Chapter 19 Eli
NINETEEN
ELI
By the time we pile the food onto plates, the whole kitchen smells amazing and is warm with the kind of comfort you can’t bottle. It’s not turkey-and-all-the-fixings, not even close—but it’s ours.
I slide into a chair across from Max, the steam from the mashed potatoes curling in the air between us. He sits opposite, quiet as always, but something about him looks…different. Softer. Some of the tension has finally bled out of his shoulders.
It makes me stare longer than I should, soaking in the curve of his mouth that isn’t quite a frown for once, the way his shoulders don’t look like they’re holding up the weight of the whole world. For a second, I see the Max no one else gets to.
His fork scrapes against the plate, and then he sets it down, eyes flicking up to mine.
“Thanks,” he says, voice low but certain. “For this.”
My chest squeezes, warmth blooming fast. I grin, nudging a roll across the table toward him. “Don’t thank me yet. I could still screw up dessert.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and it feels akin to sunlight cracking through a storm.
The quiet stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind that settles warm in your bones, makes the clink of silverware sound almost musical. I take another bite of potatoes, then set my fork down and lean my chin on my hand.
“So…” I say carefully, like I’m testing the ice before stepping out on it. “What were Thanksgivings like for you? You know…before.”
Max’s gaze lifts, sharp for a beat, as if he’s about to shut me out. But then it softens again, his eyes dropping to his plate. He runs his thumb along the edge, jaw shifting like he’s working the words loose.
“Loud,” he says finally. “Big table, too much food. My mom always burned the rolls, but she kept making them anyway, and they were always late. My dad carved the turkey like it was some sacred ritual.”
He pauses, something flickering across his face before he clears his throat. “It was…good. Back then.”
I nod, holding his gaze, letting the silence fill with the weight of what he didn’t say. “Sounds kinda like mine,” I murmur, giving him a small smile. “Messy and loud and…worth remembering.”
Max doesn’t look up right away, just rolls a green bean across his plate with the tip of his fork. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost thoughtful.
“Some of it was good,” he admits. “But I couldn’t be my full self. So was it even real?”
The words hang heavy between us, heavier than the steam still curling up from the food.
It makes my chest ache, not with pity, never that, but the sharp kind of empathy that comes from realizing something you’ve always had isn’t a given for everyone else.
My family’s chaos, the way my parents shrugged and loved me louder when I came out, it feels almost unfair at this moment.
Everyone should have that kind of support.
And I’m not stupid, I know that even though everyone should have that, it’s not a given…
hell, it’s not even the normal. Which sucks.
Why does it matter who someone loves in private?
I lean forward, meeting his eyes, even though he doesn’t want to give them to me. “It was real,” I say softly. “Maybe not all of it, maybe not the way you deserved…but the good parts? Those were still yours. Nobody can take that from you.”
His gaze flicks up, sharp, measuring me, waiting for pity, but I keep my smile small and steady. Just enough to tell him I see him. That I’m not pulling away.
Then I lean back, grab a roll off the plate, and tear into it with exaggerated drama. “Besides,” I say around a mouthful, “this is way better than burnt rolls anyway.”
For the first time since the question left my lips, his mouth twitches.
“Starling,” he mutters, shaking his head and dry humor pulling at his lips.
I grin, chewing slowly, letting the moment breathe. God, I like him. I know it’s a bad idea in every possible way, but I can’t stop. And the more I learn about him, the harder it is to even try.
We polish off most of the food, the kind of comfortable silence that only comes after a good meal settling between us. I’m stuffed, warm, and just a little happy that I pulled this off.
Then I spot the cabinet near the window—the one crammed full of random board games left behind by students over the years. A grin stretches across my face before I can stop it.
“Game time,” I announce, pushing back from the table.
Max raises a brow. “Game time? You really like games don’t you?”
“These kinds, definitely. The mind games some people play, not at all.”
The side of his mouth quirks into a half smile, but he stays quiet as I dig through the cabinet. I pull out Jenga—fun for two people, unlike chess, which I’d probably lose at.
As I set the box on the table, Max asks, “Did you ever grow up?”
I flash him a grin. “Are you saying games are just for kids?”
He just shrugs, watching me stack the tower.
“I’ll have you know,” I say, wagging a block at him, “people who play more live longer. They should’ve taught you that in medical school.”
He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s a real thing.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.” I slide a block free and balance it carefully on top, giving him a smug look. “Stress comes from taking life too seriously. Stress is terrible for your body. Ergo—” I sweep my hand over the tower like I’m delivering gospel. “Jenga saves lives.”
This time, his laugh comes easier, spilling out warmer, and I can’t help the little thrill it sends through me.
We trade turns in silence at first, the scrape of wood blocks the only sound. But then Max’s piece sticks halfway, and I lean forward, chin propped on my fist.
“Careful,” I murmur, eyes wide with mock seriousness. “Lives are at stake here.”
He snorts, easing the block free, and I pounce. “See? Already healthier. You laughed. That’s at least three extra years added to your lifespan.”
“Three?” He arches a brow, sliding the block onto the top of the tower. “That’s very precise.”
“I don’t make the rules,” I say.
It earns me another huff of amusement, but then the tower wobbles on his next turn, tipping precariously before settling again. He lets out a sharp breath, muttering something under it, and I laugh so hard my shoulders shake.
And then it happens—his laugh follows mine. Not the quiet exhale he usually gives me, but a full one, just like earlier. Deep, rich, breaking loose as though he forgot to hold it back. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his whole face lighting in a way that makes my stomach do a flip.
I stop pretending to care about the tower. My grin lightens as I watch him, committing the sound to memory. “I like this version of you,” I say.
The blocks tumble down between us, scattering across the table, but neither of us moves to pick them up.
His smile fades a little, his jaw tightening as if he’s not sure what to do with what I just handed him. For a second, I think he’s going to shut down completely, retreat behind that wall he always builds.
But he doesn’t.
He shifts in his chair, clears his throat, and looks away, the tips of his ears going pink. “Don’t get used to it,” he mutters, voice gruff but not sharp.
I grin, leaning back, heart knocking against my ribs. “Too late.”
He doesn’t look at me, but he doesn’t pull back either. And that, for Max Calder, feels like the biggest win of all.
By the time night settles outside, I’ve lost track of the hours. The food’s gone, the games are packed away, and we’re back in my room with only the glow of Christmas lights throwing soft gold across the walls.
It feels as if the whole day has passed in fast-forward—laughing, eating, watching him relax piece by piece until I almost forgot that Grinch-Calder exists under all that broody armor. Almost.
Now it’s quiet. Too quiet. I’m stretched out across my bed, watching him sitting there on the edge like he’s debating the fate of the world. His hoodie’s half unzipped, his hands flexing as if he can’t decide whether to shove them in his pockets or push himself up to leave.
My chest tightens. Because this is it, isn’t it? The part where he decides—stay or go.
I grin, trying to keep the mood light even though my stomach’s a mess of nerves. “You know,” I say, voice casual, “there’s room under the blanket. Not saying you have to, but… I don’t bite.”
He looks at me, green eyes unreadable, and I swear the air between us crackles.
If he goes, I’ll deal. I’ll tuck today away as the best Thanksgiving detour I could’ve asked for. But God, I hope he stays.
He clears his throat, low and rough, and my grin falters before he even speaks.
“I had a good day,” he says, his eyes fixed somewhere near the floor instead of me. “Better than I expected. But… Eli—we can’t be a thing. Whatever this is—”
The words sting, sharp and heavy, but I knew they were coming. With Max, there are always walls. Always rules.
So I nod, even though my chest is aching. “I know,” I say, keeping my voice soft, steady. “I’m not asking for forever.”
That gets his attention—his gaze snaps to mine, surprise flickering there as if I’ve just shifted the ground under his feet.
“Just…” I shrug, trying to look nonchalant even though my heart’s racing. “Give me these few days. Just us. No labels, no promises, no strings. We’ll call it a non-thing. And it can end on Sunday if that’s what you want.”
His jaw tightens as he fights himself. I don’t push. I just hold his gaze, letting him see that I mean it—that I’ll take whatever time he’s willing to give me.
Because even if it hurts later, I’d rather have three more days of Max Calder than none at all.
His jaw works, eyes flicking away for a second, attempting to find the right words—or maybe trying to swallow them back down.
When he finally speaks, it’s barely more than a whisper. “Yeah… alright.”
Relief crashes through me so fast I almost sag against the pillows. I keep my grin small, careful, I don’t want to spook him, but inside I’m lit up like one of the strings of lights on my wall.
“Good,” I say, keeping my tone breezy. “Non-thing secured. Ends Sunday. Totally reasonable arrangement.”
He huffs out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, and drags a hand over his face. Then, finally, he shifts—kicking off his shoes, shrugging his hoodie off, and sliding under the blanket beside me.
The mattress dips with his weight, the warmth of him immediately seeping into me, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot.
Three days. That’s all I asked for. But right now, with Max beside me in my bed, it feels like more than I ever thought I’d get.