The first time you saw Max Black, she was slinging coffee with a smirk that could ruin lives.

You were new in Brooklyn, stopping by the diner, still getting used to the clang of the subway and the smell of too many stories stuffed into too small apartments.

Max wore sarcasm like her eyeliner — thick and pointed — but her eyes softened a bit when you asked for a hot chocolate instead of coffee. “A girl after my own heart,” she said, pouring it herself, even though she didn’t have to.

Over the weeks, you found yourself returning —at first for the food, then for Max. She’d sit with you during slow nights, exchanging jabs and secrets, legs brushing under the table like a dare neither of you would name.

You told her about your quiet life, your awkward charm, the books you’d rather read than the clubs you’d rather skip. She told you about Caroline, the dream of a cupcake empire, and her taste in women and men and disaster.

You were polar opposites: she was loud and brash, all eyeliner and sarcasm. You were softer, quieter, like a page she wanted to underline. So when she grabbed your hand one night after closing and said, “You’re coming with me to the club. No arguments. Let me corrupt you a little,” and you went.

The club was sticky and loud and smelled like regrets and drinks. Max was magnetic, sipping some apple juice looking liquid in her cup, spinning on the barstool, dancing to bad music and making it look holy.

You sat next to her, cheeks flushed with laughter, and when she leaned in to whisper, “God, you’re pretty when you’re overwhelmed,” your heart skipped like a scratched vinyl.

The night unraveled in music, drinks, and the feeling of her pressed too close, her fingers brushing your thigh when she leaned in to make some filthy joke that sent your pulse spinning.

By the time you stumbled up the steps to her apartment, laughter and liquor heavy in your blood, something had shifted. She paused at her door, keys trembling slightly in her hand. You were behind her, so close, her perfume — vanilla and cigarettes — curling around you.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

Your hands found her hips as you pushed her gently against the door, and her breath hitched in surprise — but only for a second. She turned her head just enough for your mouths to crash together, and suddenly, the air was thick with heat and hunger.

You kissed her like you were starving, and she kissed you back like she’d been waiting forever. Her fingers tangled in your hair, tugging, her back arching against the door as her keys fumbled in the lock.

You barely made it through the door.

She finally got it open, dragging you inside without breaking the kiss, your mouths still desperate, greedy, like you'd both held back too long — and now, neither of you was going to.