No strings attached (yeah, right.)

The baby was gone.

Max exhaled, long and slow, staring at the empty crib. Peace, quiet—no more crying, no more diapers, no more weird existential feelings. Just her and her thoughts.

And a shit-ton of weed.

She didn’t even hesitate. The second that screaming potato was out the door, she was rolling up, lighting up, and getting high as fuck—alone, sprawled out on the couch, baked out of her goddamn mind.

Everything felt light. Her arms, her legs, her head—all floating. She let her head roll back, eyes slipping shut, and then—

FLASH.

Caroline’s lips on her neck, warm and soft. The taste of tequila on her tongue.

“God, Max—”

Max’s eyes snapped open.

“Oh, hell no.”

She sat up. She needed water. Or something. Maybe another hit. Maybe—

FLASH.

Caroline’s nails scraping down her back. Breathless laughter.

“Shit—” Max muttered, pressing her palms to her eyes.

This was so not the kind of high she signed up for.

---

Meanwhile, across town, Caroline was sitting across from Andrew, her date, nodding along as he droned on about... something. Stocks? Crypto? His latest vacation? She had no idea.

She wasn’t even listening.

Her brain was stuck on one single phrase.

"When we were drunk?"

Why did Max say it like that? Why the weird emphasis? Like something had happened. Like something more had happened.

Like something she should remember.

“Caroline?”

She blinked. Andrew was staring at her.

“You okay?”

“Oh! Yes, sorry, I just—” She forced a smile. “Long day.”

Andrew nodded, sipping his drink. “So, as I was saying, the market is—”

FLASH.

Max’s hands on her waist. Hot. Tight. Desperate.

"Tell me you want this."

Caroline choked on her wine.

“Whoa, you good?” Andrew leaned forward.

“I—uh—wrong pipe!” she coughed, waving him off.

WHAT THE FUCK.

---

Back at the apartment, Max was lying on the floor.

Not by choice. Just… by gravity.

This was too much. Her skin was hot, her thoughts were loud, and she could feel Caroline everywhere. On her hands. Her lips. Her tongue.

Goddammit.

She groaned, rubbing her face. She needed to stop thinking about it. Right now.

So, naturally, she thought about it harder.

FLASH.

Caroline moaning, her fingers digging into Max’s shoulders—

"Please—"

Max sat the fuck up.

“NOPE.”

She needed a distraction. Immediately. A snack. A walk. A goddamn ice bath. Anything to stop her from thinking about Caroline squirming beneath her—

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered.

This was bad.

Really, really bad.

____

Andrew kissed Caroline again.

And she kissed him back.

Because that’s what she was supposed to do, right?

Good guy. Good date. Good kiss.

So why did it feel—

Wrong?

His hands were in the right place. His lips were soft. He smelled expensive.

But something wasn’t clicking.

She pulled back. Smiled. Played it cool. “That was nice.”

Andrew tilted his head, studying her. “Nice?”

Shit. She should’ve gone with a better word.

She covered quickly. “No, I mean, it was—great. Just—”

She didn’t even know how to finish the sentence.

Because for some reason, it didn’t feel right.

Because for some reason, her mind flashed to something else.

Someone else.

A sloppy kiss. Teeth. Hands that were too eager. A voice—her voice—gasping way too much.

Caroline blinked fast. No. No, that wasn’t real. That wasn’t important.

Right?

Andrew was a goddamn gentleman.

Seriously. He pulled out her chair, ordered for her with actual confidence, paid without even looking at the check, and most importantly—

He made Caroline forget.

Forget about that weird lingering thought. Forget about that phrase. Forget about Max.

(Sort of.)

At least for now.

Because Andrew was good at this. He was smooth, charming, and very, very safe. The type of guy her father would have approved of immediately. He made the night feel normal. Simple. A date.

Just a nice, easy date.

So, when he offered to take her home, she said yes. And when he kissed her at the door, she kissed him back.

And for the first time all night, she didn’t think about Max.

---

Max, meanwhile, was trying not to text anyone.

Which, for her, was a huge challenge because her brain was running a mile a minute, and her fingers were itching to do something.

She knew she shouldn’t.

She knew it was the worst possible idea.

But fuck, she needed to talk to someone.

Randy? Absolutely not.
Sophie? God, no.
Han? Please.

Max groaned, flopping back on the couch, phone clutched in her hands.

She couldn’t call Caroline.
She shouldn’t call Randy.
She would rather die than call Sophie.

But someone. Anyone.

She sighed, staring at her contacts.

And then, against every ounce of her better judgment, she opened a new message and started typing.

Max stared at the message.

Then at the contact name.

Then back at the message.

Her brain screamed "DELETE. BACKSPACE. ABORT."

Her fingers hit send.

And, of course, because life was a cruel joke, Randy texted back immediately.

> Randy: …wow. you must be really fucked up if you’re texting me.

Max groaned, rubbing her face. Golf club, my ass. Wasn’t he supposed to be schmoozing rich douchebags right now? Why the hell was he this available?

> Max: shut up
Max: u busy?

> Randy: does instantly replying answer that question

Max exhaled, rolling onto her side. Okay. Fine. She had opened Pandora’s ex-boyfriend box. She might as well commit.

> Max: u ever think abt how much ur life can change in one night

> Randy: is this a drunk text or a high text

> Max: yes.

---

Andrew kissed Caroline again.

And she kissed him back.

Because that’s what she was supposed to do, right?

Good guy. Good date. Good kiss.

So why did it feel—

Wrong?

His hands were in the right place. His lips were soft. He smelled expensive.

But something wasn’t clicking.

She pulled back. Smiled. Played it cool. “That was nice.”

Andrew tilted his head, studying her. “Nice?”

Shit. She should’ve gone with a better word.

She covered quickly. “No, I mean, it was—great. Just—”

She didn’t even know how to finish the sentence.

Because for some reason, it didn’t feel right.

Because for some reason, her mind flashed to something else.

Someone else.

A sloppy kiss. Teeth. Hands that were too eager. A voice—her voice—gasping way too much.

Caroline blinked fast. No. No, that wasn’t real. That wasn’t important.

Right?

___

The Uber dropped Caroline off in front of the apartment at 12:31 AM. She sat there, clutching her purse in her lap like it was a life vest and she was about to drown in emotional ambiguity.

Andrew had been nice. Sweet. Gentle. Careful. He kissed like a man with a checklist and a laminated consent form, and his hands were warm and in all the right places.

It had been textbook. Flawless. He even offered her a protein bar and water afterward, like some sort of first base butler.

But still—
It didn’t hit.

It didn’t stir anything. Didn’t make her heart race or her knees weak or her brain melt into soup.

And that was the problem.

She stared up at the apartment window, the one still lit because Max never turned lights off unless it was to hide something.

And for the first time since they’d lived together, Caroline didn’t want to go up.

Not because of Max. But because of her.

Because she knew, deep in her over-moisturized soul, that if she saw Max right now—really saw her—it would be over.

That line she’d drawn would smudge. That “It was a drunk mistake” lie would burn away.

She pulled out her phone.

> Caroline: hey im not coming back tonight. just need a night. dont wait up

She hit send before she could think about it. Before she could remember the sound Max made when she whispered her name—

---

Upstairs, Max’s phone buzzed from somewhere under the couch cushions. She dug it out, squinting at the screen through wine-hazed vision.

> Caroline: hey im not coming back tonight. just need a night. dont wait up

Max stared.

Her buzzed brain tripped over itself for a second, and then she sat up, blinking.

Wait. What?

> Max: whaaaat. why. whats going on. are u okay.

She didn’t get an answer right away, but her own brain sure as hell filled the silence.

She leaned back, phone in her hand, suddenly very awake.

The night with Caroline kept flashing in bits and pieces, like some blurry sex dream she wasn’t sure was real—but then she remembered it was.

She remembered the way Caroline had gasped when Max kissed her neck.
The way she’d whimpered—literally whimpered—when Max’s hand slid under her silk pajama shorts.

“You’re being so bossy,” Caroline had whispered, breathless and red-cheeked.

And Max had grinned into her collarbone, biting just hard enough to leave a mark.
“You love it.”

She remembered Caroline’s nails digging into her back.
Her legs wrapped around Max’s waist like she didn’t want to ever let go.

She remembered the way Caroline moaned her name.

Max had gone still, just for a second, like her brain couldn’t process the fact that this was real. That this wasn’t a joke or a fantasy or a maybe.

It was happening.

And it had been—Jesus Christ—it had been good.

She could still feel Caroline’s body under her, warm and arching and just so damn responsive.

So now… why wasn’t she coming back?

Max stared at the message again.

And instead of feeling mad or sad or even confused—
She felt panicked.

Because she wasn’t sure if last night had just been sex for Caroline.

And Max didn’t know how to be the one who cared more.

She tapped out another message:

> Max: is it cause of me? was it weird? did i ruin it?

And then, impulsively, sent a follow-up:

> Max: we dont even have to talk about it. just say ur safe. or whatever.

The read receipt appeared. Caroline was looking. Thinking. Typing.

And then…

Nothing.

Max threw her head back, groaning. “Cool. Love that for me.”

She got up, wandered to the fridge, opened it, stared at the void of actual food. Slammed it shut.

She should’ve never kissed her.
She should’ve never said “Don’t forget this.”
Because now she couldn’t stop remembering.

The sounds. The touches. The way Caroline had said her name like it was personal.

God.

Max let herself fall back onto the bed—Caroline’s bed—because her own still smelled like wine and regrets.

She buried her face in the pillow that still smelled like lavender conditioner and expensive denial.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she whispered. “I don’t even like her.”

Which was, of course, the biggest lie she’d told all day.

Was it casual?