Chapter 30 Max
THIRTY
MAX
Eli’s pressed to the window, beanie tugged low, hoodie swallowing him whole. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, the way his knee bounces and his breath fogs the glass like a little kid.
“Do you think you could jump on them?” he asks suddenly, nodding toward the clouds outside. “Like—if you fell, would it be soft? They look like pillows.”
I drag my gaze off him, because I’ve been staring too long already, and lean back in my seat with a grunt. “They’re just water vapor, Starling. You’d go straight through and keep falling. Not exactly a soft landing.”
He twists toward me, eyes wide, staring at me like I just ruined Santa for him. “So no giant pillow fort in the sky?”
“Only if you like your pillow fort at terminal velocity,” I deadpan.
“You don’t know that. You’ve never tried.”
“I’m pretty sure gravity works the same for everyone, Princess.”
That earns me the smile—the one that makes his eyes crinkle and my chest feel too small. “Grinch logic,” he says, then nudges my arm until I glance at him again. “You could at least pretend with me. Just once.”
I glance at him again despite myself. “Fine. Pillows. Biggest, softest pillows you’ve ever seen. Happy now?”
His whole face lights up. “See? Was that so hard?”
Yeah. Harder than he’ll ever know. Because here, thousands of feet in the air with no one watching, no team, no coaches, no rules—he’s not just the guy I should keep my distance from. He’s the man beside me, and it feels too easy to imagine this being real.
“Feels weird,” he murmurs after a beat, voice quieter than his usual sunshine self. “Being out here where no one knows us. Like we could…you know. Just be.”
His words lodge in my throat, similar to what he already said earlier, but no teasing edge to them, and they do things to me.
Dangerous, hopeful things. I don’t answer right away because I don’t trust what might come out if I do.
Instead, I shift slightly, letting my hand fall between us on the armrest. Close enough that if he wants, he can close the gap.
It takes him less than five seconds. His pinkie hooks mine, feather-light, hidden from anyone glancing our way.
I glance down at our hands, then up at him. He’s staring straight out the window at the clouds like it’s nothing. But the corner of his mouth tips up just enough to undo me.
I should pull away. I don’t. I don’t think I can.
Instead, I lean closer, my voice low, meant for him alone. “Don’t fall through the pillows, Starling.”
His shoulders shake with silent laughter, and he turns just enough that our eyes lock. He smiles brightly at me and then looks back out the window. “Not without you, Calder.”
And for the first time ever, I let myself pretend this—him, us—could be real.
“You ever fly when you were a kid?” he asks, voice pitched low. “I used to look out the window and make shapes. Like, that one—” He points to a cloud in the distance. “Totally a dragon. A friendly one though, not, like, Game of Thrones murder-dragon.”
I grunt. “Looks more like a chicken.”
His laugh bursts out, too bright, drawing a glance from the woman across the aisle a row ahead. He lowers his voice again, leaning close. “You’re impossible, Calder.”
“And you’re a child trapped in a grown man’s body,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. My chest feels too tight for that. The way he looks at the world—like it’s full of magic I forgot existed—is one of the things I love most about him.
There it is again. Love. The word that should send me running the other way. But it doesn’t. It feels…right. Too right.
He shifts, propping his chin on his fist, and his eyes don’t leave me. Like I’m the better view. Like I’m worth staring at.
It does something violent to my ribs.
So I lean in, closing the space a fraction, my gaze dipping to his mouth. His eyes widen, just barely, but enough to tell me he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Are we in public? Yeah. But if no one here knows us, why the hell should it matter?
I drag in a breath, look back out the window at the endless sky, and force out, “You sure you’re ready for three weeks of this?”
He tilts his head, curious. “Of what?”
I turn back to him, my voice dropping low. “Not sneaking around.” I let the words hang there, heavy with everything I mean. Then, before I can overthink it, I thread my fingers fully through his, where they rest on the armrest. “Holding hands in public.”
His breath hitches, lips parting.
“Kissing,” I add, softer, leaning in until my mouth brushes his. “Doing everything we can’t on campus.”
And then I close the last inch, pressing a kiss to his lips—soft, slow, nothing to hide. Just us, thirty thousand feet in the air, finally allowed to exist.
And it feels so fucking freeing that I’m grinning when I pull back.
Eli blinks at me, a little stunned, and I can’t help myself—I tap his nose with my finger, then use the same hand to tilt his chin up, holding his gaze steady.
“I’m going to enjoy every second,” I murmur.
A smile wavers on his mouth, his eyes glossing with something he blinks away before it can spill. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice soft but sure. “Me too.”
Eli’s still got my hand tangled in his, thumb sketching lazy circles like he can’t sit still without touching me. He tips his head toward me, beanie slipping back, and smiles.
“Bet you’re dying inside, though,” he says.
I arch a brow. “Why?”
“Because you’re stuck in a tin can for two hours with me humming carols.” His lips twitch like he’s already amused by my answer.
I grunt. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
He snorts and bumps his knee into mine, clearly not buying it. A minute later, he’s opening the little packet of pretzels they handed out, splitting them in half and shoving the smaller pile toward me.
“Seriously?” I ask, side-eyeing the sad excuse for a snack.
“Sharing’s festive,” he shoots back, popping one into his mouth. “Besides, you need to work on your holiday spirit. If you think I’m bad, wait until you meet my mom.”
I shake my head, but when he grins at me with salt on his lip, I catch myself reaching over, thumb brushing it away before I can think better of it. His breath hitches, soft, and for a second, the noise of the plane drops out.
Neither of us moves.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “People might think you like me.”
I lean just close enough that my breath stirs his curls that stick out the bottom and sides of his beanie. “They’d be right.”
He goes quiet, pink high in his cheeks, and I know I’ve stunned him again. It makes me smirk, a little smug, but when he finally laughs—quiet and warm—it’s worth everything.
The jolt of the landing gear still rattles in my bones as we file off the plane, the crowd funneling us toward baggage claim. Eli’s practically bouncing beside me, beanie low, curls escaping anyway. His energy is like static in the air, impossible not to catch.
And then I see her. A woman with Eli’s same bright grin, standing on tiptoe and waving like she’s been waiting forever. Beside her is a girl younger than him—high school, maybe—with matching curls and a sign in her hand that says WELCOME HOME, STARLING in glittery letters.
Before I can blink, Eli’s running forward. His mom sweeps him into her arms, squeezing him so tight I can almost feel it from here. Her laughter echoes across the carousel, pure joy. Sunshine. Yeah—now I know exactly where he gets it from.
I hang back a step, awkward as hell, suddenly hyperaware that I don’t belong in this picture. I’m just the extra. The… what? The trainer? The secret?
But then she’s looking at me. Eyes warm, soft, the kind of look a parent hasn’t given me in years. She lets Eli go and comes straight for me, arms open.
Before I can even decide what to do, she’s hugging me. Full-body, real hug, like she’s known me for years. Like she already decided I’m hers too.
“We’re so glad you could come with Eli,” she says, and the way she says with Eli twists something low in my chest. Boyfriend-territory obvious. It’s in her tone, her eyes, everything. “Welcome to South Carolina, Max. I’m Ava, but you can call me Mom.”
I clear my throat, my arms finally wrapping around her because I can’t not. My voice feels rough when I manage, “Thanks for having me.”
She pulls back with a grin that’s pure Eli. “Any friend of my son’s is family.”
Behind her, Eli’s watching me, cheeks pink, eyes shining. As though he knows exactly how much this means.
And for once, I can’t even fight the warmth curling through me.
Eli’s mom herds us toward the exit with that same unstoppable cheer Eli has when he’s teasing me into another Christmas movie. The humid air hits as soon as we step outside—South Carolina warmth wrapping around me, chasing the Michigan cold right out of my bones.
“Home sweet home,” Eli says, throwing his arm around his mom and kissing the top of her head before helping load the bags into the back of a tan SUV that’s seen some years but smells faintly like vanilla air freshener and home.
I climb into the back seat beside him, trying to make myself smaller, but there’s not much space. Our knees brush, and neither of us moves away.
Eli’s little sister twists around in the front passenger seat, her curls bouncing. “So you’re Max Calder,” she says, voice full of curiosity and teenage certainty. “You’re the athletic trainer, right? You help my brother not break himself in half?”
Eli groans, elbowing me lightly. “Ignore her. She Googles everyone.”
She ignores him right back. “Do you play hockey, too? Are you from Michigan? Do you like Christmas?”
“Jules,” Eli’s mom says, half-scolding, half-laughing.
My pulse stutters, but her grin is so open, so much like Eli’s that I can’t even be embarrassed. “Uh,” I say, fumbling for an answer that doesn’t give away everything but doesn’t lie either. “No to Michigan. I used to play in high school. And… I’m learning to like Christmas.”
Jules squints at me like she’s weighing that last one. “Learning? What, do you hate joy or something?”
Eli’s laughing beside me now, shoulders shaking, and I can’t help it—I laugh too. “I don’t hate joy,” I say, turning a little toward her. “Just… never had much reason to get into the whole holiday thing. Your brother’s trying to fix that.”
She beams. “Oh, he will. He’s the worst about Christmas. You’re gonna be singing carols by the end of the week.”
Eli cuts in before she can say more, voice dry. “Pretty sure I’ve already tried that.”
I glance at him then, and for a heartbeat, the car feels too small. He’s looking at me with that quiet warmth that says Yeah, I know you, and I can’t even pretend I don’t want to kiss him right here.
Instead, I clear my throat and look out the window as the neighborhood rolls by—soft golden light spilling through trees, and houses dressed in twinkling lights. The kind of peaceful I haven’t felt in years.
Eli’s hand finds mine between us, palm warm and sure. He doesn’t hide it. Not even for a second. His fingers slip through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like this is normal, like we’re normal.
And his mom doesn’t say a word. She just glances in the rearview mirror, sees our joined hands, and smiles. Soft. Knowing.
Something in my chest loosens at that. The kind of ache that’s lived there for years starts to ease, like it finally got permission to breathe.
I squeeze his hand once, firm, grounding myself in the moment.
Outside the window, the roads blur by in a wash of sunlight. Jules hums along to the Christmas song on the radio, half off-key, half perfect, and Eli laughs under his breath, thumb brushing slow circles over my knuckles.
And for the first time, maybe ever, I let myself sink into it. The warmth. The music. The family that just accepts.
Maybe home doesn’t have to hurt.
Maybe it can look like this—his fingers laced through mine, his mom humming, and me not flinching for once.