TERMS OF ATTRACTION

CHAPTER 7: NICE?? OR...

Max scraped the last of the $900 gourmet disaster into the trash can, gagging slightly as the scent of over-seasoned truffle and chalky saffron wafted up. He was genuinely astonished that Simon had managed to swallow that first bite without collapsing on the spot. Granted, Simon was currently still in the restroom dealing with the aftermath.

"Exaggerate much?" Max yelled toward the hallway, trying to salvage his bruised ego.

He marched into his bedroom, threw himself face-first onto the mattress, and spent the next twenty minutes rolling around, trying to find a comfortable position that didn't make his empty stomach complain.

Eventually, the hunger won. Max dragged himself off the bed and stepped back into the hallway. The bathroom light was finally off—meaning Simon had successfully survived the ordeal and vacated the premises. Max scoffed under his breath and made his way toward the living room.

As soon as he stepped into the wide, open-concept space, he was greeted by the unmistakable, savory aroma of a perfectly normal, edible dinner. Max snapped his head toward the coffee table. Simon was sitting comfortably on the long sofa, casually eating from his diner takeout container while typing away unbothered on his laptop. He didn't even look up when Max entered.

Max scoffed again, louder this time, and pivoted into the kitchen area. He ripped open the refrigerator door, grabbed a cold bottle of water, and cracked the cap open with an aggressive twist. He took a slow, deliberate sip, glaring at Simon over the rim of the plastic bottle, waiting for a comment. Simon remained entirely locked into his screen.

Defeated, Max retreated to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He set the water bottle down on the nightstand next to the lamp, fell backward onto his bed, and jammed his new high-fidelity headphones over his ears. He turned up the volume, blasting a heavy bassline to drown out his thoughts, but even with the active noise cancellation dialed to maximum, he could still clearly hear the hollow rumble of his own stomach.

He unlocked his phone to check the time. 9:14 PM.

"This is going to be a long night," Max muttered, pulling the covers over his head and eventually drifting off into an uneasy sleep.

After what felt like the longest, most agonizingly deep nap known to man, Max’s eyes snapped open. He felt like he had been asleep for days. He reached for his phone, squinting against the bright screen to check the time.

9:14 PM had crawled to 11:15 PM. Exactly two hours.

Max tightly held the urge to hurl his expensive smartphone straight through the drywall. Instead, he grabbed a pillow, stuffed his face into the fabric, and screamed as loud as his lungs would allow.

Breathing heavily, he sat up on the edge of the bed and snatched the water bottle from the nightstand. He took a massive, desperate gulp to trick his body into feeling full—which turned out to be a horrific mistake. The sudden influx of cold fluid hit his empty digestive tract, causing his stomach to let out a loud, echoing, deeply violent growl.

Max threw the covers aside and stood up from the bed. He marched out of his room with no specific destination in mind, fueled by nothing but a pure, unadulterated determination to eat whatever he could find. Simon would just have to kill him in the morning. Frankly, Max decided he would rather face execution by serving spoon than die of starvation; dying because you couldn't cook was far too much of a poor, embarrassing way to leave this world.

He groaned quietly, rubbing his stomach as he crept down the hallway. "I should have just bought the food rather than tried to..."

He trailed off as he entered the dark, spacious living room. The apartment was completely quiet now, the only illumination coming from the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the large windows. Max's eyes locked onto the kitchen counter like a predator tracking prey.There, sitting right under the soft overhead light, was a takeout container. Knowing Simon's hyper-organized nature, he wasn't the type to just leave dirty dishes lying around—which meant there had to be actual food inside.

Max raced towards the counter like he was competing in a high-stakes sprint. He roughly pulled open the plastic cover, and his eyes widened. It was a complete, completely untouched meal. A sudden realization clicked in his brain: there had been another takeout container on the table when he had first come out to get his bottle of water. Simon had bought an extra one.

Without spending a single second wondering if this was supposed to be Simon’s breakfast for tomorrow, Max grabbed a fork and began absolutely devouring the food.

"You don't need to wake the neighbors up with your chewing, Max. Try to show some class."

Stunned, Max froze mid-chew, his mouth completely full. He slowly turned his head toward the dark living room and realized that Simon was still sitting on the long sofa. The dim glow of the laptop screen illuminated his face as he closed the lid and prepared to stand up. He had been sitting there the entire time.

Simon walked past the kitchen area, not even looking at Max as he headed toward the hallway. "Keep it down," he added flatly.

Max just stood there entirely frozen, a fork suspended in mid-air, watching Simon’s door click shut. He swallowed his food slowly, his mind trying to process what had just happened. Simon hadn't gotten mad. He hadn't brought out the heavy metal spoon. Simon had deliberately bought a second dinner, left it on the counter, and waited in the dark just to make sure he didn't starve to death.

A small, genuine smile cracked across Max’s face as he looked down at the savory takeout. He took another massive bite, realizing that his strict, no-nonsense landlord might actually have a heart after all.

Max continued chunking down the food, though he consciously made an effort to chew less loudly this time. But in his desperate, hurried pace, a piece of the meal went down the wrong pipe. Out of nowhere, Max choked, letting out a series of violent, echoing coughs that shattered the midnight silence of the apartment.

Panicking, he lunged toward the refrigerator, yanked the door open, grabbed a fresh bottle of water, and began gulping it down frantically until his throat finally cleared.

The click of a doorknob echoed down the hall. Simon stepped out of his bedroom, standing under the dim hallway light with his arms crossed.

"I literally just told you to keep it down," Simon said, his voice dripping with flat irritation.

Max wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, chest still heaving. "I didn't mean to be loud! I literally almost just choked to death."

"I don't care," Simon replied evenly. "Keep it down nonetheless."

Max stared at him, genuinely offended. "You could show a little more concern, you know. I could have died right here on your kitchen tiles!"

Simon didn't even blink behind his glasses. "Then die more quietly next time."

Without waiting for a response, Simon turned around, walked back into his room, and shut the door.

Max just stood there completely stunned, the half-empty water bottle clutched in his hand. He looked at the kitchen counter, utterly bewildered, wondering if that was actually the same person who had been caring enough to leave an extra takeout meal out for him in the first place.

Max snatched up his container, grabbed his water, and marched back into his own bedroom.

"Motherfucker," he groaned under his breath, intentionally shutting his bedroom door with a loud, aggressive slam.

The next morning, the apartment was flooded with early sunlight, melting away the dramatic tension of the night before. Simon was already up, fully dressed in his crisp corporate attire, standing by the kitchen counter as the coffee maker hummed and dripped.

Max emerged from his room a few minutes later, yawning deeply as he rubbed his eyes. He walked into the kitchen area, his gaze instantly tracking to the counter. There, resting right next to the coffee machine, was the empty plastic takeout container from his midnight raid—now completely cleaned, dried, and stacked neatly on a pile of tupperware.

Simon didn't say a word. He just picked up his freshly brewed mug, took a slow sip, and gave the empty container a pointed, lingering look before looking up to lock eyes with Max.

Max cleared his throat, suddenly remembering his dramatic exit from the night before. He offered a small, slightly sheepish shrug. "Look, the infrastructure of that diner meal was structurally sound. It saved a life. You can... put it on my tab."

Simon let out a long, heavy sigh, setting his mug down with a soft click. "Your tab is currently funding a high-end electronics store and a local garbage dump, Max. At this rate, you're going to owe me a literal Lamborghini by the end of the quarter."

"You know, you were incredibly rude last night," Max countered, leaning against the counter. "Granted, you got me takeout and stayed up late for me, but still."

Simon let out a sharp, amused laugh.

"You give me far too much credit, Max. I don't care for you that much," Simon said, adjusting his glasses. "The takeout was initially my breakfast. I only left it out on the counter just in case, considering your absolute culinary disaster of a dinner and I was working late not waiting for you. Anyways my plan was to put it back in the fridge if you didn't come out before I was finished with my work. You were just fortunate enough to stumble out at the exact perfect time."

Max flashed a knowing, stubborn grin. "All I'm hearing is that you care."

Simon rolled his eyes, utterly exhausted by the logic. He grabbed his briefcase from the sofa, heading straight toward the apartment door.

"Not even a goodbye or a 'see you later'?" Max called out, smiling at his roommate's stiff posture.

Simon stopped at the threshold, turning back with a flat expression. "It doesn't even matter, because I'm going to see you in thirty minutes anyway. Not that I'd say it even if we weren't going to see each other for a year." He opened the door, then paused, looking Max up and down. "By the way, remember you're the boss."

Max blinked, looking down at his messy sleepwear. "So?"

"You aren't even dressed," Simon said flatly.

And with that, he walked out, the front door clicking shut behind him.

The realization suddenly dawned on Max. He froze, his eyes widening as he glanced at the kitchen clock. Panic instantly flared in his chest, and he made a sudden, frantic jump toward his bedroom to scramble for a suit—but stopped dead in his tracks after two steps.

He slowed down, smoothing down his rumpled shirt, a look of smug satisfaction returning to his face.

"Wait," Max muttered to himself, a slow grin spreading across his lips. "I'm the boss. I can be a little bit late." He smirked to himself. "Nice try, Simon. Your little attempt to rile me up won't work."