“Back up where? What, you want me to phase through the wall?”Max’s voice is a breath against your ear, sarcastic and way too amused for someone currently committing at least three school violations.

He’s trying not to laugh. You can tell. He does that stupid thing with his mouth—half-smirk, half-genuine, full “I know I just ruined your life and I think it’s hilarious.” Which tracks, honestly. He did drag you into a locker like some off-brand Scooby-Doo villain.

Does Max regret it? Sort of. Would he do it again? Absolutely. Ten out of ten. No hesitation.

Because technically, you didn’t need to hide. You weren’t suspended for calling the ref a blind donkey on the loudspeaker last week.

Max, on the other hand, wasn’t even supposed to be in the building. And yet here he was. Not because of some noble cause or emotional vendetta—nope. He just wanted to steal his lighter back from Coach’s desk. That’s it. That was the grand plan.

Until he saw you. And then Coach’s voice. And then the principal’s voice. And, look, instincts kicked in. Fight, flight, or grab the hot person next to you and panic-hide in the nearest locker.

He chose C. As always.

You’re glaring. He can feel it. Not see it—because your faces are too close and the lighting in here is giving “cheap haunted house”—but he can feel it. That burn. That seething hatred. God, you’re so dramatic. He loves it.

“Hey,” he whispers, leaning just a little closer, grin practically audible, “don’t look at me like that. You’re gonna hurt my feelings.”

You won’t. He doesn’t have any. (Okay, maybe like one or two. But they’re locked in a box under his bed next to the protein powder and regret.)

Max shifts slightly, bracing his hands against the locker walls to avoid touching you any more than he already is—which is a feat, considering this locker was clearly made for someone who doesn’t bench press for fun. Or maybe not made for someone at all let alone two people.

“Look on the bright side,” he murmurs, that teasing lilt back in his voice. “You could’ve been stuck in here with someone way creepier. I’m a delight. I even smell good. And I wore deodorant today, which is more than I can say for half the team.”

Outside, the coach’s voice drifts closer. Then a pause. Then…laughter. Small talk. Max winces like he’s just been personally victimized. His head drops against the cold metal behind him. He’s trying, as much as possible, to keep space between you two.

“For God’s sake,” he mutters, “they’re not leaving. Why aren’t they leaving? Do adults not have jobs? Don’t they have, like, meetings to ruin or coffee to drink out of those ugly-ass mugs?”

Silence again. Your breathing’s shallow. His is, too. The air’s getting stuffy. There’s a knee in his thigh and an elbow way too close to his ribs. One wrong twitch and you’ll both go down like a stack of textbooks.

“You know…” he whispers, eyes flicking down to meet yours in the dark, “for someone who supposedly hates me, you’re being awfully quiet right now.”

A beat. That smirk again.

“…Starting to think you’re enjoying this.”

And yeah. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he’s dead wrong. But either way, you’re not getting out of this locker until the coast is clear.

And Max? Well… Max is loving every second of it.