Page 55 of The Order of Disorder

Another pause, with only the sound of the fan humming in the corner, the dull roar of the party behind it. But his fingers tuck around mine until he’s holding my hand.

“You never do,” I whisper. “Lose yourself, I mean.”

“That’s not always a bad thing.”

“No,” I admit. “But sometimes I wonder what you’d be like if you did.”

“Max,” he says in that same voice he used last night. The warning.

I turn toward him, propping myself up on my elbow, my other hand still held against his chest, rising and falling with his breathing. “Don’t you ever just…want something?”

He takes a deep, heavy breath, his chest rising high and falling under his black t-shirt. He uncurls his fingers and pats my hand before moving his away.

“We’ve both had a lot to drink. We should get some sleep.”

But I don’t move, or roll over. Instead, I let my fingers trail up to the collar of his shirt, and brush them over the skin of his neck, just wanting to touch him. To feel his skin.

“Max.” A hoarse whisper but no movement.

“It would be so easy for you,” I murmur. “If you wanted me. We play a couple in front of everyone else. You could’ve had me, any time. And I guess I just wonder why you…don’t want to.”

He closes his eyes close for a second, brows knit deeply, and sighs. When he opens them and looks at me, they’re clear, bright blue.

“You’ve been through a lot, Max. I don’t know the half of it. I would never do anything to make you feel less than a hundred percent safe and protected.”

“Right.” I force a smile. “Of course. Because I’m fragile.”

He opens his mouth, maybe to protest, but I shake my head before he can.

“Maybe I just want to feel something good. Something real. With someone I trust.”

His jaw works for a second, like he’s trying to find the right words and deciding against most of them.

When he speaks, his voice is rough. “You’re not fragile. You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.”

Then he looks at me again—really looks—and I see it: the guilt, the want, the weight of everything he’s been carrying since we got here.

His hand brushes against mine again. A breath of contact. “I was there at the beginning. With you. With Ryder. It’s hard to forget how all this started.”

The wound tears at me, a black hole at my center tugging everything toward it.

“But Ryder’s gone,” I counter, pushing away the yawning black hole. The grief. “We’re still here. And we’re all each other has.”

“I’m old enough to be your father.”

“I don’t care.”

He doesn’t answer.

He watches me, the air between us thick and charged in a way it never has been before. And then he lifts his hand—slow, like it takes effort—and touches my face. His thumb brushes just beneath my eye, across the curve of my cheek.

I lean in until our mouths are close enough to share the same breath and pause there, waiting for him to stop me, or move. Buthe doesn’t do either, so I press my lips to his. The barest, testing brush.

His hand slides up, fingers threading into my hair. “Max,” he breathes. It sounds like a plea. Like he’s seconds from unraveling.

I pull back just enough to look at him. His jaw is tight, like he’s grinding down every last ounce of control.

“I’m trying,” he says hoarsely. “Believe me, I’m trying.”