The bar was loud that night—warm lights, a little haze, and a crowd that hummed with weekend energy. Celine's Tinder date had turned out surprisingly cute: soft curls, dark eyeliner, a laugh that cracked in the middle when she found something truly funny. She introduced herself as Marina, and Catherine immediately knew why Celine had matched with her. The girl was artsy, effortlessly confident, and—much to Celine's hidden delight—flirted with both of them.
Catherine mostly nursed her drink, occasionally chiming into the conversation whenever Marina asked her something. She was comfortable enough to smile, guarded enough not to give anything away. Celine kept quiet about her sexuality, never confirming nor denying anything, slipping between jokes and harmless banter with the ease of someone who'd been hiding parts of herself for years.
The three of them found a rhythm. It was nice.
And then—of course—Axel Maximilian Luca showed up.
He walked in with the casual confidence of someone who believed the world adjusted for him on instinct. Adrian trailed behind him, looking like a man already amused by tomorrow's gossip.
"What are the odds?" Celine whispered, rolling her eyes but smiling like this was free entertainment.
Catherine followed her gaze. Max stood near the entrance, scanning the room, then paused—just a fraction—when his eyes locked on her table. Catherine didn't look away. Something flickered in his expression, a little too startled, then he masked it with a smile that wasn't quite his usual Playboy smirk.
Adrian elbowed him. They started walking over.
Celine muttered under her breath, "Act natural."
"I am natural," Catherine whispered back.
"Yeah. That's exactly the problem."
Max reached their table first. Adrian arrived second, already grinning.
"Well, what a coincidence," Adrian said lightly. "Or is it fate?"
Max shot him a look so sharp it could've sliced a wine bottle in half. Adrian only grinned wider.
Celine leaned back, all elegance and mock-innocence. "Fancy seeing you here, Maximilian."
Marina's eyes widened, subtly impressed. "You two know each other?"
"We work together," Celine said smoothly. "But we also share the misfortune of living in a city where every bar is apparently his habitat."
Catherine hid her smile behind her glass.
Max looked unusually unsure where to place his hands—or where to stand—so he settled on leaning slightly against their booth, pretending it was intentional. His eyes kept drifting to Catherine, as though she were the only steady point in the room.
Marina, not knowing any context, simply assumed he was flirting with the group.
A normal assumption. A wrong one.
"Well," she said, amused, "you're exactly the type who gets name-dropped."
Celine choked on her drink.
Max blinked. "...What type is that supposed to be?"
Catherine answered before she could stop herself. "The type who thinks he's mysterious but is actually extremely predictable."
Adrian gasped dramatically.
Celine smacked the table.
Marina let out that cracked laugh again.
Max stared at Catherine, eyes darkening with an emotion that wasn't annoyance. If anything—it was fascination.
"Predictable?" he echoed softly. "Me?"
"Very," Catherine replied, taking another slow sip.
"Predict me, then."
It was a challenge. A subtle one.
And Catherine rose to it with dangerous ease.
"You're trying to impress someone right now, but badly," she said. "Not one particular person—just... someone. Anyone. Because your ego took a hit last night, and you didn't like how that felt."
Adrian froze, wide-eyed.
Celine mouthed Holy shit.
Max swallowed. Something unreadable flickered across his expression—something that looked uncomfortably close to being seen.
Marina looked between them, intrigued.
Catherine continued, voice steady, calm, cutting in that uniquely gentle way of hers:
"And even now, you're not paying attention to the girl you should be flirting with. You're too busy trying to figure out why I'm not."
Max didn't breathe.
Adrian whispered, "Oh, he's dead. She killed him—she actually killed him."
Celine kicked Adrian under the table.
Marina burst out laughing again, delighted. "That was incredible."
Max finally exhaled.
Not angry.
Not wounded.
Something else.
Something like...
respect.
curiosity.
and a spark of something he had no business feeling.
He leaned closer—too close—and his voice dropped low.
"Maybe I'm just used to getting a reaction out of people. And yours is... not what I expected."
Catherine didn't move away. "Then maybe you should stop expecting."
Adrian's hands flew to his mouth. Celine shot up from her seat.
"Okay, enough tension," Celine declared, clapping her hands once. She hooked an arm around Marina's and tugged her toward the bar. "Marina, help me pick another drink before these two start a psychological duel."
Marina laughed as she let herself be pulled away. "Is that what that was?"
"Pretty sure," Celine replied, not looking back.
The space they left behind felt suddenly exposed.
Max cleared his throat. "Can I get you all a drink?" he asked. "Something you actually want."
"Yes," Catherine said easily.
As Max turned toward the bar, Adrian leaned in just enough to be heard, voice low and amused.
"Careful," he said. "You're being predictable."
Max shot him a warning look.
Adrian raised both hands in mock surrender. "What? You always know exactly what to order for women you've flirted with before. Consider this a demonstration."
"I'm not flirting," Max said, already walking.
Adrian's grin widened. "You're right. You're concentrating."
At the bar, Max didn't rush. He didn't charm the bartender or ask questions meant to impress. He paused instead, resting his hand on the counter, glancing back once.
Catherine was mid-sentence with Celine, posture loose, expression open—unguarded in a way that felt rare.
He ordered.
Precisely. Quietly. No performance.
When he returned, Adrian watched closely as Max set the glass in front of Catherine, aligning it carefully with her hand.
"I guessed," Max said. "Tell me if I'm wrong."
Catherine took a sip.
Her eyes lifted. "It's perfect."
Adrian clapped once, delighted. "Still got it."
Max ignored him.
Catherine met Max's gaze over the rim of her glass. "You pay attention."
"Yes," he said simply.
And somehow—without anyone announcing it, without intention—Catherine was suddenly alone with him.
Not abandoned. Not cornered. Just... left in a pause that felt intentional in retrospect.
Max shifted his weight, glancing once toward the bar where Celine and Marina were mid-debate over cocktails, then back to Catherine.
"So," he said, voice low enough that it felt private despite the music. "How is it?"
She looked at him. "How is what?"
"This," Max gestured vaguely—lights, music, bodies moving in rhythm. "The bar. The drinks. The atmosphere."
Catherine considered him for a second longer than necessary.
"If I tell you," she said lightly, "I'd have to be honest."
He smiled faintly. "I'm prepared."
She took another sip of her drink. "I'm not."
His brow creased. "Why not?"
She tilted her head, eyes bright with mischief. "I don't usually tell the truth to strangers."
Adrian, who had been pretending very badly not to listen, burst out laughing.
"Oh, that's brutal."
Max pressed a hand to his chest in exaggerated offense. "Strangers?"
She smiled sweetly. "That's what you are tonight."
"That hurts," he said. "Especially considering what I know."
"And what do you know?" she asked.
"That you don't actually feel that way," Max replied. "And that we're—" he paused, choosing the word deliberately, "—friends."
Adrian made an approving noise. "Bold claim."
Catherine studied Max's face—not the charm, not the posture, but the sincerity underneath.
"Friends," she repeated softly. Then, after a beat, "Maybe."
Max exhaled, half amused, half relieved. "I'll take 'maybe.'"
Adrian leaned in again, grinning. "For the record, Catherine, this is the nicest rejection I've ever seen him get."
She glanced at Adrian. "I didn't reject him."
Max's eyes flicked back to her. "You didn't?"
"I just didn't answer," she said calmly. "There's a difference."
Something subtle shifted in his expression—not triumph, not relief. Awareness.
"Well," Max said, straightening slightly, "in that case... allow me to revise the question."
She raised a brow.
"Are you enjoying yourself," he asked, slower now, more careful, "with us?"
This time, Catherine didn't dodge.
She looked around once more—the music, the freedom of the space, Celine laughing without restraint—and then back at Max.
"Yes," she said simply. "I am."
That answer landed heavier than he expected.
Adrian watched the exchange, then shook his head. "You see?" he muttered. "Trouble."
Max didn't disagree.
He just lifted his glass slightly toward Catherine—not a toast, not a claim. An acknowledgment.
And Catherine, after a moment, lifted hers back.
Not a promise.
Just recognition.
────୨ৎ────
It started at Lunch, innocently enough. And past few days after the night.
The three of them, Celine, Catherine, and Adrian—had claimed a corner table at a quiet bistro just off the office district—white tablecloths, muted chatter, sunlight catching on the rim of glassware. The kind of place where conversations lingered longer than the food.
Celine was halfway through her salad when she leaned back in her chair and said casually, as if commenting on the weather, "So. Saturday night."
Adrian looked up from his plate. "What about it?"
"I'm thinking we go out," she continued. "Properly. Drinks. Music. Somewhere loud enough that nobody pretends they're responsible adults."
Catherine stiffened, just a little. "You already have plans."
"I'm expanding them," Celine said, unfazed. "Adrian, you should come."
Adrian's grin was immediate. "Is this one of those nights?"
"It is absolutely one of those nights."
He laughed, already convinced, then tilted his head thoughtfully. "Should we invite Max, or is this a selective experience?"
Celine tapped her fork against the edge of her plate, pretending to consider it. "Oh, we should invite him."
Catherine shot her a look. "Celine."
"I just don't know if he's available," Celine added sweetly. "He might have a hot date he can't refuse."
Adrian leaned in, delighted. "You're right. Very mysterious, that one. All brooding silence and surprise tenderness."
"Please stop," Catherine muttered.
"He is gentle," Celine went on thoughtfully. "Not at all what people expect."
Adrian raised a brow. "You sound fond."
"I sound accurate," Celine replied.
Catherine pushed her salad around her plate, pointedly not engaging. Which, of course, only encouraged them.
ᯓ★
Max was midway through dissecting investor profiles—numbers precise, margins clean, everything obedient—when his office door burst open with enough force to rattle the glass wall. Not knocked. Not opened. Invaded.
"Guess what," Adrian announced, already crossing the room like boundaries were a suggestion.
Max didn't look up. His pen continued its measured path across the tablet. "If this is about last—"
"You and I are going clubbing on Saturday," Adrian said, far too pleased with himself. "With the girls."
The pen stopped.
Max's hand froze mid-stroke, suspended in the air like his body hadn't yet caught up to what his mind was processing. Slowly—too slowly—he lifted his gaze. "What," he said, each word chosen with care, "girls?"
"Our favorite duo."
The silence stretched. Max felt it land in his chest before Adrian finished the sentence.
"Celine and—"
Adrian watched the realization bloom, then collapse.
"Catherine?" Max echoed, quieter now, like saying her name too loudly might do damage.
"Yes," Adrian said brightly, cruelly. "Catherine, too."
Max shut his tablet with deliberate slowness, as though any sudden movement might crack something inside him. His eyes drifted unfocused to the skyline beyond the window, buffering, recalibrating. "Why," he asked at last, voice carefully neutral, "would they invite me?"
"Because you're fun," Adrian offered.
Max looked at him. Flat. Unamused.
"Or," Adrian amended, shrugging, "Celine wants to psychologically torture you again. Hard to tell with her."
Max dragged a hand through his hair, leaving it more disordered than before, like the motion mirrored the unraveling in his head. "This is bad."
"Why bad?"
"Because Catherine hates me."
Adrian tilted his head. "No. Catherine ignores you. There's a difference. One is loud. The other is... devastating."
Something dark flickered across Max's expression. "She doesn't laugh at my jokes."
"Not a tragedy."
"She doesn't flirt back."
"A public service."
"She treats me like I'm—" He faltered, irritation sharpening into something more vulnerable as he searched for the word. "—furniture."
Adrian considered this. "High-end furniture," he said thoughtfully. "Rare. Expensive. But still."
"Adrian."
Adrian stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder, solemn now, almost ceremonial. "You like her."
Max shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. "I do not."
"You do," Adrian replied easily, smiling. "You absolutely do. And you're spiraling. I love this version of you."
Max exhaled hard and pushed back from his desk, the chair rolling a fraction too fast. "I'm not going."
"Yes, you are," Adrian said without missing a beat. "I already told Celine you were excited."
Max stared at him. Long. Wordless.
Then he let his forehead fall against the desk with a muted thud.
"God help me," he muttered into polished wood.
Adrian grinned, unrepentant.
"Oh, Max," he said lightly. "We're way past that."
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──Friday Night─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
By Friday evening, the week felt stretched thin.
The office emptied early, people carrying the fatigue of deadlines and the promise of a weekend. Catherine packed her bag with habitual neatness, double-checking her notes, closing tabs she wouldn't need until Monday.
Normal routines. Safe routines.
Celine watched her from the doorway.
"You're tense," Celine observed.
"I'm not."
"You alphabetized your bag," Celine said. "That's a sign."
Catherine sighed. "You're the one who's excited."
"As I should be," Celine replied. "Tomorrow is important."
"It's just a bar."
"It's not just a bar," Celine said lightly. "It's context."
Catherine narrowed her eyes. "Context for what?"
Celine smiled. "For people to reveal themselves."
At Celine's apartment later that night, the city hummed below the windows—traffic like a low tide, lights blinking in patterns Catherine had learned by heart. They changed into comfortable clothes, ordered takeout, and sprawled across the couch with the kind of ease that came from years of trust.
Celine, however, didn't fully relax.
She kept checking her phone.
"You're plotting," Catherine said.
"I'm calibrating," Celine corrected. "There's a difference."
Catherine rolled onto her side. "About Max?"
Celine didn't deny it. "He's being very careful."
"And that bothers you."
"It intrigues me," Celine said. "Careful men are dangerous in different ways."
Catherine stared at the ceiling. "I told you I'm not looking for anything."
"I know," Celine replied softly. "Which is why I'm not pushing you toward something. I'm pushing around you."
Catherine turned her head. "That sounds worse."
Celine laughed. "Relax. You trust me."
She did.
That was the problem.
Later, when Catherine was already in bed, phone glowing faintly in the dark, a message came through.
Celine:
Sleeping over tomorrow. No arguments. I need prep time.
Catherine stared at the screen.
Catherine:
Prep for what?
Three dots. Then:
Celine:
For you.
Catherine set the phone face down, heart doing something annoyingly alert.
Saturday morning came with purpose.
Celine made coffee strong enough to qualify as an intervention and handed Catherine a mug before she could protest.
"We're starting early." Celine said.
Celine leaned against the open wardrobe, arms crossed, watching Catherine pace slowly across the room like she was organizing thoughts rather than choosing clothes.
"You know," Celine said casually, "you've been thinking about normal Maximilian a lot lately."
Catherine stopped. "Normal?"
"Yes," Celine continued, counting on her fingers. "No flirting. No dramatic entrances. Gentle. Polite. Always looks unfairly good in a suit."
Catherine felt heat rise to her face. "I am not thinking about him."
Celine smiled. "You just listed his best qualities without realizing it."
She slid the wardrobe door fully open—dresses lined up in careful order, a quiet archive of past nights and possible futures.
"Now," Celine said briskly, "we are absolutely not letting you wear something that suggests you might leave before midnight."
"I don't do that," Catherine protested.
"You do," Celine replied. "Emotionally."
She handed Catherine the first dress. "Try."
Catherine disappeared into the bedroom and returned moments later. Celine tilted her head, assessing.
"No."
"It's perfectly nice."
"It's perfectly forgettable."
The second dress earned a hum. The third, a shake of the head. The fourth made Celine sigh dramatically.
"You're hiding again," she said. "That one apologizes before you even enter the room."
Catherine crossed her arms. "Why are you always discussing Max with me, anyway?"
Celine didn't miss a beat. "Because he's a millionaire."
Catherine stared at her. "Celine."
"What?" Celine said innocently. "I have to sell you to the right, rich person. It's basic matchmaking economics."
"That's not funny."
"It's slightly funny."
Catherine laughed despite herself. "You're terrible."
"And yet," Celine said, reaching for another hanger, "you trust me."
She handed Catherine the last dress without ceremony.
Catherine stepped out wearing black.
The fabric slipped off her shoulders, clean and unforced. The back dipped low—not dramatic, just confident enough to suggest she knew who she was when she stopped guarding herself.
Celine went quiet.
"That's it," Celine said finally.
Catherine turned slowly, examining herself. The black dress revealed skin without asking permission, the open back a quiet statement rather than a declaration.
"It feels... exposed," Catherine admitted.
"It feels honest," Celine replied. "And before you panic—no, I'm not actually selling you."
"Good," Catherine said, then hesitated. She met Celine's eyes in the mirror, her expression soft but certain. "Because I need you to remember something."
Celine's teasing eased. "Okay."
"I'm not looking for a relationship," Catherine said gently. "Not now. Not in the near future. Maybe not even further ahead."
Celine nodded, listening.
"And I'm not seeing anyone," Catherine continued. "I don't want this—" she gestured between them, to the dress, the night waiting outside, "—to turn into expectations. Or dates. Or plans that aren't mine."
For a moment, Celine said nothing. Then she smiled—not mischievous, not dramatic. Just sincere.
"I know," she said. "I'm not trying to hand you over to anyone."
She stepped closer, resting her hands lightly on Catherine's shoulders. "I just want you to feel like you don't have to disappear to stay safe."
Catherine exhaled, relief settling in her chest. "That's different."
"And that," Celine said softly, "I can do."
They held each other's gaze in the mirror—two women aligned not by romance, not by performance, but by trust.
They sat side by side at the vanity later, mirrors reflecting quiet focus. Celine applied Catherine's makeup with deliberate care—nothing heavy, nothing obvious. Just emphasis.
"Trust me," Celine murmured.
Catherine did.
By the time evening settled, the apartment felt charged with expectation.
Celine glanced at the clock.
"Ten minutes," she said. "Ready?"
Catherine exhaled slowly.
"As I'll ever be."
And somewhere across the city, Max checked his reflection one last time—heart inexplicably tight—unaware that Celine had already decided exactly how the night would unfold.
ᯓ★
Club Night
Max knew something was wrong the moment he walked in.
The bar was already alive—music low but deliberate, lights dimmed into intimacy, bodies shifting in practiced ease. Adrian clapped him on the shoulder and headed toward the bar without waiting, already scanning for drinks.
Max didn't follow.
Because Catherine was standing near the edge of the room.
She wasn't doing anything different. Not moving toward him. Not signaling. Not performing.
And yet—everything about her had changed.
The dress was black, cut cleanly at the shoulders, open enough at the back that it caught light when she turned. Her posture was the same—composed, contained—but the way she occupied space felt... intentional. Like she'd decided exactly how much of herself to reveal and stopped there.
Max halted.
Just long enough to be noticed.
Celine clocked it instantly.
She leaned in toward Catherine, murmured something that made her smile—not bright, not inviting. Private.
Max swallowed.
"Jesus," Adrian muttered behind him. "She looks—"
Max elbowed him without looking.
"Careful," Adrian laughed. "I was going to say dangerous."
Catherine turned then—caught the movement without searching—and her eyes met Max's.
No surprise.
Just recognition.
His breath hitched despite himself.
She gave a small nod. Polite. Controlled. Not a greeting that belonged to someone trying to impress.
He crossed the room.
"You look—" He stopped. Restarted. "You look different."
Catherine tilted her head. "Different how?"
He hesitated, uncharacteristically careful. "Like you know exactly where you are."
Celine beamed. "I told her."
"Told her what?" Max asked.
"That subtlety is louder than flirtation," Celine replied. "You should take notes."
Catherine lifted her glass. "She made me."
"No," Celine corrected. "You trusted me."
Max's gaze lingered—not possessive, not hungry. Assessing. Recalibrating.
"This suits you," he said finally. Not the dress. The presence.
Catherine held his eyes for a beat. "Good."
That was it.
Not an invitation.
Not a dismissal.
Just confirmation.
Adrian returned with drinks, breaking the moment with his usual lack of timing. "Okay, I'm not saying anything, but—" He gestured vaguely at Catherine. "—wow."
Catherine smiled at him then—warm, unthreatening.
Max noticed. He stopped breathing.
Catherine wasn't being glamorous or seductive.
She wasn't trying to impress anyone.
That was the part that destroyed him.
She was simply...
herself.
And somewhere between that smile and the way she turned back to Celine, he understood something uncomfortable and irreversible:
Whatever this was now, he was no longer in control of it.
And Celine—watching from the side, satisfied—had planned it that way.
The club they chose was bigger, warmer, more atmospheric than the last—brick walls washed in amber light, a small live band tucked into one corner tuning their instruments, a low murmur of guitar strings testing the air. A billiards table glowed under its green lamp like a quiet promise. The floor thrummed faintly beneath their feet, bass traveling upward through bone and breath. The air smelled of wood polish and citrus peel, layered beneath the familiar burn of alcohol and anticipation.
It was the kind of place that invited lingering.
The kind of place where people stayed longer than they meant to.
Catherine claimed the pool table without ceremony.
She chalked the cue stick with calm focus, brows knitting just slightly, posture loose but exact. Everything about her suggested intention—no wasted movement, no nervous energy. Even the way she leaned over the table was measured, economical, like she'd already decided the outcome and was simply executing it.
Max drifted closer, stopping at the edge of the green felt.
"You play?" he asked.
Catherine glanced at him once—brief, assessing, enough to acknowledge his presence and nothing more.
"Yes."
That was it.
He waited for elaboration.
None came.
She bent again, lining up the shot. The crack of the cue split the room cleanly, sharp enough to turn a few heads. Two balls dropped into their pockets like they'd been summoned there.
Max blinked.
"You're good."
Catherine straightened, resting the cue lightly against her palm, as if it weighed nothing.
"I don't do things halfway."
The words landed heavier than she probably intended.
Or maybe exactly as intended.
Something tightened in Max's chest—admiration edged with something far less comfortable. He was used to being impressive. Used to being the one people noticed first.
Here, he was just... watching.
She reset the table with practiced ease, fingers steady, movements fluid and unhurried. Nearby, a small vintage music box perched on a shelf near the bar began to play—soft, tinny notes drifting into the space between songs from the band. It sounded fragile, almost out of place.
Catherine's fingers paused for half a second.
She reached over, scrolling through the playlist with deliberate care, as if choosing something mattered.
Max noticed the way her shoulders eased when she did.
He hesitated.
Then stepped closer.
"You have good taste," he said carefully, voice casual on the surface. Like this was normal. Like he wasn't still replaying the whiskey moment from earlier in his head like an unresolved injury.
Catherine didn't look at him.
"I didn't ask for your opinion."
He smiled—not his practiced grin, but something quieter—because she didn't snap. Not tonight.
"You're choosing Bon Jovi?"
She paused.
Then, without looking at him, selected It's My Life.
"I didn't know you liked old music," he said.
She didn't look up.
"You don't know me."
The statement wasn't defensive. Just factual. Delivered like a boundary, not a wound.
"But I want to."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Too honest.
Too fast.
Catherine froze mid-aim.
For a heartbeat, the room seemed to quiet—the band faded, glasses stopped clinking, even the bass felt distant. Just the two of them and the space she'd suddenly created.
She straightened slowly.
When she met his gaze, it was steady. Cool. Unflinching.
"You want to know every girl," she said evenly.
"Don't make me one of them."
She leaned back over the table and took the shot.
Another ball dropped.
Effortless.
Final.
Max didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Because she was right.
Because there was no clever reply that wouldn't cheapen what she'd said.
Because standing there, watching her turn back to the game like he hadn't just revealed something unguarded, he realized something deeply unsettling:
She wasn't resisting him.
She was choosing how much of him she'd allow.
And without trying—without even looking at him—she was pulling him in all over again.
Across the room, Adrian leaned against the bar, drink forgotten.
Celine stood beside him, eyes narrowed—not amused, not teasing. Focused.
Celine whispered, "Oh my god. He's actually behaving."
Adrian smirked. "And she hasn't murdered him yet. Progress."
"They're talking," Celine murmured.
"They're sparring," Adrian corrected. "That's Catherine's version of intimacy."
Celine didn't laugh this time.
Her gaze stayed locked on the pool table—on the way Catherine didn't look back, and the way Max didn't leave.
"Do you think," Celine said quietly, "she might actually like him?"
Adrian snorted. "Celine, if Catherine ever likes someone, the universe will issue a formal notice."
But Celine kept watching.
Because even from across the room, she saw it.
The hesitation.
The recalibration.
The fact that Max wasn't performing, and Catherine wasn't dismissing him.
Something had shifted.
Something small.
Barely visible.
But real.
And Celine, ever the strategist, smiled.
Of course it had.
The air outside the club was cooler, sharp with the smell of rain that hadn't fallen yet. Neon bled across the wet pavement, turning the sidewalk into a smear of color. Max leaned against the brick wall beside the back entrance, lighter clicking once, then twice, before the cigarette finally caught.
Celine stood beside him, unhurried, exhaling smoke like she had nowhere else to be.
For a moment, they said nothing.
Then Celine spoke.
"You know," she said lightly, "Catherine isn't a girl who falls."
Max glanced sideways. "No?"
"No," Celine replied, eyes forward. "She steps back. Observes. Decides. And if she decides someone isn't worth the trouble, she doesn't argue about it."
He smiled faintly. "That sounds... healthy."
Celine turned her head just enough to look at him. "It's lethal to men like you."
The smile faded.
Max took a drag, slower this time. "You think I'm dangerous?"
"I think you're charming," Celine said. "And charm is only safe when it's honest."
Silence settled between them, thicker than the smoke.
"She's not impressed by attention," Celine continued. "She notices effort. And consistency. And she remembers who you are when no one's watching."
Max exhaled. "You're giving me a warning."
"I'm doing you a favor," Celine corrected. "Because if you treat her like a game, she'll leave the board without flipping it. And you won't even realize you lost until it's quiet."
He didn't argue.
That, more than anything, surprised him.
The door behind them creaked open.
"Am I interrupting a secret society meeting?"
Catherine stepped out, already lighting her cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating her face. She leaned against the wall on Max's other side like she'd always been part of the scene.
Max blinked.
"You smoke?"
She glanced at him, amused. "Occasionally. I don't advertise."
Celine laughed softly, satisfied. "See? Layers."
Catherine took her first drag, calm, unbothered. "What are we discussing?"
"Max's moral development," Celine said. "It's a work in progress."
Catherine exhaled smoke into the night, eyes steady. "Good luck with that."
Something in Max shifted then—not attraction, not desire, but awareness.
He wasn't being evaluated.
He was being witnessed.
────୨ৎ────
The change didn't happen loudly.
There was no declaration, no promise, no dramatic pivot. Just a series of small, deliberate choices.
Max stopped interrupting Catherine during meetings. He waited until she finished speaking—even when others didn't. When he passed her desk, he didn't linger, didn't flirt, didn't comment. He remembered how she took her coffee and placed it beside her without a word when she'd been buried in work too long to notice.
He held doors. He listened. He didn't touch.
And Catherine noticed.
At first, she assumed it was temporary—a mood, a strategy, something he'd abandon when it failed to produce results.
So she tested him.
She answered him neutrally.
She gave him nothing extra.
She didn't reward the effort.
He didn't falter.
It unsettled her more than his flirting ever had.
One afternoon, she caught him watching her—not openly, not possessively, but with a quiet attentiveness that made her skin prickle.
"You're different lately," she said finally, not unkindly.
He hesitated. Then, honestly, "I'm trying not to get it wrong."
She studied him for a long moment.
And for the first time, she didn't dismiss him.
She didn't encourage him either.
She simply nodded.
"Good," she said. "Because you're better at this."
At being gentle, she didn't add.
But he heard it anyway.
And for the first time in his life, Max realized something dangerous and thrilling all at once:
Charm had always been easy.
Restraint was not.
And Catherine—calm, observant, unreadable Catherine—was teaching him the difference just by existing.
Across the office, Celine watched the exchange over the rim of her coffee.
She smiled to herself.
Phase one, she thought.
Successful.
── .✦The Education of Maximilian: Being friends with Catherine── .✦
Max had never been friends with women like Catherine.
There had always been a trajectory—interest, flirtation, pursuit. Even when things stalled, there was tension to lean on, a possibility to exploit. Friendship, in his experience, was usually just attraction waiting for permission.
With Catherine, there was no permission.
And so, against his instincts, he learned to stay.
He learned that friendship meant proximity without entitlement. That it meant sitting across from her at lunch while she talked about books he hadn't read, listening without redirecting the conversation back to himself. It meant walking beside her after work without reaching for her hand, without angling his body closer than necessary, without searching her face for signs of invitation.
At first, it felt like punishment.
He noticed how easily she spoke to Adrian about abstract things—art installations, a documentary she'd watched at two in the morning, a strange detail from her childhood that she shared without drama or expectation. Max absorbed these stories quietly, cataloging them not as ammunition for charm, but as data—pieces of a person who did not owe him intimacy.
He learned her habits.
That she drank her coffee slowly, as if savoring the heat more than the taste. That she always held doors open for people behind her, even when she was tired. That she noticed when someone's voice changed mid-sentence and adjusted her response accordingly.
He learned that she didn't like being praised publicly. That she preferred questions over compliments. That when she laughed—really laughed—it was brief, surprised, like she hadn't expected to enjoy herself.
And somehow, friendship made these details more powerful, not less.
Because there was no payoff.
No moment where his patience transformed into something physical. No escalation he could lean into when silence stretched between them. Sometimes, she simply walked away, and that was the end of it.
He began to understand that being friends with Catherine meant accepting limits without resentment.
Which was new.
He found himself recalibrating not just around her, but because of her.
He stopped using flirtation as punctuation in conversation. He learned to let moments end without trying to extend them artificially. He noticed when he was speaking too much and stopped—something that startled even Adrian when he witnessed it.
"You're quieter," Adrian remarked one afternoon.
"I'm listening," Max replied.
Adrian stared at him like he'd spoken a foreign language.
The strangest part was how Catherine responded.
Not with gratitude.
Not with reassurance.
But with ease.
She relaxed around him in a way she hadn't before—shoulders lower, tone unguarded. She began including him without thinking: passing him a document, asking his opinion on something small, sitting beside him instead of across the table.
It was subtle. Almost invisible.
But it felt earned.
The Education of Maximilian: Pressure
Catherine noticed the change in the way she noticed most important things—late, and without wanting to.
It wasn't dramatic. There was no moment she could point to and say there. It accumulated instead, small and persistent, like pressure behind the eyes.
Max no longer hovered.
He didn't offer commentary on her moods.
He didn't fill pauses with charm or jokes.
He waited.
When she spoke, he didn't rush to respond. When she disagreed, he didn't argue for the sake of engagement. He accepted her conclusions without trying to redirect them.
It made him... easier.
Which was unsettling.
One afternoon, she dropped a stack of papers outside the conference room. Max bent down at the same time, gathered them, and handed them back without comment. No smile. No remark about fate or teamwork or guess we're in sync. Just efficiency.
"Thank you," she said, genuinely.
He nodded once and stepped back.
That was when it occurred to her—quiet and inconvenient—that he wasn't trying to be impressive anymore.
He was trying to be correct.
Across the room, Celine saw it too.
Later that week, Adrian let himself into Max's office the way he always did—without knocking, without invitation, and without fear of consequences.
"Max, tell me you're free for lunch because I refuse to eat alone like a—"
He stopped.
Max's office was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that meant focus—or catastrophe.
The lights were dimmed, the city stretched wide beyond the glass wall, and Max was standing by the window with his back turned, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, shoulders tense like he was bracing for impact.
The laptop sat open on the desk.
Adrian's eyes flicked to the screen.
He blinked once.
Twice.
Then leaned closer.
A search bar.
Plain. White. Unmistakable.
How to maintain friendship with someone you are attracted to
Adrian inhaled sharply.
"Oh my God."
He clutched his chest.
"MAX."
Max turned too fast. "What?"
Adrian pointed at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.
"No. No, no, no. Do not close it. I need to witness this. For history."
Max lunged forward and slammed the laptop shut.
"It's research," he snapped.
Adrian stared at him.
Then burst out laughing.
He bent at the waist, one hand braced on Max's desk, the other wiping at his eyes.
"Research," Adrian repeated, breathless. "Max. Axel Maximilian Luca. The billionaire. The menace. The man with fifty-six patents, three hostile takeovers, and a Wikipedia page that terrifies interns—"
Max crossed his arms. "Stop."
"—is Googling friendship survival tips because he caught feelings."
"I did not—"
"Oh, you did," Adrian said gleefully. "You didn't even add hypothetically to the search. You're serious. You're trying to be... ethical."
Max's jaw tightened. "This is not funny."
Adrian straightened, grin still wide but eyes sharper now.
"Oh, it is," he said. "It's hilarious. Because this is the most unarmed I've ever seen you."
Max looked away.
That was the confirmation.
Adrian sobered slightly, lowering his voice. "You've never tried this before."
Max didn't answer.
"You've never stayed," Adrian continued. "Never waited. Never let a woman set the terms and just... lived inside them."
Silence.
Adrian nodded slowly. "That's what scares you."
Max exhaled, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. "She doesn't want to be pursued."
"She doesn't want to be claimed," Adrian corrected. "Big difference."
Max shot him a look. "You're enjoying this."
"I'm witnessing character development," Adrian said. "It's rare. I had to document it."
Max sank into his chair, finally—defeated in a way Adrian had never seen before.
"I don't want to ruin it," Max said quietly. "Whatever this is."
Adrian tilted his head. "So don't."
"It's not that simple."
"It is," Adrian replied. "You just can't win the way you're used to."
Max let out a short, humorless laugh. "She'll never choose me."
Adrian shrugged. "Maybe. But she trusts you. And for Catherine? That's not a consolation prize."
Max stared at the desk.
The closed laptop felt heavier than it should.
Adrian clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Face it, man. You're not falling."
Max didn't look up.
"You've fallen," Adrian continued gently. "Face-first. Hard. Into the pavement."
A beat.
"And instead of getting up and flirting your way out of it, you're lying there thinking, Wow. The view from here is... different."
Max closed his eyes.
Adrian grinned.
"Congratulations," he said. "You're doomed."
Max exhaled.
But he didn't disagree.
And that—more than the search history, more than the silence—was the final confirmation.
Later at the Office
Maximilian entered the office with the confident stride of a man who had survived hostile takeovers, congressional inquiries, and three separate boardroom coups.
He told himself this was no different.
He was calm.
He was professional.
He was absolutely not unraveling.
Then he saw Catherine.
She was seated at her desk, slightly angled away from the open floor, one leg crossed over the other, notebook open. Her hair was pulled back in a way that suggested efficiency rather than intention. No makeup. No softness added for the sake of anyone else's comfort.
She was writing quickly, decisively—pen gliding across the page like she already knew where every sentence was going before it existed.
Dangerous.
Unreachable.
Uninterested.
Max slowed.
Just slightly.
He told himself it was because he needed to check an email. Or because the light near her desk was brighter. Or because time, apparently, had chosen that moment to behave strangely.
He stopped.
Stared.
Again.
She looked up.
Not startled. Not annoyed.
Simply aware.
Her eyes met his with a quiet, surgical precision that suggested she'd clocked him several seconds ago and had merely allowed him to embarrass himself.
"Yes?" she asked.
One eyebrow lifted—not sharp, not cruel. Curious.
"Can I help you?"
Max's brain short-circuited.
He blinked once. Twice.
"I—" His mouth opened. Closed. "I'm just—passing by."
She glanced at the space between them.
"You're standing still."
"...Right."
He nodded once, as if acknowledging a valid point raised in a meeting, and took a step—any step—away.
Catherine returned to her notes without another word.
Max exhaled like he'd just escaped a small but emotionally significant fire.
He made it three steps before realizing his hands were clenched.
He forced them open.
He walked faster.
He absolutely did not look back.
ᯓ★
Adrian had witnessed Max under pressure before.
Market crashes.
Public scandals.
And this? This was new.
Adrian leaned against the glass wall of a conference room, coffee in hand, watching Max pass with the narrowed focus of someone studying an endangered species.
As Max drew closer, Adrian lowered his voice.
"You're pathetic."
Max stopped walking.
"I am normal," he hissed, not turning around.
"You stared at her like she was a complex math problem you suddenly realized you cared about."
"I was thinking."
"You froze."
"I paused."
"You short-circuited."
Max finally turned, glare lethal.
Adrian grinned, delighted.
"You're sweating."
"It's warm."
Adrian glanced dramatically at the thermostat mounted on the wall. "Sixty-eight degrees."
Max rubbed a hand down his face.
"Why are you like this?"
"Because I love you," Adrian said cheerfully. "And because watching you malfunction is the highlight of my week."
Max sighed. "I just need to—be normal."
Adrian snorted. "Buddy. You're trying to be normal around a woman who doesn't react to you. That's like asking a hurricane to practice mindfulness."
Max shot him a look. "I don't need commentary."
"You need therapy," Adrian corrected. "Or at least a manual. Step one: Stop staring."
Max glanced—against his will—toward Catherine's desk.
She hadn't looked up again.
"That's the problem," he muttered.
Adrian's grin softened, just a fraction.
"Oh," he said quietly. "You're doomed."
Max didn't argue.
Because standing there, trying—and failing—to occupy the same space as Catherine without unraveling, he realized the truth:
He wasn't losing control.
He was giving it up.
And somehow, that felt worse
────୨ৎ────
It started, as most disasters did, with Adrian and Celine unattended.
They were standing near the coffee machine mid-afternoon—Celine waiting for her espresso, Adrian pretending not to judge the office snacks while very much judging them.
"You know what's missing from my life?" Adrian said thoughtfully.
"Accountability?" Celine replied without looking up.
"Wrong. Documentation."
She glanced at him. "That's vague. And threatening."
Adrian grinned. "We hang out too much now. There are witnesses. There are shared experiences. And yet—no centralized archive."
Celine frowned. "Are you suggesting—"
"A group chat," Adrian said, reverent. "For the four of us."
Celine's eyes lit up immediately. "Oh my god."
"Think about it," he continued. "Plans. Memes. Evidence."
"Emotional damage," she added, delighted.
"Exactly."
Celine took her phone out. "I already have three photos that would ruin Max's legacy."
Adrian gasped. "You're holding out on me?"
"I was saving them for a rainy day."
"Today is torrential."
She typed quickly, thumbs flying.
Celine created a group: Saturday Survivors
Adrian watched over her shoulder. "Add Catherine."
"Obviously."
"And Max?"
Celine hesitated just long enough to be noticeable.
Then she added him.
"Do you think he'll leave immediately?" Adrian asked.
"God, I hope not."
Meanwhile
Max's phone buzzed during a budget review.
Once.
Twice.
Then again.
He frowned, glancing down.
You've been added to Saturday Survivors
Before he could question his life choices, messages flooded in.
Adrian: Welcome.
Celine: Congratulations, you're officially one of us.
Max: Is this a work-related group?
Celine: Absolutely not.
Adrian: Do NOT discuss work here.
Max typed, deleted, typed again.
Max: ...Understood.
Three dots appeared.
Then Catherine's name.
Catherine: Hello.
That was it.
No emoji.
No sarcasm.
Just presence.
Max stared at the screen longer than was reasonable.
The chat went quiet for approximately twelve minutes.
Long enough for Max to think he'd survived.
Then—
Celine sent a photo.
It was from last weekend.
Max, caught mid-laugh, tie loosened, jacket half-off, expression soft and completely unguarded. The kind of photo he never allowed to exist.
Celine: Exhibit A: Proof that confidence is temporary.
Adrian: I look at this and feel powerful.
Catherine: Is this recent?
Max froze.
Max: I'd like to formally request that this image never be used in legal proceedings.
Adrian: Denied.
Celine: I have backups.
There it was.
The moment Catherine was watching for.
Would he deflect?
Charm it away?
Disappear?
Max stayed.
Max: For the record, I was laughing because Adrian spilled a drink on himself.
Adrian: Lies and slander.
Celine: We remember it differently.
A pause.
Then—
Max: I deserve this.
Catherine read that twice.
She didn't comment.
But something settled.
ᯓ★
By the end of the day, the group chat had evolved.
Not dramatically.
Just... naturally.
Celine: Lunch tomorrow? I refuse to eat salad alone again.
Adrian: I'm in if Max promises not to talk about quarterly projections.
Max: I can try.
Catherine: 12:30 works.
Max's chest tightened at how easily she said it.
Later—
Adrian: Who's coming Saturday?
Celine: All of us. Non-negotiable.
Max: What's happening Saturday?
Catherine: You'll find out.
That night—
Celine: I can't believe Marina thought we were a couple.
Adrian: Iconic.
Max: Wait—what?
Catherine: It was a misunderstanding.
No elaboration.
Max didn't ask.
He learned.
And somewhere between photos, lunch plans, and jokes that landed a little too close to comfort, something happened quietly.
They stopped orbiting each other separately.
They became a unit.
Messy.
Unbalanced.
Unlabeled.
Catherine watched it form.
Celine enjoyed pushing it.
Adrian documented everything.
And Max—
Max stayed.
Which, Catherine realized, might be the most telling thing of all.
Maximilian wasn't performing restraint.
He was practicing it.
And somewhere in the quiet space between effort and observation, something unspoken began to take shape.
Not attraction.
Not commitment.
Something slower.
Something more dangerous.
Trust.
And none of them knew what to do with it yet.