Catherine didn't name it.
She noticed it, yes-but she didn't give it language.
It arrived in pieces: the way Max waited half a beat before speaking now, as if checking himself; the way his eyes flicked toward her not to claim her attention, but to make sure she was comfortable; the way he never sat too close unless invited.
It wasn't an attraction.
Attraction was loud. Demanding. Greedy.
This was... discipline.
And that unsettled her more than charm ever had.
She told herself she was simply observant. That this was what she did-track patterns, note deviations, assess risk.
Still, when her phone buzzed late that evening, she felt it immediately.
The group chat: Saturday Survivors
Not a plan.
Not a promise.
A habit.
Saturday nights were no longer optional-not because anyone said so out loud, but because no one ever suggested otherwise. Somewhere between the first drink and the third pool game, the idea of not showing up had become unthinkable.
Somehow, without discussion, the four of them slipped into a rhythm.
Celine.
Catherine.
Maximilian.
And-frequently, loudly-Adrian.
Every week followed the same loose structure:
A bar chosen last minute.
A pool table claimed without asking.
Music loud enough to blur the edges of the day.
There was teasing.
There was chaos.
There was the kind of laughter that made strangers glance over, curious and faintly envious.
Max pretended he was indifferent.
Adrian pretended he wasn't watching Max fall apart in slow motion.
Catherine pretended she hadn't noticed either of them pretending.
And Celine pretended she wasn't conducting the whole thing like a long, deliberate experiment.
Every Saturday, Max found himself orbiting the same two women.
Celine, with her sharp instincts and sharper grin, who poked and prodded and laughed like none of this mattered.
And Catherine.
Always Catherine.
She didn't demand attention.
Didn't reach.
Didn't perform.
She simply existed-anchored, observant, unmovable.
And Max hated how helpless he was against that gravity.
At the bar, he learned her habits without meaning to.
She preferred whiskey, neat-no ice, no commentary-but switched to tequila when the night stretched long, and the room grew too loud, lime untouched, salt ignored. Wine was a last resort, chosen only when conversation mattered more than clarity.
She hated sticky floors.
She liked pool because it gave her something to do with her hands.
She never let anyone stand too close behind her.
Except him.
And only when she didn't notice she'd allowed it.
During games, Adrian talked loudly, exaggerated every win, and accused everyone of cheating.
Celine danced with strangers, returned with stories, leaned into Catherine's space just enough to be misread.
And Max stayed.
He fetched drinks.
Held jackets.
Listened.
He stopped flirting.
Not because he'd decided to be noble-but because every time he tried, it felt wrong. Like using the wrong language in a conversation that demanded precision.
Catherine noticed.
She didn't comment.
She never commented.
But sometimes, when Max handed her a glass without being asked, their fingers brushed-and she didn't pull away.
That was enough.
Midweek, the group chat inevitably stirred.
CELINE:
SATURDAY NIGHT AGAIN OR YOU'RE DEAD
CATHERINE:
It's Wednesday.
MAXIMILIAN:
Do I get a choice in this?
Three dots appeared.
Then-
CELINE:
No 💋
CATHERINE:
We'll see you at 8.
No emoji.
No softening.
A statement.
Max stared at the message longer than he should have.
Not because he objected.
Because Catherine had said we.
Adrian, passing behind his chair, saw the screen.
And lost his mind.
"Oh my god," Adrian wheezed, clutching his chest. "She didn't even ask. She just-declared."
Max locked his phone. "It's a figure of speech."
Adrian laughed for six full minutes.
"Buddy," he said finally, wiping his eyes, "you're not in a group chat anymore. You're in a ritual."
Max didn't respond.
Because deep down, he knew.
Saturday Survivors wasn't just a routine. No one officially declared it. No calendar invite went out. But by the third week, it was understood-if it was Saturday night, they would be there. Same bar. Same corner. Same pool table humming softly under its green lamp, like it was keeping score.
It was a pressure system.
A place where repetition made things visible.
Where restraint became a pattern.
Where boundaries weren't negotiated-they were observed.
Their conversations found a rhythm.
Celine was teasing Max about the women who stared too long or "accidentally" brushed past him.
Catherine is pretending not to notice.
Max pretended not to care that she pretended.
And beneath all of it-Max pretending he wasn't watching Catherine.
The way she listened more than she spoke.
The way her eyes tracked movement, not noise.
The way she seemed to read a room-and him-with terrifying precision, as if she were collecting data she hadn't yet decided how to use.
Every Saturday, he learned something new about her.
Every Saturday, he told himself it meant nothing.
Tonight would be no different.
Except tonight would be worse.
Because tonight, something in the air felt sharpened-like the pause before a match struck.
Celine arrived with intent.
She didn't ease into the night or flirt with anticipation. She slammed a full bottle of silver tequila onto their usual table before Max even had a chance to sit down, the glass rattling dangerously.
"Celebration night," she announced, already reaching for shot glasses.
Max paused mid-motion. "Celebrating what, exactly?"
Catherine didn't look up from chalking her cue, her focus precise, methodical.
"For surviving you," she said calmly.
Max blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Celine shrieked with laughter, nearly dropping the bottle.
"Oh my god, Catherine," she gasped. "I'm framing that."
Adrian appeared behind them, already grinning like a man witnessing his favorite slow-motion disaster.
"I like her more every day," he declared.
Max opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally said, "I'm standing right here."
Catherine met his eyes briefly, expression unreadable.
"Yes," she said. "That's why it counts."
Round After Round - Max Realizes Catherine Isn't Normal
The shots were poured without mercy.
One.
Two.
Three.
The effects were immediate-and wildly uneven.
Celine devolved beautifully, draped over Catherine's shoulder like a dramatic accessory, declaring love for strangers and loudly insisting the band was playing the wrong song even when they weren't playing yet.
Max felt warm. Loose around the edges. Functional, but aware enough to recognize danger.
And Catherine-
Catherine remained untouched.
She sat at the edge of the pool table, posture relaxed, eyes sharp, cue resting against her knee like an extension of herself. If anything, she seemed clearer. More present.
Max watched her like she'd broken a fundamental law of physics.
"Are you seriously not drunk?" he asked, disbelief edging into awe.
She shrugged, effortless. "It feels like juice."
He nearly choked on his drink.
"Juice?" Max sputtered. "That's-that's forty percent alcohol."
Celine lifted her head long enough to slur, "She's a tequila demon," before collapsing back against Catherine with a sigh.
"Experienced," Catherine corrected mildly, steadying Celine without looking at her.
Max leaned back, staring openly now, equal parts offended and fascinated.
"Who are you?" he asked.
She met his gaze, unbothered. Unflinching.
"Someone who doesn't have time for hangovers."
The words shouldn't have mattered.
They did.
Because in that moment-watching her sit there, calm in the chaos, unshaken by noise or liquor or attention-Max realized something unsettling:
This wasn't bravado.
This was control.
And God help him-
He found that ridiculously attractive.
The Trap (Celine, Deliberate and Smiling)
Celine watched the table like a general surveying a battlefield.
She clocked Max's second whiskey.
Catherine's third tequila-still untouched by consequence.
Adrian drifting toward the bar, already making friends with chaos.
Perfect.
"Shots," Celine announced suddenly, too brightly.
Max frowned. "We're already-"
"Shots," she repeated, pouring without waiting for consent. "Equal participation."
Catherine's gaze flicked to the glasses. She said nothing.
Max hesitated. Just a fraction. Enough for Celine to catch it.
"Oh," she said sweetly. "Don't tell me now you're careful."
It wasn't an insult.
It was bait.
Max smiled, reflexive, practiced. "I'm not careful."
Catherine looked at him then. Really looked.
He took the shot.
It hit harder than the whiskey had.
Not enough to make him sloppy-just enough to loosen the restraint he'd been building for weeks. Enough to blur the careful recalibration he'd been so proud of.
Celine watched it happen and said nothing.
She'd gotten what she wanted.
The Stupid Thing (Max, Sober Enough to Regret)
It happened near the bar.
A woman-beautiful, bored, curious-laughed at something Adrian said and let her hand linger on Max's arm. Too familiar. Too easy.
Old instincts stirred.
Max didn't lean in. Didn't flirt.
But he didn't pull away fast enough either.
He smiled.
It was automatic. Polite. Harmless.
It was also a mistake.
Across the room, Catherine saw it.
Not with jealousy.
With assessment.
Max caught her eye mid-smile and felt something drop hard in his stomach.
He stepped back immediately. Too immediately.
"Sorry," he told the woman, already retreating. "I-excuse me."
He didn't know why his chest felt tight.
He only knew-too late-that he'd failed a test he hadn't realized he was taking.
──── ୨୧ ────
The Quiet Care
By the time he reached the pool table again, the room felt louder. Brighter. Less forgiving.
Catherine was there already, setting her cue aside.
"You're done," she said calmly.
Max blinked. "What?"
"Drinking," she clarified. "Sit."
It wasn't a suggestion.
Something in her tone-flat, grounded-cut through the fog instantly.
He obeyed.
She slid a glass of water toward him. Then another.
"Slow," she said. "You're not drunk. You're careless."
The word stung more than if she'd called him reckless.
"I didn't-" he started.
She held up a hand. Not angry. Not accusing.
"I saw," she said quietly. "That's all."
She stayed beside him, close enough that her knee brushed his. Close enough to anchor him without touching his shoulders, his hands-anything that might confuse the moment.
Max drank the water.
Once. Twice.
His head cleared. His shame didn't.
"I'm sorry," he said, low. Not performative. Not charming.
It felt unfamiliar in his mouth.
Catherine studied him for a long second.
Then she nodded. Just once.
"Good," she said. "That means you noticed."
They stayed like that-side by side, facing the room instead of each other.
Celine watched from across the bar, satisfied. Adrian pretended not to notice while noticing everything.
"I'm not crossing that line," Catherine said suddenly.
Max went still.
"Which line?" he asked carefully.
"The one where this," she gestured vaguely between them, "becomes a misunderstanding."
He swallowed. "I don't want to misunderstand."
"I know," she said. "That's why I'm saying it now."
She turned to him then. Close. Steady.
"This," she said, gesturing between them-not touching, not retreating, just there-"this is enough for now."
He nodded once.
"You're learning," Catherine continued. "And I don't want you learning because you think you'll be rewarded."
Max met her gaze, pulse loud in his ears.
"So what do I do?" he asked.
She considered him. Really considered him.
"Stay," she said. "As you are. Not better. Not impressive. Just... here."
It wasn't rejection.
It was something far more dangerous. Permission-with conditions.
Max nodded.
"I can do that," he said.
Catherine looked unconvinced.
But she stayed beside him anyway.
────୨ৎ────
By the time the sixth shot was poured, Maximilian Luca knew two things with absolute certainty.
First: Celine should never be trusted with tequila.
Second: Catherine was not normal.
The night had begun harmlessly enough-their usual table, their usual music, the unspoken understanding that Saturdays belonged to them now. Ritual had crept in unnoticed, wrapped itself around them like habit.
And habit, Max had learned, was dangerous.
Celine was already standing by the time the glass hit the table. Not standing up-standing above, one foot on the edge of the bench, arms lifted like she was addressing a stadium.
"We're starting a band!" she declared to the room at large. "I sing. Catherine looks mysterious. Max funds it."
"No," Max said immediately, pushing back his chair. "Absolutely not."
Catherine, unbothered, reached for Celine's glass and took a measured sip.
"She'll come down if you bribe her with fries."
Max blinked. "How do you-"
"BRING ME POTATOES!" Celine shrieked from the stage. "OR I DIE HERE AS AN ARTIST!"
Applause broke out from somewhere near the bar.
Max closed his eyes. "I hate all of you."
Adrian had already started filming, his laughter shaking his shoulders. "This is cinema."
Max reached the stage just as Celine attempted a bow and nearly pitched forward. He caught her on instinct, arms locking around her waist before his brain caught up.
"Princess carry," Adrian narrated. "Iconic."
Max lifted her without ceremony.
"My prince," Celine sighed dreamily, patting his cheek.
"I am preventing you from fracturing your skull," Max said flatly. "Do not make this romantic."
Behind them, Catherine followed at an easy pace, steady and observant. When Max set Celine down at the booth, arranging her like someone carefully placing a very drunk cat, Catherine said softly, "Thank you."
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't performative.
And it hit him harder than any alcohol had.
Not because she owed him gratitude-but because she noticed. Because she meant it.
Max hated how much that mattered.
Celine slid halfway under the table and declared it "cooler down here." Adrian laughed so hard he had to sit down.
Catherine crouched, peered under the table, nodded once. "She'll be immobile for twenty minutes."
Max stared at her. "How are you still standing?"
She glanced at her legs. "They're functional."
"That's not-"
"Seven shots," she added calmly.
He stared at her as she'd just revealed a superpower. "You're not human."
"Tired," she corrected. "There's a difference."
Then Celine bolted upright.
"I HAVE AN IDEA."
Everyone froze.
"We should get tacos," she announced solemnly.
Max rubbed his temples. "Of course we should."
Catherine laughed-quiet, unguarded.
The sound loosened something in Max's chest he hadn't realized was tight.
And suddenly, everything felt dangerous.
Getting them home was a logistical nightmare.
Celine zigzagged dramatically.
Adrian filmed like a documentarian.
Catherine stayed close, never touching but never letting Celine fall.
Max ordered the car. Blocked drunk men. Paid for tacos he didn't remember ordering. Counted heads. Held doors.
At one point, he guided Catherine by the elbow through the crowd.
She didn't need it.
But she didn't pull away either.
In the car, Celine passed out instantly. Adrian followed shortly after.
Catherine leaned lightly against Max's shoulder.
Not collapsing.
Not clinging.
Just... resting.
Max stayed perfectly still, afraid movement would break something fragile and unnamed.
Adrian stirred just enough to whisper, reverent,
"Oh, you're done for."
Max didn't answer.
Because he already knew.
This wasn't chaos anymore.
It was gravity.
By the time they reached Celine's apartment:
Celine fell on the couch.
Catherine carried her to bed.
And the next day, Celine woke up like a corpse returning to life.
Her eyes cracked open.
Her soul tried to leave her body.
Her brain whispered, you did this to yourself.
"Cat..." she croaked.
In the next room, Catherine was already awake, sitting by the window with a cup of black coffee and absolutely zero evidence she had consumed an inhuman amount of tequila the night before.
Celine glared weakly.
"I hate you," she groaned.
"You say that every Sunday," Catherine replied calmly.
"Because every Sunday you resurrect like Jesus and I... don't."
Catherine took a sip.
"You were singing on top of a speaker, Celine. That explains a lot."
Celine buried her face in a pillow and screamed.
Then-
She peeked over the pillow.
"Did I do anything stupid with Max around?"
Catherine blinked. "You threw a lime at his forehead."
Celine gasped.
"I WHAT-"
"He deserved it," Catherine added.
Celine relaxed immediately.
"Oh. Okay then."
~Morning After
Axel Maximilian Luca had woken up with the unmistakable certainty that something in his life had gone terribly wrong.
Not physically.
He'd had exactly two fingers of whiskey all night. His head was clear. His body functional. No hangover to blame.
Which made it worse.
Because this-this spiraling dread lodged in his chest-was emotional. Mental. Existential.
He sat on Adrian's couch like a man awaiting sentencing, elbows on knees, head in his hands, replaying the previous night frame by frame with the obsessive precision of someone about to diagnose himself with something incurable.
"She leaned on me," Max muttered.
Adrian, already awake and smugly enjoying coffee, nodded gravely.
"Thoughts and prayers."
"She didn't trip," Max continued. "She didn't need help. She just... leaned."
"Disgusting," Adrian agreed. "The audacity."
"And she laughed at my joke."
Adrian sucked in a sharp breath. "Unacceptable behavior."
Max lifted his head, eyes wild. "It wasn't even my good material."
"That's how they get you."
"And then-" Max's voice dropped, like saying it louder might summon consequences, "-she thanked me."
Adrian set his mug down and placed a hand on Max's shoulder, solemn.
"My condolences. Truly."
Max groaned and dragged both hands down his face.
"This is bad. Adrian, this is-this is catastrophic."
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Define catastrophic."
"I'm thinking about her when she's not in the room."
"Oh no."
"I'm reviewing my tone before I speak."
"Call the authorities."
"I am actively trying not to flirt."
Adrian whistled. "That's serious."
Max stood abruptly and paced. "She doesn't respond to anything I usually do. No charm. No deflection. No indulgence. She just-observes."
Adrian smiled, feral. "She sees you."
"I don't want to be seen," Max snapped. "I want to be tolerated."
Adrian leaned back. "Too late."
Max stopped pacing and stared at him. "I do not like her."
"Yes," Adrian said gently, "you do."
"No."
"Yes."
"I like being respected."
"She respects you."
"I like being interesting."
"She finds you... educational."
Max grimaced. "That's worse."
Adrian shrugged. "Buddy, I've never seen you panic over a woman who wasn't trying to get into your bed."
"That's the problem," Max hissed. "She is not trying to get into my bed."
Adrian smiled, satisfied. "And you are losing your mind."
Max collapsed back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.
He was.
He absolutely was.
And there was nothing-nothing-he could do about it without making it worse.
At exactly 11:32 a.m., Max's phone buzzed.
Once.
Then twice.
Then three times in rapid succession.
He stared at it like it had personally betrayed him.
The group chat-Saturday Survivors-was awake.
CELINE:
I might die today
Max closed his eyes.
Across the city, Catherine had already seen it.
CATHERINE:
Hydrate.
One word.
A command.
Efficient. On-brand.
Max exhaled and typed before he could overthink it.
MAXIMILIAN:
Still alive?
Three dots appeared immediately.
CELINE:
Barely. I heard I threw a lime at your head
Max blinked.
So she remembered that.
MAXIMILIAN:
Yes. Yes you did.
CELINE:
My bad 😘
Max stared at the kiss emoji longer than necessary.
Before he could respond, a new name appeared.
ADRIAN:
Correction: you didn't throw it
You launched it
Like a warning projectile
CELINE:
I was aiming for joy
ADRIAN:
You achieved violence
Catherine's reply came after a beat.
CATHERINE:
No regret.
Max actually laughed.
It startled him.
He typed-Stopped.
Deleted.Typed again.
Deleted that too.
Finally, resigned-
MAXIMILIAN:
...Noted.
Adrian reacted instantly.
ADRIAN:
LOOK AT HIM
So restrained
So emotionally mature
CELINE:
Proud of you, Max 💕
ADRIAN:
Blink twice if you're being held hostage by personal growth
Max dropped the phone onto the couch like it had burned him.
Across the city, Catherine read the exchange in silence.
Then-just barely-smirked.
Not a smile.
Not warmth.
Just amusement.
Max didn't see it.
But he felt it.
Like a pressure change in the atmosphere.
His chest tightened.
Adrian leaned over the back of the couch, peering down at him.
"You know," he said lightly, "this is the longest you've ever stayed in a group chat with women who aren't actively flirting with you."
Max didn't look up.
"I hate it here."
Adrian grinned.
"No, you don't."
The phone buzzed again.
CELINE:
Saturday again soon 😈
CATHERINE:
We'll see.
Max's thumb hovered.
His heart did something stupid.
He typed-Deleted.
Typed again-Deleted again.
Finally..
MAXIMILIAN:
I'm available.
Three seconds passed.
Then-
ADRIAN:
HE ADMITTED IT
SCREENSHOT THIS FOR SCIENCE
Max audibly groaned and pressed his face into the couch cushion.
Before he could recover-
CELINE:
WAIT
Say it again slower
I want to savor this moment
ADRIAN:
This is historic
The man who ghosts calendars just RSVP'd like a civilian
CELINE:
Someone check his pulse
Is he still emotionally distant or did that expire last night?
Max lifted his head just long enough to type-
MAXIMILIAN:
This is harassment.
Immediately-
CELINE:
No 💕
This is friendship
ADRIAN:
And friendship is about accountability
CELINE:
Exactly
You said you're available
We are holding you to that
Legally
Spiritually
Catherine read the messages in silence.
She didn't intervene.
Didn't defend him.
Didn't tease him either.
Which somehow felt louder than anything else.
Finally-
CATHERINE:
Don't scare him.
The chat paused.
Just for a beat.
Then-
CELINE:
Oh wow
She's protecting you now
ADRIAN:
Max
Blink once if you feel chosen
Max stared at Catherine's message.
Don't scare him.
Not leave him alone.
Not stop.
Just-don't scare him.
As if she'd noticed he was already close to bolting.
His fingers hovered.
His chest tightened.
He typed carefully this time.
MAXIMILIAN:
I'm not scared.
Celine reacted instantly.
CELINE:
Liar 💋
ADRIAN:
Adorable, though
Catherine's reply came last.
Measured.
Unemotional.
And somehow devastating.
CATHERINE:
Good.
Max closed his phone and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
Adrian peered down at him, grinning like a proud menace.
"You're in it now," he said softly.
Max didn't argue.
Because for the first time-
He wasn't running.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
Catherine Softens... Accidentally
It didn't happen all at once.
There was no moment Catherine could point to and say this is where I slipped. No confession. No dramatic unraveling.
It happened in the small betrayals of her own instincts.
In the way her eyes followed Max longer than necessary before she caught herself.
In how her sarcasm dulled around him, edges blunted without her permission.
In the fact that she stopped positioning herself half a step ahead of him when they walked-and let him match her pace.
She noticed it.
She hated that she noticed it.
Max felt it in the spaces between words.
In the way she passed him a drink at the bar without asking-black, no sugar, already sweating with ice.
In the way she laughed when he wasn't trying to be funny, the sound slipping out of her before she could stop it, head tipping back just slightly, eyes catching his for a second too long.
He lived for those seconds.
They stayed with him-burned into his memory like something fragile he was afraid to touch too often.
And Catherine—Catherine stopped pretending she didn't feel it anymore.
The shift was subtle, almost treacherous in its quiet. It announced itself not as longing, but as attention. She caught herself noticing things she had no business cataloging, details that slipped past her defenses before she could name them as dangerous.
The way Max's nose scrunched when he fought a smile, as if amusement embarrassed him.
The way his focus never wavered when Celine spoke—steady, protective, patient—less the posture of a man performing interest and more that of an older brother who had learned vigilance the hard way.
The way he always, always placed himself between her and the press of bodies in crowded rooms, a reflex so practiced it felt unconscious.
And most unsettling of all: how he listened. Not to reply. Not to repair. Just to hear her, in a silence that made no demands.
She had sworn off softness years ago. Had folded it away with other impractical things—hope, ease, the luxury of being held without bracing for impact. Yet here it was, resurfacing in fragments, in moments she didn't guard closely enough. And the realization unsettled her more than any desire ever could.
Softness led to miscalculation.
Softness led to trust.
Trust led to fractures that never healed correctly.
But Max wasn't courting her.
He wasn't pushing.
He wasn't charming.
He wasn't testing her boundaries to see which ones bent.
He was trying-clumsily, earnestly-to be her friend.
And that, terrifyingly, was what let her lower her guard.
One night, he walked her home.
No car.
No entourage.
Just the two of them under flickering streetlights, coats buttoned, breath fogging the air.
Max was ranting about Adrian's newest haircut-"It looks like he lost a fight with a lawnmower"-his hands buried in his coat pockets, voice animated.
Catherine laughed so hard she had to sit on the curb.
Actually laughed.
Her shoulders shook. Her eyes watered. She pressed a hand to her stomach like she couldn't quite breathe.
Max stopped mid-sentence.
Stared at her like he'd stumbled onto something sacred.
Like her happiness was a rare animal he didn't want to scare away.
Catherine felt the look before she saw it.
Caught it.
Swallowed.
Stood too quickly.
"We're friends, Max," she said, firm, like drawing a line on a map.
"Yeah," he said immediately. Too immediately. "I know."
But his chest tightened.
And Catherine felt her heartbeat betray her, loud and disobedient.
────୨ৎ────
It didn't announce itself.
There was no thunderclap.
No dramatic realization.
No cinematic slow-motion moment.
Just a quiet morning.
The office pantry.
Coffee brewing.
Sunlight slicing through glass.
Celine was mid-rant about a Tinder date who'd lied about his height.
Catherine leaned against the counter, arms crossed, hair slightly messy, glasses crooked on her nose, eyes half-lidded with sleep-completely unbothered.
Boston menace in its natural habitat.
Max walked in.
Saw her.
And stopped.
She looked up.
"Morning."
One word.
Flat. Neutral. Unremarkable.
And something inside Max shifted.
Not exploded.
Shifted.
Like a lock clicking open.
Warm. Sudden. Terrifying.
His heartbeat stuttered.
His breath caught.
And for the first time in his entire life-
The billionaire who flirted for sport.
Who treated attraction like currency.
Who never lingered where feelings might form-
felt something real.
For a woman who didn't care if he was impressive.
He stared.
Celine noticed instantly.
"You good, millionaire boy?"
Max blinked hard. "Yeah. I-uh-just needed... coffee."
Catherine turned back to the machine and handed him a cup without looking.
"You take it black, right?"
He froze.
"How did you-" he asked softly. "How did you know?"
She shrugged. "You're predictable."
He wasn't.
Not to anyone.
And the fact that she noticed him-really noticed him-
hit harder than any tequila shot ever had.
"Catherine," he said quietly.
She looked up.
And in that second, something tightened in his chest so sharply it almost hurt.
That's when it landed.
He didn't want her as a conquest.
Or a challenge.
Or a flirtation that fizzled when it got real.
He liked her.
Not the version people tried to charm or conquer. Not the name whispered in rooms or the smile worn like armor.
He liked the real Catherine.
The guarded one, who watched before she spoke.
The observant one, who missed nothing and pretended otherwise.
The woman who carried pain without spectacle and still showed up—on time, composed, functional.
The woman who could drink half a bar, hold her own against anyone in the room, and still walk straight home, alone, unescorted, unbroken.
That was the problem.
He wasn't infatuated with the idea of her. He was undone by the truth of her.
And that meant he was screwed.
Hopelessly.
Silently.
Irrevocably.
Deeply.
Celine saw it happen in real time—the exact second Max's expression shifted from interest to inevitability. His jaw tightened, his eyes softened, something unguarded passing through him before he could stop it. She didn't interrupt. She didn't need to.
She leaned closer to her coffee and murmured, almost fondly, "Oh."
Then she smiled.
"He's gone."
Max panicked.
Spectacularly.
He left the pantry like a man whose operating system had suffered a catastrophic failure. He clipped a chair with his hip. Walked into the wrong office. Backed out without explanation. When the cleaning staff passed, he nodded too fast and said, "Hi, Mom—no—I meant—"
Adrian intercepted him before he could further disgrace himself.
"Okay," Adrian said, gripping his elbow and steering him into a conference room. "Talk."
Max paced like the floor was electrified.
He dragged both hands through his hair.
Stopped.
Turned.
Stared at the wall as if it had personally betrayed him.
"I think something's wrong with me."
"Besides the obvious?"
"Adrian."
"What happened?"
Max inhaled sharply, bracing himself. "Catherine said good morning."
Adrian blinked. "That's it?"
"She gave me coffee."
"...Okay?"
"And she knew how I take it."
Adrian stared at him.
"That is," he said slowly, "basic human interaction."
"No," Max pressed a hand flat to his chest, as if steadying a malfunctioning heart. "I felt something."
Adrian's jaw dropped.
"Oh my God."
He smacked Max's shoulder. "You like her."
Max flinched. "Lower your voice!"
"YOU LIKE HER—"
"ADRIAN—"
"THE PLAYBOY HAS FALLEN—"
"Adrian."
Interns paused in the hallway.
Adrian laughed until he had to sit down.
Catherine made it worse.
Unknowingly.
She walked into the conference room with a stack of files, calm and composed, like she hadn't just derailed a man's entire internal ecosystem.
Max nearly tripped over the table standing up.
"Easy," she said dryly. "You look like you're being chased."
"I'm fine," Max said, lying with impressive sincerity and terrible execution.
Adrian covered his mouth, shoulders shaking.
Catherine studied him.
She was good at reading people—desire, manipulation, hostility. She'd learned early how to spot the angles, the hunger, the intent behind a look.
But Max?
Max was something else entirely.
Pure, unfiltered flustered sincerity.
"...You sick?" she asked.
"No."
"You're acting weird."
"I'm always like this."
"No, you aren't," she said, tilting her head. "You usually annoy me more consistently."
Adrian nearly fell out of his chair.
Max swallowed. "Maybe I'm trying not to."
Her brows twitched.
Just barely.
She handed him a folder, her fingers brushing his knuckles by accident. He felt it everywhere.
"You shouldn't try," she said quietly. "I'm not worth impressing."
It wasn't cruel.
It wasn't dismissive.
It was honest.
And somehow, that hurt more than cruelty ever could.
She turned and left, the door clicking shut behind her.
Max stayed frozen, staring at the space she'd occupied, like moving might break something irreparable.
Adrian exhaled slowly. "You're screwed."
Max nodded.
"I know."
────୨ৎ────
Max made a plan.
It was a reasonable plan. A mature plan. The kind of plan men made when they were absolutely not supposed to fall for someone.
Be normal.
Be her friend.
Do not flirt.
Do not stare.
Do not—under any circumstances—fall more than he already had.
He repeated it to himself like a mantra as they settled into the lounge area, laptops open, coffee within reach. He adjusted his posture. Focused on breathing. On spreadsheets. On literally anything that wasn't Catherine.
He lasted five minutes.
Celine caught him first. She always did.
She followed his gaze, then burst out laughing. "Oh my God," she said, delighted. "You're hopeless."
Max didn't look away. That was mistake number one.
"I'm trying," he muttered.
"You're failing."
Catherine glanced up from her screen. "Who's failing?"
Max nearly died where he sat.
Celine leaned in, resting her chin on her hand, eyes bright with mischief. "Hypothetically," she said, "if Max were actually normal... would you consider being his friend?"
Catherine took her time. She sipped her coffee, unhurried, eyes flicking briefly—briefly—toward Max.
"Not if he keeps starin' at me like that."
Celine didn't miss a beat. "MAX. STOP STARING."
"I'M NOT—"
Max snapped his head away so fast he nearly pulled something.
Catherine rolled her eyes. "He's dramatic."
But she didn't say no.
She didn't pack up her things. Didn't excuse herself. Didn't create distance the way she usually did when someone crossed an invisible line.
She stayed.
And Max knew, with a clarity that bordered on terror—
He was falling.
And there was no graceful way down.
Catherine realizes she's in trouble but didn't panic easily.
She had survived worse than a billionaire with kind eyes and catastrophically bad timing. Worse than interest. Worse than attention.
But the realization didn't arrive with warning sirens or sharp edges.
It came on a Tuesday afternoon, during something painfully ordinary.
She sat in a quiet corner of the office, red pen in hand, proofreading a report she'd read twice already. Across from her, Max worked in silence. Glasses on. Pen tapping lightly against the table when he paused to think. No flirting. No teasing. No tension sharpened into performance.
Just presence.
And that was the problem.
She caught herself noticing things.
The way his jaw clenched when he concentrated, like he took even small tasks seriously. The way his foot brushed hers beneath the table—and how neither of them moved away. The way he looked up instantly when she sighed, as if her smallest sound registered somewhere deep and automatic.
Not because he wanted something.
Because he noticed.
The thought hit her so hard she closed her laptop.
Oh.
Not attraction.
Not chemistry.
Something worse.
Trust.
She leaned back in her chair, heart thudding once—twice—too fast. This was how it started. Not with fireworks. Not with heat or reckless desire.
But with comfort.
And Catherine did not survive comfort unscathed.
She had learned that lesson the hard way, years ago, when love had arrived disguised as safety and left her bleeding from places no one could see. When she had believed steadiness meant permanence. When she had trusted softness not to turn sharp.
She inhaled slowly.
Measured.
Controlled.
Across from her, Max looked up. "You okay?"
Too fast.
Too gentle.
She nodded. "Yeah."
It was a lie she'd perfected long ago.
But as she looked back down at the unread words on the page, her hands unsteady, the truth settled heavy in her chest.
She was in trouble.
────୨ৎ────
It happened that night.
No bar.
No chaos.
No tequila buffer.
Just the office elevator-late, quiet, empty.
They stepped inside together.
The doors slid shut.
The silence pressed in.
Max shifted slightly, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in a way he was never relaxed around anyone else.
"I, uh," he said. "You heading home?"
She nodded. "Yeah."
Pause.
"Want company?"
It wasn't flirtatious.
It wasn't loaded.
It was just... Max.
And that was exactly why Catherine felt something inside her crack.
She stared at the numbers ticking down.
Didn't look at him.
"No," she said.
The word landed heavier than she intended.
Max stiffened-just a fraction.
"Oh. Okay."
She swallowed.
This was the moment.
The one she would regret either way.
"I think," she said carefully, "we should-reset."
He turned toward her now. Fully.
"Reset?"
She finally met his eyes.
And damn it-there it was.
Hope.
Unprotected.
Open.
"I like being your friend," she said. "But I don't want it to... blur."
His brow furrowed. "Blur into what?"
She hesitated.
That hesitation was the truth.
"Into something that isn't fair to either of us."
The elevator slowed.
Max searched her face like he was looking for a joke that wasn't coming.
"I haven't crossed any lines," he said quietly.
"I know," she replied immediately. "That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
She took a breath.
This was the hurt.
This was the part she hated herself for.
"It's me," she said. "I don't do... this. I don't let things drift. I don't trust slow."
His jaw tightened.
"So you're stopping something that hasn't even started."
"Yes."
"Because you think it might?"
"Yes."
The doors opened.
Neither of them moved.
"I thought we were doing okay," Max said.
"We are," she said, voice barely steady. "That's the problem."
Something in his expression shifted.
Not anger.
Disappointment.
Worse.
Acceptance.
"I can respect that," he said finally.
She nodded, grateful and miserable all at once.
"Good."
He stepped out of the elevator.
She followed.
He stopped walking.
"Catherine?"
She paused.
"I meant it," he said. "I wasn't trying to get anything from you."
"I know," she said.
And that almost broke her.
They Both Lose Something.
They became careful after that.
Polite.
Professional.
Still friendly-but with space inserted like a safety rail.
Max stopped walking her home.
Stopped hovering.
Stopped offering his jacket.
He did exactly what she asked.
And it hurt more than if he hadn't.
Catherine noticed the absence immediately.
The quiet.
The distance.
She told herself this was better.
Safer.
Smarter.
But some nights, when she caught him laughing easily with Celine or focused on work across the room, she felt something sharp twist in her chest.
Because the truth-the one she refused to say out loud-was simple and devastating:
She hadn't drawn the boundary to protect herself from Max.
She had drawn it because she already cared.
And Max...
Max learned something too.
That liking someone without trying to own them could still cost you.
That respecting a boundary could feel like losing something you never got to hold.
And somewhere between restraint and regret-
something fragile stayed alive.
Waiting.
Catherine's Reset
Catherine leaves her apartment with intention.
She walks faster than usual, headphones in, volume too loud-music not to enjoy, but to drown out thought. The city is sharp this morning, all angles and impatience, and she welcomes it. Cold air. Concrete. Noise.
Control.
By the time she reaches the office, the warmth has retreated to a dull ache behind her ribs. Not gone. Never gone. Just... managed.
She prides herself on that.
At her desk, she doesn't check the group chat.
She opens her calendar.
Her emails.
Her tasks.
Productivity is a language she speaks fluently.
And still-traitorously-her mind supplies details she didn't ask for.
The way Max had paused in the elevator.
The way he hadn't argued.
The way he had respected the boundary so completely, it felt like a bruise.
She presses her lips together.
Respect was dangerous.
Respect invited trust.
Trust invited expectation.
And expectation was where everything went wrong.
She stares at her screen until the words blur.
You did the right thing, she tells herself.
She has always done the right thing.
And it has always cost her something.
And then there are a denial phase, Professional. Polite. Lying.
Max arrives ten minutes early.
Not because he's eager.
Because he didn't sleep.
He tells himself it's work stress.
Deadlines.
Board meetings.
A global expansion problem that won't solve itself.
Anything but the image of Catherine standing in the elevator, calm and resolute, telling him-without raising her voice-that she didn't want this.
Whatever this was.
He sits at his desk and opens three different documents he doesn't read.
She's right, he tells himself.
You were getting sloppy.
This was familiar territory-rejection, boundaries, lines drawn. He had crossed enough of them in his life to know when to step back.
So he does.
He doesn't stop by her desk.
Doesn't linger.
Doesn't make jokes.
He becomes impeccable.
Polite greetings.
Efficient meetings.
Neutral distance.
Exactly what she asked for.
And yet-
When she passes him in the hallway and nods, his chest tightens like he's holding his breath underwater.
When she speaks in meetings-clear, incisive, devastatingly competent-he finds himself listening too closely.
He tells himself it's admiration.
Respect.
Anything but longing.
Adrian clocks it immediately.
"You're doing that thing," Adrian says, leaning in Max's doorway.
"What thing?" Max asks, not looking up.
"The denial thing. The one where you pretend you're fine while actively suffering."
"I'm not suffering."
"You alphabetized your bookshelf last night," Adrian says flatly. "That's a cry for help."
Max exhales through his nose. "I'm just... recalibrating."
"Uh-huh." Adrian folds his arms. "And Catherine?"
Max stiffens. Just barely.
"What about her?"
"You're treating her like a glass sculpture."
"She asked for space."
"And you gave her the whole museum."
Max finally looks up. "What do you want me to do? Ignore what she said?"
Adrian studies him.
"No," he says. "I want you to stop pretending you don't care."
"I don't-"
Adrian raises a brow.
Max stops.
Because denial only works if someone else isn't watching you unravel
It once happened in the copy room. Of all places.
Catherine is refilling paper, methodical, focused. Max steps in, stops short when he sees her.
They freeze. Then-simultaneously-move to give the other space.
Awkward.
Ridiculous.
"Sorry," they say at the same time.
She huffs a short laugh before she can stop herself.
The sound startles them both.
"It's fine," she says, clearing her throat. "Go ahead."
He steps past her, careful not to touch.
Too careful.
The printer whirs.
Silence stretches.
Catherine breaks it.
"You didn't have to disappear," she says quietly.
He looks at her then-really looks.
"I didn't," he replies. "I just... listened."
Her fingers tighten around the stack of paper.
"I didn't mean for it to feel like a punishment."
"It doesn't," he says.
Lie.
She studies his face-searching, weighing.
"You're good at this," she says.
"At what?"
"Making it seem like things don't affect you."
Something flickers in his eyes.
"Only because I learned early not to show when they do."
That lands.
Harder than either of them expects.
Catherine swallows.
This was the danger.
This-this glimpse of something real behind the polish.
She steps back.
"I should get back," she says, retreating into armor once more.
"Yeah," he says. "Me too."
They leave separately.
Both shaken.
Both pretending they aren't.
ᯓ★
One night, Catherine lies awake, staring at the ceiling.
Not warm.
Not cold.
Suspended.
And Max sits in his apartment, scrolling past unread messages, replaying the sound of her laugh in the copy room like it's proof of something he doesn't want to admit.
They have both drawn lines.
They are both obeying them.
And somewhere in the space between restraint and regret-
something waits.
Unspoken.
Unnamed.
But very much alive.
The Cracks in Catherine's Reset
Catherine survives the day the way she always does when something inside her threatens to rearrange itself-by becoming efficient.
Short answers.
Neutral face.
Zero warmth.
It works. Mostly.
Her reports are clean. Her meetings pass without incident. No one comments on the way she doesn't linger in doorways anymore, or how she chooses the far end of the table by instinct. She doesn't look at reflections. She doesn't replay moments.
She keeps the firewall up.
The first crack appears on the rooftop café, where the wind lifts her hair and the city stretches endlessly below them, and Celine watches her with a smile sharpened by too much knowing.
"You're stiff," Celine says, not unkindly.
"I'm normal."
"That's what robots say. Next, you'll tell me you don't dream."
Catherine doesn't answer. She aligns her cup with the table edge instead, the way she always does when she needs something to stay still.
Celine's smile widens. "Oh my God. You're resetting."
"I am not."
"You are," Celine says lightly. "I can hear the internal shutdown from here."
"Drop it."
"You don't go cold unless you're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"Then why are you sitting like you're bracing for impact?"
Catherine exhales through her nose. The city hums. Somewhere behind them, cups clink, a chair scrapes, life goes on without asking permission.
"You looked at him yesterday," Celine says, softer now. "Like you actually liked him."
"I didn't."
"And today," Celine continues, unrelenting, "you looked at him like staring too long would hurt."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," Celine agrees. "It's worse."
The words settle. Heavy. Accurate.
"I can't like him," Catherine says finally. "I won't."
"Why?"
"He's everything I avoid."
"Rich?"
"No."
"Pretty?"
"No."
"A flirt?"
Catherine shakes her head, frustrated. "No."
Celine waits.
The silence stretches until Catherine can feel it pressing at her ribs.
"He notices me," Catherine says at last, voice low. "And I didn't ask him to."
Celine's expression shifts-not teasing now, but sharp with understanding.
Later, in the elevator, the doors slide shut with a soft chime, and the day seems to fold inward. Celine doesn't hesitate. She presses the STOP button like it's instinct.
"Okay," she says. "Spill."
"No."
"Catherine."
"I said no."
"Your vibe today is 'I deleted my feelings and emptied the trash folder.'"
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
"I'm hiding."
Celine's voice lowers. "From what?"
Catherine stares straight ahead at the glowing numbers. The pause is too long. She knows it the second it happens.
"From him?" Celine asks gently.
Silence answers for her.
Celine steps closer, studying her the way she always does when she's serious-head tilted, eyes sharp, affectionate in a way that doesn't let you lie.
"You don't have to like him," Celine says. "But you noticed him."
"That doesn't mean anything."
"It means everything to you."
Catherine presses her lips together. "He's not safe."
"Neither are you."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
The elevator hums, suspended between floors. Catherine's reflection stares back at her in the metal doors-composed, controlled, and fractured just enough to be dangerous.
"I'm ignoring this conversation," she says.
"Fine," Celine replies easily. "But ignoring your feelings doesn't delete them."
The elevator jolts back into motion.
Neither of them speaks as the doors slide open.
Catherine steps out first, spine straight, armor locked back into place.
But the reset-
the firewall-
has fractures now.
Hairline cracks she can feel every time she breathes.
And Celine, devastatingly, has noticed.
Meanwhile: Adrian Learns the News
Max storms into the break room like a man fleeing a crime scene.
"I'm not falling," he announces to no one in particular.
Adrian, mid-sip of sparkling water, chokes so violently he has to brace himself against the counter. The can hisses as he sets it down, coughing, laughing, gasping all at once.
"Oh God," Adrian wheezes. "Say it again. Slower."
"I'm serious," Max insists, pacing now. "I am not falling for Catherine."
Adrian wipes his mouth, eyes bright with malicious delight. "For Catherine," he repeats, savoring it. "The woman who speaks five languages and uses four of them exclusively to humiliate you?"
"I don't stare at her," Max snaps.
"You absolutely do," Adrian says calmly. "Like a poet with a trust fund and a mild existential crisis."
Max drags a hand down his face. "Adrian-"
"No, no, don't interrupt this," Adrian says, grinning. "You-Axel Maximilian Luca, patron saint of emotional detachment-being undone by a woman who can silence you with one raised eyebrow? This is the best thing that's happened to me all year."
Max drops into a chair, the energy draining out of him all at once.
Adrian keeps laughing-until he sees his face.
Not defensive.
Not irritated.
Just... unsettled.
The laughter tapers off.
"Oh," Adrian says quietly. "You're serious."
Max stares at the floor. "She was different yesterday," he admits. "Softer. Like she forgot to keep the walls up." His voice lowers. "And today she's ice again."
Adrian leans back against the counter, understanding clicking into place. "Yeah," he says. "That tracks."
Max looks up. "What does?"
"Because she felt something," Adrian replies. "And panicked. That woman's heart is a locked vault with a self-destruct mechanism."
Max swallows. The thought sits heavy in his chest. "Do you think," he asks carefully, "she ever opens up?"
Adrian tilts his head, studying him. Then he smirks.
"Not if you keep pretending you're not falling."
Max grabs a napkin and throws it at his face.
Adrian laughs again-but softer this time, like he knows this isn't a joke anymore.