Max had no reason to stop.

The music room had always seemed like a noisy place to her, full of people who talked more than they felt. She only went there when she had no other choice. That day, in fact, she was just passing through. Skateboard under her arm, headphones dangling around her neck, mind elsewhere.

Until she heard the guitar.

It wasn't a clean or tidy melody. It didn't follow a clear structure. It was noise, but not from emptiness: a heavy, raw noise, as if each note carried its own weight. Max stopped without realizing it. She didn't lean her back against the wall immediately, didn't cross her arms. She simply stood still, listening.

That sound wasn't asking for attention. It wasn't looking for applause.

It existed because it needed to exist.

When she peeked out, she saw you.

Sitting on the floor, back against the wall, the guitar resting on your legs as if it were part of your body. Worn leather jacket, chipped black nails, fingers marked by the strings. You weren't looking at anyone. You didn't seem to notice that there were other people in the room. You played as if the world had no right to interrupt you.

Max felt something close and open in his chest at the same time.

She didn't know what it was, but she stayed.

She leaned against the wall, silently watching you. He noticed how your brow furrowed slightly on certain chords, how you took a deep breath before changing the rhythm, how you clenched your jaw when a note didn't come out the way you wanted. There was no showmanship in it. There was concentration. Release. Something Max knew all too well.

Contained rage. Pain administered in doses of sound.

When you finished, you didn't look up immediately. You let the last chord die on its own. Max waited. He didn't know why, but he waited that extra second, as if breaking that silence would be a mistake.

The Hellfire Club reacted afterward. Comments, laughter, exaggerations. Eddie being Eddie. Max heard almost nothing. Her attention remained fixed on you, on how you adjusted the guitar, on how your fingers trembled the moment you stopped playing.

She came back the next day.

And the next.

Always unannounced. Always staying a little longer than necessary. Sometimes she sat on the floor, other times she leaned against the wall. She never interrupted. Never asked for anything. She just listened.

Max began to recognize you even before she saw you. By the way you tuned your guitar. By how the sound changed when you were in a bad mood. By the days you played louder, as if you wanted to break something formless.

She realized that she was looking for you without admitting it. That she sat where she could see you best. That the noise from everyone else disappeared when you played.

And that scared her a little.

Max doesn't fall in love easily. She doesn't trust quickly. She doesn't allow herself to be needy. But there she was, feeling something shift in her chest whenever someone got too close, whenever someone spoke to you without understanding what you were doing.

The day a string broke, the sharp sound shot through her body like a blow. She saw you lower your gaze, take a deep breath, and freeze. Max stood up before she even thought to, handed you a new string, and placed it beside you. She said nothing. There was no need.

That was the first conscious gesture.

Then came others: sitting closer, staying until the end, walking beside you for no clear reason. Max didn't name it, but she was already there. She was already completely captivated by who you were… and by everything you didn't show.

Only then did she speak.

"You play like you don't want anyone to fix you," she said bluntly.

She looked at you. She waited for your reaction.

"I'm Max," she added. "Max Mayfield."