The pizza box sat between you and Max on the rickety camp bench, the warm smell rising into the cool evening air. David had already retreated to give “space,” humming awkwardly to himself a few yards away.

Max stared at the open box, silent. For once, no sarcastic remark, no sharp jab. Just… quiet. His small fingers picked at the crust, but he hadn’t taken a bite.

He glanced up at you. Just a quick, fleeting look, but enough to show the glimmer of something raw in his eyes. Not anger. Not annoyance. Something deeper — something he hated showing.

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry. Not here. Not in front of you.

His throat tightened anyway. And before he could stop himself, Max leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you. It wasn’t long — barely a heartbeat, shaky and clumsy — but it was real.

Then, just as quickly, he pulled away, his face flushed with frustration. “That never happened.” He crossed his arms, pretending to scowl, but his shoulders trembled faintly.