every step echoes in my head. By the time I shut the door behind me, I’m already unraveling.
Eli’s disappointed shake of the head keeps replaying, over and over.
That look. I’m sure it will live rent free inside my head now.
But the worst part was wanting to turn around and go find him.
I wanted to close this distance I keep forcing between us.
I’m so stupid. There are reasons we can’t work outside of this.
One being I’m his athletic coach. I’m pretty sure there is something in my contract that says I won’t sleep with anyone on the team.
I scrub a hand down my face, but it doesn’t stop the flood of memory.
I’m eighteen again. Just out of high school. I thought I was careful. Thought locking my door, muffling the noise, meant I was safe.
It didn’t.
The door had slammed open with a crack so loud it rattled the frame. Splintering the wood in the process. My father’s face was red and twisted with fury as he filled the doorway.
The boy beside me scrambled up, shoving off the bed, trying to get dressed, but it was too late. The sheets were tangled around my waist, my bare skin caught in the unforgiving light of the hallway.
“Get the fuck out of my house!” my father roared, his voice raw with rage. He wasn’t talking to the boy I had just been kissing. He was talking to me.
I barely had time to pull the blanket up before he was on me. His fist connected with my jaw, hard enough to make stars burst behind my eyes. Then again. And again.
“Don’t you ever come back! You fucking queer. You’re not my son.”
I tried to shield myself, arms up, pleading with him to stop hitting me, but he didn’t stop.
His knuckles slammed into my ribs, and when he didn’t think that was enough, his boot drove into my side.
The air left my lungs in a choked gasp, pain ripping through me so sharp I thought something had cracked inside.
Multiple things. All I could taste was blood.
It didn’t stop there. His hand wrapped around my throat, squeezing, shoving me back into the mattress as he spat words I can’t even remember now. All I remember is the burn of not being able to breathe, the world going gray at the edges, and my vision tunneling.
For a second, I really thought he was going to kill me.
It was the guy I’d been with—barely more than a fling, someone I’d trusted enough to bring home—who dragged me free.
He threw himself between us, hauling me up, shoving me toward the door.
My dad came after us, but we made it down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the night before his rage could swallow me whole.
The last thing I saw before we got into his car was my mom standing on the front porch. Frozen. Silent. Not stopping him. Not saying a word as he barreled out of the house toward us.
Back in the present, I sit hunched on my bed, palms pressed to my eyes.
My ribs ache with the phantom pain, my jaw tight as if the bruises never really faded.
My throat feels raw, the memory of his grip so real, it’s like I can still feel his thumb pressing into the hollow of my throat as he tried to squeeze the life out of me.
I drag in a breath, shaky and brittle. It doesn’t help. The past won’t let go. Tears fall freely down my cheeks at everything I’ve lost in my life. Of everything I’m refusing myself now.
And I think about Eli. Bright, unguarded Eli, offering me family as if it’s as easy as sharing a cookie. I want to believe him. God, I want to. But the scars under my skin won’t let me.
Because if my own family can do that to me for one mistake, how the hell can I trust anyone else not to do the same?
Thanksgiving morning hits gray and quiet. The storm’s still heavy outside, snow packed high against the windows, but the dorm is dead silent. Everyone who could leave is already gone.
I wake up bleary-eyed, head pounding with everything I dragged through the night.
I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was my dad beating me or my mom just standing silently, watching it all happen.
Then thoughts of Eli were there, haunting me in a different way.
His grin, his ridiculous Christmas cheer, the way his voice softened when he talked about his family.
His family.
The warmth he was supposed to go home to. Pancakes, pies, turkey hats. Laughter and light. The kind of holiday I haven’t had in years. The kind of holiday he deserves.
And instead, he’s here. Alone.
Because of the storm. Because he got stuck. Because fate or bad luck or whatever the hell it is put him in the same building as me.
I drag a hand down my face, guilt twisting in my gut for how I treated him yesterday.
He should’ve been home. He should’ve had all of it.
And maybe I can’t give him pie or loud chaos or a family that adores him…
but I can give him something. We can hang out together and have some sort of holiday.
That can’t be against any contract I signed, right?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone off the nightstand and open his contact. My thumbs hover, heart kicking harder than it should for something so simple.
Finally, I type:
Happy Thanksgiving. You around?
Before I can even set the phone down, it buzzes in my hand.
Eli: Happy Thanksgiving, Grinch. Wanna come over? I’ve got enough Christmas cheer to drown the holiday blues.
Another ping follows almost instantly.
Eli: …and leftover cookies.
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself, shaking my head.
I stare at his texts for maybe five seconds before I’m on my feet, tugging on sweats and a hoodie. No point pretending otherwise. I don’t want him alone. And hell, I don’t want to be alone either.
The short walk through the halls feels longer than I remembered, my pulse loud in my ears. When Eli opens his door, the smell hits me first—warm, sweet, unmistakable. Freshly baked cookies.
He’s grinning, cheeks pink from the heat of the ovens downstairs, and behind him on his desk is a plate stacked high with still-steaming cookies.
“You actually baked,” I say, stepping inside.
“Damn right I did.” He holds the plate toward me like an offering. “The communal kitchen was all mine, so I seized the opportunity. Domestic goddess moment.”
I arch a brow. “Where the hell did you get cookie dough? Everything’s closed.”
He smirks, unapologetic. “Had a tub in the freezer. Figured I had to use it or it’d go bad. A totally selfless act, really.”
I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth betrays me. “Of course you did.”
He wiggles the plate closer until I take one, warm enough to sting my fingers. The first bite nearly melts in my mouth, and I have to bite back the groan that wants to escape.
Eli just beams, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Sugar cures everything, even homesickness,” Eli says, dropping into his desk chair as though he’s just delivered some universal truth.
I snort, brushing crumbs from my hand. “Pretty sure that’s not how it works.”
“Pretty sure it is.” He bites into his own cookie with exaggerated delight, eyes closing like it’s heaven on earth. “Look at me. Totally cured.”
I shake my head, but my chest loosens a little despite myself. He makes it sound so damn easy. Like pain and loneliness and the hollow ache in my ribs could be fixed with warm cookies and that ridiculous grin. And if I’m honest, it sort of is.
“Seriously,” he says around another bite, pointing at me with his cookie. “You’re not allowed to sulk on Thanksgiving. It’s a holiday rule. Eat another one.”
“I don’t sulk.”
He grins, all teeth, all sunshine. “You absolutely sulk. But it’s part of your charm.”