Chapter 32 Max
THIRTY-TWO
MAX
Eli’s hand finds mine beneath the table, fingers squeezing once before he lets go. The gesture is small, hidden, but it’s enough to anchor me.
The house hums around us—silverware clinking, laughter spilling from one end of the table to the other.
His mom moves in and out of conversation like she’s hosting a talk show, his dad cracks jokes that make his sister roll her eyes, and somewhere in between it all, I remember what it feels like to breathe.
I pick up my glass, take a sip of the sweet tea she poured me, and nearly choke. Jesus. That’s not tea. That’s liquified sugar with a personality crisis.
No wonder Eli’s got a sweet tooth. He was raised on this stuff.
He catches my expression and grins, eyes dancing with mischief. “Good, right?”
“It’s… potent,” I manage, and that makes his mom, Ava, laugh.
“Oh, honey, that’s the light version,” she says, beaming like she’s proud of it. “We didn’t even put the full two cups in this time. Eli said you don’t like as much sugar as he does.”
“Two—” I stop myself, glancing between them. They’re serious. “Right. Yeah. It’s great.”
And weirdly enough, it is. Maybe not the tea, exactly—but the way this table feels. The way everything hums with comfort and noise and affection. It’s not a kind of love I’ve ever been part of, but it’s a kind I recognize deep down. The kind that doesn’t make you earn your seat.
Jules—Eli’s sister, all sharp blue eyes the same color as his and unfiltered curiosity—leans her elbows on the table and points her fork at me. “So, Max,” she says, “what exactly do you do? Eli just says you ‘fix people.’ Which sounds like a cover story for a spy or a hitman.”
Across from her, Eli groans. “Jules, I thought you’d grow out of being annoying by now—”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Athletic trainer. I work with the hockey team—injuries, recovery, prevention. Basically, I make sure they stay in one piece.”
Her brow furrows. “So you’re like a doctor, but cooler?”
That earns a laugh from Eli’s dad, Brett. “Careful, Jules. Don’t undersell the man.”
“Yeah,” Eli chimes in, bumping my knee under the table. “He’s the reason I haven’t fallen apart yet.”
There’s pride in his voice. Simple. Unapologetic. It knocks something loose in my chest.
His mom refills my glass before I can stop her. “We’re glad you came with him, Max. It’s nice having someone new at the table.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “It’s… nice to be here.”
The conversation keeps going—Jules teasing Eli about his messy apartment, his dad offering to “train” with me sometime, which I’m fairly certain means tossing a football until one of us pulls a muscle. It’s all noise and movement, but beneath it, I can feel something deeper taking root.
I haven’t had this in years. Maybe ever. A table where no one’s waiting to explode. Where laughter doesn’t hide a threat.
I glance at Eli. He’s laughing at something his sister said, head tipped back, light catching in his eyes—and I swear, for the first time in my life, I understand what home might actually mean.
He catches me looking. Just smiles, soft and knowing, like he can feel every thought unraveling in my head.
And I let myself smile back.
For once, I don’t fight it.
The sink’s full of warm, soapy water, and it feels good against my hands—something to do, something that keeps me from thinking too much.
Eli’s beside me, towel slung over his shoulder, humming under his breath while he dries.
He hums the same way he talks: loud, a little off-key, completely unbothered. It makes the small kitchen feel alive.
I pass him a plate, and he brushes my fingers when he takes it. Probably an accident. Probably. My pulse doesn’t get the memo.
“You don’t have to help,” he says, grinning. “Mom’ll think you’re trying to win her over.”
“Maybe I am,” I mutter, rinsing another dish.
He bumps my hip with his, water sloshing onto the counter. “You already did. She made extra pie just for you, didn’t you notice?”
I glance over at the pie cooling on the counter, still half warm, and shake my head. “That woman’s dangerous with the sugar.”
“You have no idea.”
The sound of his mom’s voice makes both of us look up. She’s leaning against the doorway, towel from cleaning off the table still in hand, eyes soft and knowing. “Y’all don’t have to do all that. Leave a few for me and your dad. How about dessert out instead?”
Eli perks up instantly. “The custard place?”
“Of course. They’ve still got the peppermint swirl flavor,” she says, smiling at him like he’s ten years old again. Then she glances at me. “You up for a drive, Max?”
I should say no. I should probably draw the line somewhere before I start believing I belong here. But Eli’s already looking at me—hopeful, bright, expectant.
And the truth is, I want it. All of it. This whole chaotic, sugar-soaked world that built him.
“Yeah,” I say, drying my hands on a dish towel. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Eli’s grin could light the whole damn kitchen. “You’re in for it now. They do whipped cream mountains and sprinkles like it’s a religion.”
I arch a brow. “Whipped cream mountains?”
“You’ll see.” He tosses the towel onto the counter and snags my wrist, tugging me toward the door with an energy that could drag the whole world behind it.
And as we follow his mom out into the cool Carolina night, I realize something I probably shouldn’t—something dangerous.
I want to belong here in his perfect little life. Every second here feels too easy. Too good.
And I’m starting to want it all.
The custard shop glows like a beacon on the corner of Main Street—red-and-green lights strung across the windows, holiday music spilling faintly through the open door. It smells like sugar and toasted waffle cones, like childhood summers pretending to last forever.
Inside, the place is packed, buzzing with chatter and laughter. Eli fits into it instantly. He waves to the girl behind the counter, knows her by name, and orders like it’s a sacred ritual: peppermint swirl soft serve, extra whipped cream, and the biggest cone you’ve got.
I keep my order simple. Vanilla custard in a cup. Which earns me a look of pure betrayal.
“Boring,” he declares, grinning up at me. “You’re getting sprinkles.”
“I am not.”
He doesn’t listen. Of course, he doesn’t. By the time we reach the counter, he’s already charmed the server into dumping half a rainbow on my custard. His mom’s laughing, his dad’s shaking his head fondly, and his sister’s trying to take a picture of the entire thing.
I pay, because it feels like the only thing I can control, and follow them to a booth near the back. Eli slides in beside me, pressed close enough that our thighs touch.
“This,” he says around his first bite, “is the real South Carolina holiday experience.”
Ava—Mom—smirks. “The sugar rush is tradition.”
Jules grins. “You’ll know you did it right if you’re vibrating by the time we get home.”
I’m mid-laugh when Eli points his cone at me. “You’ve got a little something—” He gestures vaguely at his own chin.
Before I can grab a napkin, he leans in and licks the spot clean.
Right there. In front of his entire family.
“Mmmm, sweet,” he murmurs with a huge smile.
For a split second, the world freezes. I can feel every nerve in my body lock up, waiting for something—awkward silence, discomfort, maybe even disapproval or anger.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, his mom bursts out laughing, his dad’s grin widens, and Jules cackles, clapping her hands.
“Well,” Brett says, voice full of humor, “guess we know who’s claiming that cone.”
My face is burning, but the sound—the warmth—it’s not mocking. It’s joy. It’s family teasing each other the way families are supposed to.
Eli leans back against me, smug and unrepentant. “Told you it’s part of the tradition.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. Real, unguarded laughter that shakes out of me like something I didn’t know I’d been holding in.
And when his mom slides her spoon into my cup for a taste, teasing me about “sharing nicely,” I let her. Because for the first time in a long damn while, I’m not braced for impact.
When I look down at Eli—his cheeks flushed, eyes shining—I know exactly why.
Because here, with him, I don’t have to hide.
And I don’t want to ever go back to pretending I do.
By the time the custard is half gone, the booth feels smaller—warmer, closer.
I’m not sure if it’s because the heat’s blasting too high or because Eli keeps brushing against me like he’s testing how far I’ll go.
His thigh presses to mine. His hand rests on the bench between us until his pinky hooks around mine.
He’s not subtle about it, but no one seems to care.
His mom’s telling some story about Eli as a kid—something involving a sled, a sprinkler, lots of mud, and an emergency room visit—and I can’t stop grinning. Eli groans beside me, his head dropping onto my shoulder.
“Mom,” he whines, his voice muffled against my hoodie, “you’re ruining my mystique.”
“You don’t have mystique,” Jules says dryly, licking her spoon. “You have chaos.”
Eli peeks up at her with a glare that’s all brotherly menace, but his hand slides fully into mine under the table, fingers threading through mine with quiet confidence. And I don’t pull away. Not this time.
It’s the smallest thing—a shared space, a touch, a moment that no one calls out—and I swear it’s everything.
Because no one here is flinching. No one’s whispering or pretending not to see. They’re just… letting us exist.
When Eli tilts his head up again, he’s smiling at me. “You’re smiling,” he murmurs, so quietly that it’s for me alone.
“Don’t get used to it,” I say, but my thumb finds the inside of his wrist and strokes once, slowly. His pulse jumps beneath it.
“Too late,” he teases.
And then, because he’s Eli, he leans up and kisses the corner of my mouth. It’s quick, soft, sticky with peppermint custard—and the world doesn’t fall apart. His mom just laughs. Jules wolf-whistles. His dad pretends to groan but can’t hide his smile.
For once, I don’t look away. I just kiss him back, quick and sure, before settling an arm around his shoulders.
“Gross,” Jules mutters, snickering.
“Jealous,” Eli shoots back, stealing my spoon and a bite of my custard like he owns me.
I let him. Because maybe he does.
The drive back is quieter, but not in a bad way. The windows fog with warmth, soft music hums low through the speakers, and Eli’s head lolls against my shoulder before we’re even halfway home. His fingers rest loosely in mine, our hands tucked between our thighs.
Outside, the world blurs by—trees and storefront lights and the kind of Southern winter night that still smells like grass instead of snow.
From the driver’s seat, his mom hums along to the radio. His dad’s telling her something about a neighbor’s broken porch light, voice calm, content. Family talk. Ordinary talk.
And I want to be part of it. I want this to last longer than a holiday. Longer than borrowed time.
Eli shifts beside me, murmuring something half-asleep. His hand squeezes mine. I press a kiss to the top of his head before I can stop myself.
Ava catches my eye in the rearview mirror. She doesn’t say a word—just smiles, soft and knowing, like she’s already seen this story unfold before.
I look away, back to Eli, and breathe him in. Peppermint and warmth and everything I didn’t know I was missing.
I think I could stay right here forever.