Max could feel her pulling back.
It was subtle, the way she ducked out of the bookstore early or answered his texts hours later. No explanations. Just space. Distance. And Max knew enough about people to recognize fear when he saw it especially the quiet kind, the kind that built walls made of silence.
He didn't push.
But he didn't leave either.
Ava sat at the old kitchen table in the cottage, a mug of tea growing cold in her hands. The call from Marianne kept echoing in her head, each word dragging her back to memories she'd buried.
Her mother had always had a way of unravelling things. Of walking into a room and making it feel like a fault line, just waiting to split.
Ava hadn't spoken to her in over a year. Not since the last fight about her art, her choices, her grief.
She didn't want to go through it again.
But she also knew she couldn't ignore it forever.
The knock at the door startled her.
She opened it to find Max, holding two paper bags that smelled suspiciously like garlic and comfort.
"Thought you might be hiding," he said gently.
She hesitated, then stepped aside.
They sat on the porch this time, watching the fog roll in from the cliffs as twilight settled over the town. Max passed her a container of pasta, then didn't say anything for a while.
"I talked to my sister," Ava said finally. "My mom's back."
Max nodded slowly. "That's not good?"
Ava gave a dry laugh. "That's… complicated."
She glanced at him. "She doesn't really get me. Never has. She thinks art is a waste of time. That grief should be buried, not felt. That I should've moved on a long time ago."
Max leaned back in his chair. "Grief isn't something you move on from. It's something you move with."
Ava looked at him, the words settling into her like warm rain.
"I'm scared she'll pull me under again," she said. "That I'll lose myself trying not to disappoint her."
"You don't owe her that," he said quietly. "You don't owe anyone your peace."
She didn't realize she was crying until he reached over and gently brushed his thumb across her cheek.
And then he didn't move his hand.
They kissed softly slowly like they were afraid the moment might break.
It wasn't rushed or hungry. It was careful. Earnest. Like something sacred being offered, not taken.
When they pulled apart, Ava rested her forehead against his.
"I don't know how to do this," she whispered.
"Me either," Max said. "But maybe we figure it out. One honest thing at a time."
Later, when he left, she stood in the doorway watching the darkness settle around the cottage. The wind carried the scent of sea and memory.
She didn't know what would happen when she saw her mother.
But for the first time in a long time, she knew she wouldn't be facing it alone.