CHAPTER FIVE
1172 Words
~ Avery’s POV ~
Saturday mornings used to mean brunch with her mom or scrolling through t****k while lounging in bed. Now, they meant creaky floors, the smell of Cheryl’s cinnamon pancakes, and trying to avoid Max like it wasn’t a full-time job.
Avery sat at the kitchen table, staring at her plate. Her fork idly pushed syrup around, catching golden reflections in the morning sun. Her dad had already left for a weekend shift, and Cheryl had vanished into the garden, humming off-key as she clipped roses.
She thought she had the kitchen to herself. Until she heard the unmistakable creak of the stairs.
Her body tensed.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. Then Max appeared, barefoot and disheveled, hoodie half-zipped over a plain black tee. His hair was a chaotic mess like he’d just rolled out of bed and given up on fixing it.
He didn’t look at her. Just shuffled to the fridge and pulled it open like she wasn’t even there.
“You’re not a morning person,” she said, her voice soft but dry.
Max grunted. “I’m barely a person in the morning.”
Avery cracked a grin despite herself. “Same.”
He grabbed the orange juice and drank straight from the carton, pausing only to glance sideways at her like he dared her to comment.
“Seriously?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “That’s disgusting.”
He shrugged. “You gonna drink it?”
She hesitated. “No…”
“Then it’s fine.” He smirked.
She shook her head, pretending to be appalled, but the truth was—he made her laugh. Not in a loud, obvious way, but the kind of laugh that tugged at the corners of her mouth when she didn’t mean to.
He grabbed a pancake straight off the plate with his hands, ignoring the syrup and butter like a savage. “What are you doing today?”
The question caught her off guard. He never asked her stuff like that. “Uh… I was thinking about going to that bookstore on Main.”
“The one with the cat?”
She blinked. “You know it?”
“I’ve been there a few times.” He leaned against the counter. “Mind if I come?”
Avery stared at him for a second. She didn’t know what surprised her more—that he wanted to come, or that he asked. For a moment, something buzzed beneath her skin. Excitement? Curiosity? Stupid hormones?
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “Sure.”
---
The bookstore smelled like a mix of musty pages and lavender. A bell chimed as they walked in, followed by the faint creak of the floorboards under their steps. A long-haired gray cat blinked lazily at them from atop the counter, unmoving even as they passed.
Max made a beeline for the fantasy section, slipping into the narrow aisle with practiced ease. Avery watched him for a second before drifting toward the windows.
She wandered the shelves aimlessly, fingers trailing over spines. The store was quiet except for the hum of the fan and the distant rustle of turning pages.
She told herself not to look at him.
She looked anyway.
Max stood halfway down the row, flipping through a battered paperback. He wasn’t fidgeting like he usually did. He wasn’t scowling or brooding or trying to disappear. He looked… calm. At ease.
And for some stupid reason, that made her chest ache a little.
She picked up a poetry book and opened to a random page, pretending to read. But the words floated past her eyes like fog. All she could think about was how close he was. The way his hoodie shifted as he leaned, the soft arch of his brows as he concentrated.
What the hell was happening to her?
“Hey,” he said, appearing beside her like a ghost. He held up a copy of The Road. “This any good?”
She glanced at it. “Bleak. But powerful.”
“Perfect.”
He smiled—small, barely-there—but it was real. Her stomach did a flip.
They wandered a bit longer, then paid and left with two used books and iced coffees from the café next door. The sun was out, soft and golden, the kind of light that made everything look like a scene from an indie movie.
They walked in silence for a while.
Not the awkward kind—just easy, thoughtful.
Avery took a sip of her coffee. “You’re not what I expected.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “That a good thing or a bad thing?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”
He chuckled. “Fair.”
They walked past a row of storefronts, pausing in front of a mural painted on the brick wall—a girl reading beneath a tree, her hair tangled with stars. Avery tilted her head to look at it.
“She reminds me of you,” Max said quietly.
Avery blinked. “What?”
“The girl. In the mural.” He looked away quickly, like he regretted saying it out loud. “You’re always reading. Always in your head.”
She didn’t know what to say. Her throat tightened.
“Thanks,” she said finally.
They walked again. Slower this time. Like neither of them wanted the afternoon to end.
---
Back home, the light was starting to shift, and Cheryl was back in the kitchen, humming to herself. Max disappeared upstairs without a word, and Avery wandered into the living room, still holding her book but not really reading.
She didn’t want to admit it, but her mind kept replaying the moment outside the bookstore.
“She reminds me of you.”
He’d seen her. Not just in passing, not as the girl who moved into his house. He noticed things.
And somehow that was more dangerous than anything else.
---
Later that night, she was brushing her teeth when she heard music from Max’s room. Not the loud, angry stuff he usually played. This was mellow. Melancholy. Acoustic.
She stood in the hallway, frozen.
Then, impulsively, she knocked on his door.
The music stopped.
A beat passed.
Then, “Yeah?”
She opened the door a crack. “That song—what was it?”
Max sat on the edge of his bed, one earbud dangling. His face was unreadable, but his eyes softened when he saw her.
“Just something I found online,” he said. “Want to hear it?”
She hesitated—then nodded and stepped inside.
He handed her the other earbud.
Their fingers brushed.
The air between them felt too quiet.
And when the music started again—soft guitar, aching lyrics—she sat beside him, too aware of how close they were, how the mattress dipped between them, how this moment felt like it was teetering on the edge of something they weren’t supposed to touch.
But she didn’t pull away.
And neither did he.
- Writer
