we could just kiss (like real people do).

There comes a point in the first act of a story, a point in which the character is forced to take action – to alter their own arc and thrust themselves into a world otherwise unknown to them. Due to this, the progression of the story continues, grows into an unfathomable cacophony of creativity that the reader dared not explore until the very moment their eyes roam the words.

A tipping point, some would call it.

Fate, Max calls it.

Sheer dumb luck, Victoria calls it.

Victoria Chase does not cry.

Not when her brother moved out, cut himself off from their family, told her parents that they were narcissistic assholes. Not when he offered to take her with him, his eyes wet and pleading. Not when she said no and he straightened his spine, told her she was going to end up just like them.

Not when she found her mother slouched, goblet in hand and red sloshed over her dainty, painted nails. Not when her mother’s left eye was the same shade as the night sky. Not when she covered her mother with the same blanket that her father slept on the couch with. Not when she came out the next morning and her mother was gone, when she came home that night with puffed eyes covered in makeup and told her not to mention anything to her father.

Not when she heard her father yell so loud that she flinched, when glass shatters and doors slam so hard she feared for their hinges. Not when her father told her that her brother was a useless shithead and a waste, when he told her that she was to become his prodigy, a carbon copy of himself that her brother could never amount to, another Chase that the world would bow to.

Not now.

She sits, hands balled into fists, dangles her legs over the edge and wonders what the fuck they’re doing up here.

Nathan is the leader, it was probably his idea. A rush of adrenaline mixed with his latest batch deemed prosperous for the Vortex Club, a promise of endorphins and fear and Victoria couldn’t deny that it did seem like everyone was having fun.

There’s a half smoked joint in her hand, barely touched and she watches the smoke plume and flow. Dropping it, she watches it fall to the ground below, watches it with the hope of it burning Arcadia Bay to the fucking ground.

It doesn’t happen, never does, makes her feel empty all the same.

She is restless, unsure whether she is even in her own skin. Victoria Chase is better than this, better than half thought out plans and ideas of jumping, better than her brother, better than the fucking Vortex Club and everyone else in this school.

And yet, she sits. Her toes wriggle in her shoes, anxious to land on pavement. She, right now, is not the Victoria Chase she was raised to be.

She doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

Max Caulfield cries.

When her cat died, and her father buried it in the same backyard that her and Chloe pretended to be pirates in. When she didn’t want to play the next day and Chloe asked why, while Chloe hugged her and told her that it’s going to be okay because sometimes bad things happen and you can’t stop them but you can keep going.

When she broke her arm falling out of a tree and wasn’t allowed outside for nearly a month, had to spend it away from the world, stuck inside a repetitive loop and beige walls. When Chloe took the blame for it, told Max’s parents it was all her idea and stood with a perfect posture while Max was pleading. When Chloe was not allowed to visit and Max was not allowed to see her, when her arm was finally better and she snuck out to see Chloe, when they sat on the dusty ramps of the skate park and Chloe taught her all the constellations William had known while they were separated and Max was just so fucking relieved to be with her best friend again.

When she was accepted into Blackwell Academy, her photography deserving enough of a scholarship; her parents told her they were proud and Chloe told her she was going to be a fucking superstar. When she first got to her dorm room and Chloe helped her unpack all her belongings and said goodbye with a hug and the gift of William’s camera.

When she introduced herself to Victoria Chase for the first time, met with a hollow stare that still burned holes into her clothes and words that spat like venom. When she stood with slacked shoulders and her hand fell to her side and her lower lip wobbled and she rushed to the bathroom.

She did not notice that amongst the laughs of her misfortune, Victoria was mute.

Max passes Victoria in the halls with a quiet reverence, ice in her veins and fire in her chest. She keeps her head down, hair falling in front of the same eyes that watch Victoria – that drink her in.

Victoria passes Max in the halls with ash in her lungs and poison on her tongue, the same cinderblock between her ribs leeching to the fingers that dare to reach out.

Neither knows of the other, and so, they simply pass each other, shoulders bumping together with a spark that remains unacknowledged until alone.

It is when Victoria is alone, that it happens.

Max’s hair bristles in the wind, the picturesque image broken for the split seconds that zephyrs tangle between brown locks.

Victoria has two options: she could say something, do something – become the protagonist, break out of the mould her father created for her. Or, she could leave, stay a Chase and remain entirely passive, bend to her father’s whim and allow Max’s story to continue without her.

The second option is clearly the better one – the safer one. To startle Max, this loner of a girl with her legs dangling just as her own were days before, could lead to her falling.

(She wouldn’t want Max to fall.)

She chooses instead, against all the echoes in her mind, to clear her throat – to make it known that she is present, to take the first option.

Max does not move, stays put and Victoria hears her breathe, sees her shoulders pump slowly from the inhale and it’s not until Max’s shoulders are low again that she realises her chest was in tow with the girl’s.

She does not approach Max, does not ask questions.

She does sit beside her, legs swinging out and her right foot bumps into Max’s left.

They do not speak once, though they do stay until the sun sets and the moon rises.

Max finds solace in the night, believes a certain calm to coincide, the strain of the day nonexistent when the moon provides the comfort and protection that streetlights can only try to suffice.

She does not tell Victoria this, just kicks her left foot to Victoria’s right and stares at the stars.

“Do you dream?”

Victoria searches Max from the corner of her eyes, rolls her bottom lip into her mouth and bites as her fingers clench hard at the edge of the roof.

“No,” she lies. “I haven’t for quite some time.”

Max turns to her, crooked smile that could be confused for a grimace meeting her.

“Why not?”

“Because,” she ignores the heaviness of Max’s gaze, feels it like a tear through her stomach. “I have a dream catcher.”

Max laughs slow and soft, enough to make Victoria believe she’s gained the benefit of the doubt.

Her eyes dart to the sky again, and Victoria doesn’t see the harm in inspecting the girl she simply passes in the halls (and leers at throughout their photography classes).

Max’s jaw is sharp, taught when clenched, connects to her chin and mouth in low dips. The freckles so faded in the day become stark at night, shadows pressed against pale skin.

She stops herself there, because Max’s mouth is moving and she’s beginning to register conversation.

“I dream a lot,” Max says, clears her throat and blinks twice before continuing. “They’re always different, and I can never figure out what they mean. That’s why the stars are nice, there’s an order to their scattered chaos. They’re relaxing to look at when you’re so dazed.”

Victoria nods, says no more.

The stars are nice, she guesses, not exactly sure what Max means by her words. Stars are pretty, she concludes, anything with that sort of luminance is.

She bumps her knees with Max’s, allows herself to feel the jolt between them, feels her chest fill as she breathes in an unsteady amount of air and rises to her feet.

Neither bid the other goodbye, but both smile when Victoria leaves the door to the stairwell open.

An open invitation from then on, it seemed. The open doorway allowed Max to invade Victoria’s world, to push the boundaries within her limits, to succumb to the fact that she was utterly intrigued by Victoria Chase.

The golden girl, Victoria was, and yet Max was sure her blood ran red just the same as hers. She was no mythological being, no more than human, Victoria Chase was just as real and raw as she, and somehow Max was able to see this any time, but only able to believe it to be true when they were alone.

“Do you bleed, Victoria?” She asks the following Wednesday, her pinkie resting beside Victoria’s, the heat of their hands embracing but not touching.

It’s short, snapped, Max had ruined their time together and would have to make up for it.

“More than you could ever imagine.”

The door remains open when Victoria leaves, however, and that is what leads Max to stand to her feet.

She chases after Victoria’s fleeting footsteps, follows their echoes through the dorm hall and pushes past the closing bathroom door.

Victoria is in front of the mirror, face contorted and her laugh lines run too deep to be happy.

Max apologises, rushes forward and stops herself just before Victoria.

“I am not a Chase,” she says, and Max winces at the way it sounds like it scrapes Victoria’s throat. “Chases are strong, they aren’t broken. Chases fucking bleed, spit and shit gold, Max.”

Victoria crumbles, and Max supports her shaking frame as they leave the bathroom.

Max takes her out into the hallway, stands silently in the middle ground between their dorms. Victoria does not hesitate, points at Max’s ajar door and Max leads her in.

Max lets Victoria take her bed, kneels beside her and makes sure her breathing stays even. There is a crease between Victoria’s eyebrows, one that Max has never seen before, so she puts her finger on it, traces it up to Victoria’s hairline and rubs circles into her scalp.

Victoria’s exhale is ragged, and Max tries to ignore the way her fingers tingle up to her shoulder and through her neck, because Victoria is hurting and Max needs to not be selfish right now.

Instead, she apologises.

“Why?” Victoria asks, lips pursed and Max has to look away.

“Because, I don’t have a dream catcher.”

Victoria laughs, settles under the covers and turns her whole body to face Max’s. The hand in her hair slips, cradles the edge of her jaw and behind her ear.

Max doesn’t move.

“Have you ever dreamt about the stars?”

“Once,” her hand prickles with fire, threatening to set her alight if she dares to move it. “My friend taught me constellations once, I dreamt about the stories behind them for the next week.”

Victoria gives a small yawn, cut short by her pride and it takes everything in Max not to kiss the girl lying in her bed.

“You’ll have to teach me them,” Victoria’s voice is lilted by sleep, words slow but sure. “I like stories.”

Max smiles, feels it reach her ears and she hopes the darkness can cover the rising redness of her cheeks.

“Sure,” she gives Victoria’s skin one last circle, drags her hand from behind Victoria’s ear and pretends not to notice the way the girl shivers. “Only if you take down your dream catcher afterwards, though, these stories were made for the imagination.”

But Victoria is already asleep, covers pushed up past her chin, nose peeking out with flushed cheeks and a settled brow.

It is the first night since coming to Blackwell that Max does not open the blinds, the first night she dreams of nothing that needs to be comforted afterwards.

She dreams of golden hair and ruby lips, of sapphire eyes that could melt diamonds. She dreams of something as hot as the sun underneath her skin, of something that chills her to the bone. She dreams of pinkies held together and a slew of promises that may one day be kept.

The chaos is so organised, she does not need to look at the stars to understand.

Sometimes Victoria can still hear her parents fighting.

When she’s left alone – stuck somewhere between the darkness of the dorm and the light of her lamp, between the frightened daughter with the world on her shoulders and the teenager with a weight in her chest – she hears them, the strangled cries of her mother, the forceful twang of her father.

She tries to drown them out, tries to turn the music up so loud that she forgets where she is, forgets who she is, pretends she’s a little girl with walls that don’t close in when she breathes, a little girl with rosy red cheeks and a dimpled smile and dolls that will listen when she confides, a little girl with parents who love each other and love her and don’t expect anything from her.

But it doesn’t work, hasn’t worked, she’s not sure if it ever worked.

She tries to breathe but all she feels is an ache in her chest that won’t ease, it grapples around her lungs and she feels it squeeze and squeeze and squeeze .

Forces herself up, moves legs one by one, goes through the motions and clenches her jaw and stares at the roof so her tears don’t fall.

She doesn’t make it to the bathroom, ends up with stinging eyes and wobbly lips and finds herself in front of a cracked open door with the strum of a guitar leaking through.

She doesn’t knock, barges in and the guitar stops. Everything stops.

Max takes one look at her and leans the guitar gently against the wall beside her, fingers anxiously rubbing the ripped knees of her jeans.

Victoria’s ankles shake, feels them ready to give out when Max catches her, hands gripping at the sleeves rolled up her arms.

She breathes, the scent of earth all around her, she smells humanity and raw empathy and she smells Max, smells the light spray of perfume she probably applied only once this morning, smells the rain on the hood of her sweater, smells the mint of the never ending amount of tic tacs.

And Max smells so good, that she almost tells her.

“I think,” Max’s brow crinkles, gives a lopsided smile that means she’s trying, “now is a good time to show you the stars.”

//

The wind chills Max to the bone, feels it bleed through her sweater and pick at her skin, watches Victoria shiver and roll her sleeves down before she sits at the edge of the roof.

She takes the spot beside her, concrete pressed against her jeans and she feels the chipped paint rub at the fabric.

“Are you okay?”

Victoria doesn’t answer, pouts her lips ever so slightly and furrows her brows.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She doesn’t answer then, either. Looks up in a dull sort of finality, cocking her head to the sky and glances up at the stars.

“Tell me about them,” Victoria says, “please.”

And Max could never think of doing anything else.

She ignores the churn in her stomach, the rush in her blood, and smiles weakly as she scans above.

“Okay, so,” she points upwards, goes slow so Victoria can watch the trail of her finger. “There’s Ursa Major, and above it is Ursa Minor.”

“Is there a story that goes with them?”

Max nods, “It’s sad, though, not my favourite to tell.”

Victoria seems to contemplate on it for a moment, before inching up where she sits, and Max isn’t sure if it’s intentional when Victoria ends up the tiniest fraction closer to her.

“What is your favourite to tell?”

Max feels herself light up, becomes a jumpy mess as her hand jolts to outline the constellation, tries not to notice the way Victoria’s giggle resounds throughout her entire body.

“Right there,” she says, voice cracking, “Is Lyra, which is also known as The Lyre – it’s a sort of harp, which was invented by Hermes, who gave it to Orpheus.”

Victoria’s lips tug up, a half second of unguarded joy and Max yearns to see it again, so she continues.

“So, Orpheus was so good at playing this lyre, that people and animals supposedly stopped what they were doing, just to listen to him serenade his wife, Eurydice. The only problem is, that mortality got the better of her, and when she died, Orpheus planned to steal her away from the ruler of the Underworld.”

“That’s the Hades guy, right?”

Max nods.

“Orpheus played his lyre the whole way down, and funnily enough, Hades totally dug his music – but, of course, when you end up in front of the guy that has your wife’s soul, you tend to stop playing. But Hades didn’t like that idea, and asked him to keep playing, and like anyone who is in grieving would, he struck up a deal with Hades. When Orpheus finished his song, Hades would give Eurydice back to him – and Hades agreed.”

“There’s gotta be a catch,” Victoria interrupts, hands wrung in the air. “Like, he’s the ruler of the Underworld ; surely he isn’t going to let something slide because he wants a concert.”

Max laughs, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she bumps Victoria’s shoulder with her own.

“When Orpheus finished his jam, he asked for his wife. And, you’re right, Hades was a little bitch about it, told Orpheus he could have her as long as he trusted Hades and that she would be returned, and that he must play his lyre the whole way back up to the upper world. The catch: if Orpheus doubted him for a second and looked behind him, Eurydice would be taken back to Hades.”

She breathes, smells the flowers of Victoria’s perfume wash around her as she finishes.

“So, Orpheus agreed, and trotted back up to the world above, playing his music softly so he could hear the footsteps of his wife behind him. But Hades, true to his nature, tested Orpheus’ trust, the return route he insisted on leads them through a pine grove. While walking through, Orpheus couldn’t hear Eurydice’s footsteps; unable to take the silence anymore, he stopped playing and glanced over his shoulder – only to witness Eurydice fade into nothing, taken by Hades.”

Victoria stills at the ending, fingers tense against the edge of the building.

“Why is that one your favourite?” She asks, eyes narrow. “You didn’t want to tell me Ursa Major because it’s sad, but you’ll tell me the one where someone loses the person they love because they don’t trust the literal ruler of hell.”

Max’s nose scrunches, “That’s not how I look at it.”

“How can you look at it any other way?”

“I see it as someone so in love that they will defy the order of Hades, I see someone who loves their wife so much that they will do absolutely anything to get them back.”

“You look at this story through rose coloured glasses, Max.”

Max shakes her head, watches Victoria’s hands tremble and reaches out slowly, touches them with her own and Victoria’s head snaps up.

“And you look at it through jaded eyes, Victoria,” she says, feels the way Victoria tenses underneath her touch, sees her face flinch away from hers. “I told you my story, now I want you to tell me one.”

“I don’t have any romantic stories of stars for you.”

Max feels the way it hurts Victoria to say that, feels the anguish ebb from her voice and run down her spine to the fingers that tentatively inch between Max’s.

“I don’t need that from you, I just have a question I want answered.”

“I bet you have more than one.”

Max smiles, her sure fingers sliding through Victoria’s anxious ones, holds her softly and strokes her thumb over the back of Victoria’s palm.

“I do, but I can settle for one at the moment,” she blinks, drinks in the way Victoria’s features are less sharp in the moonlight. “You told me that you had a dream catcher.”

Victoria nods, and Max is still sure that it’s a lie, but she clears her throat and maintains eye contact.

“Tell me,” she starts, doesn’t let Victoria break any contact when she starts to pull away, ducks her down head to keep Victoria’s eyes on hers. “What dreams are you trying to catch?”

Victoria doesn’t answer, her bottom lip starts to quiver and Max has an apology ready on her tongue when Victoria’s body crashes into her own.

Their balance is awful, and Max is afraid for a moment that they’ll fall off the edge, but Victoria’s arms are tight around her ribs and her nose is pressed tight into her chest and Max wonders if Victoria can feel or hear how hard her heart is hammering.

If she does, she doesn’t say anything, just wracks with sobs and Max waits for the warmth of tears to stain her shirt but none come.

“I’m sorry,” she says, winds her arms around the broken girl. “You don’t have to tell me, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

Victoria mumbles something against her that Max hopes is “it’s okay”, and presses closer to her.

Max lets her fingers glides through Victoria’s hair without thinking, lets her lips fall to the crown of her golden hair before whispering,

“The brightest stars in the sky are the ones imploding, Vic, do not think you are any different.”

They see more of each other after that night, the following weeks spent together in either Max’s dorm or the rooftop. Sometimes, Max will play guitar for Victoria until her restlessness grows into ease and the crease between her brows disappears. And sometimes, Victoria will make up her own constellations for Max, points at a random array of stars and comes up with a ridiculous theory behind them.

It occurs to Max, one night as Victoria laughs into her shoulder about the latest star story, that not once have they set foot in Victoria’s dorm.

It's not something she’s mad about, there’s even a humble understanding behind it, though Max does wonder why the only untrodden ground between them is the soil beneath Victoria’s floorboards.

So, she asks, and Victoria does not answer.

Instead, she stands to her feet, takes Max by the hand and pulls her along until they stand in front of Victoria’s door.

“You really want to see it?” Victoria asks, sounding more like she is baring her soul rather than her dorm.

And Max nods, squeezes Victoria’s hand gently because she’s ready to see, ready to see all of Victoria without hesitation.

And it’s a mess, and it's dark and the windows are shut but the blinds are open, and there’s scattered candids pinned on walls and trashing the floor, and there’s clothes strewn over furniture and tubes of lipstick or balm on almost every legible surface.

It's just so Victoria.

Max does not wander, simply sits on the end of Victoria’s bed, notices how it’s the only perfectly kempt feature of her room, feels the duvet beneath her fingers and marvels at the softness.

“Is this alright?” Victoria gestures all around her, voice unsteady and face uneasy and Max just nods.

“It's you,” she says, holds out her hands for Victoria to take. She does, palms warm and fingers slowly but surely threading through Max’s. “And you are in every single nook and cranny of this room, and it’s beautiful.”

Victoria’s face scrunches as her cheeks tint pink, “Max, it’s a total bomb site.”

Max hums, drawing Victoria closer. Their knees touch, Victoria still standing, staring down at her in wonder.

“It’s that too,” Max shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I don’t like it all the same.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

A coy smile plays on Max’s lips, “What do you think I’m saying, Vic?”

//

Victoria Chase has never made the first move.

She had always lied in waiting, her eyes stalking her prey from afar, teasing and leaving them wanting more with an air of mystery so thick that none could penetrate.

And it had been the same way with Max Caulfield; she had followed her very own formula perfected in her early teen years – until now.

She had let Max in, let her tell stories of stars, let her see her bare, let her touch her without hesitation.

Somewhere along the way, her formula had been rewritten; the arc in her story had changed. An introduction of a new character occurred, a bond between them grew, and somehow, Victoria Chase had found herself with a love interest.

And when Max’s words and hands are so goddamn sure, how could Victoria not fall?

She does not answer Max’s playful question, does not acknowledge the fire sparking in the space between their bodies.

She leans her head towards Max’s, bending on the spot to align herself with the girl sitting on her bed.

“You like me, Max,” she says, watches Max nod firmly. “You feel a shock wrack through your veins when we touch, you meet me at the roof in hopes that maybe this time you’ll work up the courage to kiss me, you invited yourself into my dorm to see the most naked version of myself – to see what you were getting into, to see if any of this is worth it.”

Max shakes her head then, hands letting go of hers as they pull Victoria closer by the hips, until her legs are almost between Victoria’s.

“I already know it’s worth it.”

And that’s when Victoria’s formula falters.

That’s when she kisses Max, pulling her up by her shirt, dragging her into her so forcefully that they stumble backwards, Max catching her and steadying at the last second.

Max breathes against her, and Victoria is filled in a minty haze before realising that Max has walked them back towards the bed, sitting again – this time with Victoria in her lap, lips on hers and fingers gripping so tightly at her hips that Victoria whines against her.

Victoria breaks away then, only now knowing that she has shared too much, given too much.

But Max gives no indication of malice, trails her scalding hands to Victoria’s jaw and she cradles her, presses her lips to her cheek and rests her forehead against Victoria’s.

“Yeah,” Max says, absolutely breathless, “definitely worth it.”

Victoria Chase does cry.

For the first time in what feels like eons, Victoria finally allows herself to feel so fiercely, so unapologetically, that she collapses under the weight of it.

Max does not asks questions, holds her and strokes patterns into her hair and down her spine, keeps her close so Victoria can feel her heart beat against hers – tries to understand the sync between them, presses kisses like rain onto the crown of her head.

Max is so good, to both her and the world, and Victoria cannot think which one of the two is more undeserving.

//

Max Caulfield does not allow herself to cry.

She lets Victoria sob into her until she has absolutely nothing left, lets Victoria push her back onto the bed and slip the duvet over the both of them and lets Victoria press her head into the hollow of her collarbone.

She lets Victoria break herself down and build herself back up, lets her hold Max so tight that she’s sure to have purple fingerprints on her the next day.

She needs to let Victoria do this, needs Victoria to let herself do this.

Needs Victoria to be so much of herself at once that it overwhelms them both, needs all the pain inside Victoria wash away under the sheets and flow out the windows and door.

Only when Victoria settles and presses a kiss to Max’s neck, when she thanks her once while awake and once while asleep, when she radiates gratefulness in its purest forms, when her face is perfectly content and peaceful.

Only then will Max allow herself to cry, because Victoria is finally being the Victoria she deserves to be, the Victoria she ought to be, the Victoria she finally let herself become.

There comes a point in the story where a character will develop or cower, and thankfully, Max knows which path Victoria chose.

There are no stars in the sky the night Victoria nudges Max with her shoulder, sharp bone against the cotton of her hoodie, and her eyes are soft with something close to shame.

“Max,” her hands are balled into fists and her voice tight, “I don’t actually have a dream catcher.”

Max lets the breath escape her lungs in a light sigh, smiles warmly at Victoria and tucks stray hairs behind her ear.

“Yeah,” she says, leaves her hand to cup Victoria’s jaw for a moment, lets it fall back into her lap. “I know.”

“Then, why did you ask about my dreams?”

Max shrugs, “Guess I just wanted to know the answer.”

Victoria’s jaw is set in defiance, mouth a fine line.

But the façade cracks – it never lasts long against Max.

“I was telling the truth about one thing, I don’t dream.” Her shoulders are heavy and there’s an emptiness settling in her stomach that she knows isn’t hunger. “It's been just nightmares for a while now.”

Max’s brow crinkles and Victoria wishes she wasn’t so complicated, wishes this could be easy on Max, that they could be normal people without obscure problems – that she could stop being a spoiled brat and Max could not care about her as deeply as she did, that she could not care about Max just as deeply.

“You know, even if you had a dream catcher, you’d be using it wrong.”

“What?”

“Really,” Max blows out a breath through puckered lips, leans back onto her hands and stretches her legs out over the rooftop. “They don’t take away the dreams, they catch them – catch everything – so you can revisit it.”

“But,” she stutters, words caught in her throat, “what’s the point of that?”

“Because,” Max trails off. Victoria watches her, her eyes hazed in wonder, glossed by the dying moonlight and Victoria finds herself counting the freckles on her nose. “It's kind like earth, I guess.”

Max lifts her arm, Victoria’s eyes tracing the line of her pointed fingers, to the moon.

“There’s light during the night, and there’s darkness during the day.” Max’s arm doesn’t falter, just extends sideways, catches Victoria around the shoulders and loops until her fingers are tapping against Victoria’s collarbone. “There’s always going to be shadows in the world, but that doesn’t mean we ever become completely engulfed by it.”

Victoria inches away from Max’s hold, turning to face her.

“You sure you picked the right major?” She asks, drops her head to Max’s chest as she laughs. “You’re sounding more like a philosophy nerd more and more every day.”

Max’s nose scrunches, “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

And she does, kisses Victoria once, twice, before her hands drop to Victoria’s waist.

Her fingers drag underneath Victoria’s blouse, curve higher until she’s certain that Victoria can’t think straight.

Victoria yelps when Max begins tickling her, body shaking. Her hands meet the front of Max’s hoodie, scrunching it between her fingers and she pushes in an attempt to stop.

And it works, not the way she’d hoped, but it definitely worked.

She’s caught Max, thighs either side of the girl’s petite hips, a thud coursing through the two of them as they land backwards onto cracked concrete.

“Okay, so,” Max hisses through her teeth, eyes shut tight. “Really not the way I imagined this.”

“Which part, landing painfully onto your spine or me being on top?”

Max barks a laugh, a quick kiss pressed to Victoria’s nose.

“I think you know which part.”

Victoria leans down, seals Max’s lips and smiles.

The stars have nothing on Max Caulfield.

Loud noises still frighten the absolute shit out of Victoria.

There’s never a warning, and she thinks that’s the scariest part of it all. That someone could slam their folders down onto the desk before class in a huff, and she jumps in her seat because it feels like she’s right back there.

Someone’s chair scrapes the floor and suddenly she can see her father throwing his cutlery so harshly that a newly bought plate is made redundant, a chunk carved out by an overly priced Swiss steak knife, the porcelain of the plate slicing a line into the hardwood flooring of the dining room.

And she is just so fucking scared that she can't breathe. Because it's her fault, it always is. She’s the one who made a comment about a table not matching the rest of the room, she’s the one who “looks down on everyone like she’s God’s gift”, she’s the one who infuriates her father, she’s the one who never shuts up .

She should’ve just shut up, she should always just shut up. New plates would never have to be bought, cutlery wouldn’t have to be resharpened, the floor wouldn’t have to be replaced, her father would still be happy, her mother wouldn’t be frightened.

She should’ve been a Chase, she should’ve played the part, been the good girl. Chase’s know when and when not to talk, and she is only proving her father wrong, proving herself right each time she opens her mouth.

She is no Chase.

Thunder roars throughout the dorm that night, lightning piercing shadows onto the walls through the windows. Max thinks of taking a photo, picks up her camera and perches herself by her desk.

Before she can press down onto the shutter, there’s a knock at her door.

She puts the camera down, sets it on top of the pile of homework that needs to be done by Monday and heads towards the door, an itch in her arm that spreads to her wrist as she turns the knob.

Victoria’s standing there, eyes squeezed shut and fists curled so tight together that her knuckles are turning white.

Max gently runs her finger along the top of Victoria’s wrist, trails it across her knuckles until she stops clenching them.

“Come here,” Max says, slow and low and she opens the door wider for Victoria to step right into her. She pushes the door shut with her right arm as her left wraps around Victoria’s waist. “Not a fan of storms, huh?”

Victoria’s nose draws wet lines into the shoulder of Max’s shirt, a heavy inhale before she shakes against Max.

“Too loud.”

Max tightens her hold, rubs curving lines into Victoria’s back. She doesn’t ask Victoria about it, has a feeling she knows – she’s seen the way Victoria shies away from her father on Parent’s Day, seen how she screens all calls from anyone with ‘Chase’ in their contact name.

What she does ask is, “Wanna lie down?”

And she feels her heart jump to her throat when Victoria nods against the fabric of her shirt, plants a small kiss to where it leaves her collarbone exposed.

Victoria lies down first, crawls across Max’s bed, doesn’t stop until she’s right up against the wall and making herself as small as she possibly can.

Max follows, keeps her space from Victoria but makes sure to push Victoria’s knees down from her chest, to follow the line of her jaw with her index finger before curling it underneath her chin to tilt her up so their eyes meet.

A crack of thunder courses throughout the room, and Max watches Victoria flinch and bury her head into the pillow, only coming back up once the flash of lightning that follows has passed.

The patter of rain mixes with the sound of Victoria’s laboured breathing, and Max can feel it physically ache in her ribs, her heart bleeding for Victoria.

“Hey,” Max says, runs a hand though Victoria’s hair. “Stay right here, okay? I’m coming back in just a second.”

Victoria eyes her warily as she slides off the bed, comes back moments later with her guitar.

She sits on the bed carefully, props the guitar onto the leg that’s folded beneath her and waggles her eyebrows at Victoria until she hears that small giggle that makes her chest feel tight.

Her fingers are a little numb from the cold, so the strings sting when she strums, but it's completely worth it when she sees Victoria’s eyes light up and lips part slightly.

There’s not many songs she knows, and it's been a really long time since she’s actually sat down to play for someone other than herself, so she knows that she’s definitely making some mistakes here and that she’s probably butchering the song.

But Victoria is looking at her with eyes so clear and blue that Max almost feels like she’s floating, and there’s the beginning of a smile on Victoria’s face and there’s a light blush on her cheeks and Max cares so much about this girl that it's beginning to scare her.

She stops playing when Victoria’s hand covers the neck of the guitar, palm pressing into the strings as she leans up onto her knees.

“Thank you,” she says, and her eyes are glossy and Max makes the easiest decision of her life, she puts the guitar carefully onto the ground below, faces Victoria empty handed.

The rain has turned light, the lack of thunder turning the room dim, the only light coming from Max’s open laptop on the far side of the room.

Victoria’s face is hazy and her hands ghost on Max’s arms and Max is almost convinced that she isn’t there until Victoria is pressed against her and Max is sinking forwards into a kiss so gentle that she forgets to touch Victoria at all.

There’s a tug against her lips when Victoria’s back hits the mattress, a throb coursing through her whole body, settling between her thighs as Victoria’s teeth make the smallest indent into her bottom lip.

She finally remembers that her hands are a thing, fingers tracing up the outside of Victoria’s thighs before settling them at the dip of her waist. Her thumbs press into Victoria’s ribs as a short whine leaves Victoria, Max’s head spinning into oblivion when she realises Victoria’s legs are spread and she’s between them, arched into Victoria with her stomach pressed against her.

She’s all too aware of everything right now, of the universe and the sounds and the atoms in her body connecting with Victoria’s and the neurons firing in her brain that are telling her to run away, to keep going, to push further into Victoria until her head shoots back and she’s moaning.

So she does, lowers herself a fraction, enough to be considered an accident, as her nails drag lines through Victoria’s sweater to her hips.

And Victoria’s head keens backwards as her body arches forwards, her jaw striking in the moonlight and neck muscles wound so tight that Max physically cannot move , only stare as she realises this is because of her, she’s doing this, she’s making Victoria feel this fucking good.

And it's so intoxicating, she wants to see it again, hear Victoria pant again, feel Victoria’s hips grind up against her again and again and again.

Her body is electric, she is the lightning and the thunder she is the whole god damn storm and it’s crazy and she doesn’t understand it but – fuck.

Victoria is kissing her again, all teeth on her lips and nails on her shoulders and Max has to remind herself to breathe because this is so good, too good, and so new that she’s blissfully aware of everything that Victoria is and is doing and the throb between her thighs has turned to an ache and she’s just so worked up that she finally does it, she finally lets herself moan.

Victoria stops kissing her then, pulls back and stares at her like she’s just put the stars in the sky.

“Holy shit,” her voice is harsh in the softest of ways, like fingertips through gravel, and her hands have stopped moving completely against Max. “You’re killing me, Max.”

She laughs at that, drops her head to Victoria’s neck, presses a kiss at her pulse point and relishes in the way she feels Victoria’s tendons tense.

“You’re one to talk,” Max speaks against her skin, hot breath crashing against her. “You’re fucking magic, Victoria.”

And she knows that it's over, that its gone as far as it will for the night, because Victoria’s eyes are heavy with sleep and utter awe and Max is pretty sure hers are the same.

She kisses Victoria’s cheek as she rolls off her, waits for Victoria’s arms to wrap around her middle before resting her head against Victoria’s crown.

Victoria’s fingers clutch hard at her shirt until she falls asleep, her breathing evening out with cheeks still slightly flushed and it dawns on Max that all she’s going to think about tonight is kissing Victoria.

How inconvenient.