Chapter Text
The elevator rides up to the penthouse. Yuki Tsunoda stood with his arms crossed so tightly his nails were leaving crescents in his biceps, designer duffle bag slung over one shoulder. The mirrored walls reflected his scowl back at him a hundred times. Perfect. Even his own face looked like it wanted to punch him.
Beside him — close enough to feel the chill radiating off him but not close enough to accidentally touch — Max Verstappen stared straight ahead at the floor numbers ticking up. Hands in the pockets of his black coat. Expression blank. Breathing so quiet.
The doors slid open with a soft ding.
Max stepped out first. Didn’t look back. Just walked.
Yuki stomped after him, shoes loud against the polished floor. “This is actually insane. You know that, right? This whole thing is insane.”
No answer.
Max unlocked the door and held it open.
Yuki stormed inside.
The apartment was exactly what he’d expected from someone like Max Verstappen: stupidly expensive, stupidly minimalist, stupidly cold.
Yuki dropped his bag with a dramatic thud. “I’m not unpacking. I’m not staying here longer than absolutely necessary. I’m finishing this last semester, getting my degree, and then I’m gone.”
Max closed the door behind them.
Yuki spun around. “Say something. Anything. You’ve literally not spoken more than ten words to me since the courthouse. What the hell is your problem?”
Max took off his coat, hung it on the invisible rack by the door with surgical precision, then looked at Yuki. Really looked. Blue eyes flat. Unreadable.
“You’re loud,” he said. Voice low. Calm. Dutch accent clipping the edges.
Yuki’s jaw dropped. “I’m— Excuse me?!”
“You’re yelling. In my house.” Max walked past him toward the kitchen. “There’s a guest room down the hall. Second door. Your boxes from the movers are already there.”
Yuki’s blood pressure spiked so fast he saw stars. “My boxes? You had people touch my stuff? Without asking?!”
“You were busy cursing your father on the phone for forty minutes in the car.” Max opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water. Didn’t offer one to Yuki. “Figured I’d save time.”
Yuki laughed — sharp, bitter, bordering on manic. “Oh my god. You’re actually a sociopath.”
Max twisted the cap off the bottle. Took one sip. Put it back down. “You’re the one who screamed ‘I hope you all die in a fire’ at your entire family.”
“They deserved it!” Yuki threw his hands up. “They literally sold me! And you — you just stood there signing the papers! Do you even have emotions?”
Max didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.
Yuki’s hands balled into fists. “Say something mean. Yell back. Anything! Stop looking at me like I’m a toddler having a tantrum!”
Max pushed off the counter. Walked past him again — close enough this time that Yuki caught the faint scent of cedar and something clean, expensive. “Bedroom’s that way. I have a simulator setup in the office if you need space tomorrow. Don’t touch the sim rig without asking.”
He disappeared down the hallway without another word.
Yuki stood there in the middle of the too-big, too-quiet living room, chest heaving.
He screamed — full-throated, wordless, furious — at the empty apartment.
The city lights outside didn’t even flinch.
And somewhere down the hall, Max Verstappen probably didn’t either.
One week.
Seven days of near-perfect, arctic silence.
Yuki had turned the guest bedroom into a war room: laptop permanently open on the desk, empty energy drink cans, sticky notes plastering the wall. Thesis title scribbled in red marker at the top. Because if he was going to be legally chained to a man who communicated mostly in grunts, he was damn well going to graduate and then serve Max Verstappen divorce papers before the ink on their marriage certificate had time to dry.
Max, for his part, seemed perfectly content with the arrangement.
He disappeared into the sim room for hours at a stretch. The low mechanical whine of the rig and the occasional muttered curse were the only signs he was still alive in the apartment. Meals? Yuki ordered takeout and ate cross-legged on his bed. Max probably lived on protein shakes and red bull. They hadn’t shared a single conversation longer than “move” when Yuki blocked the hallway once.
It was working. It was peaceful. It was exactly the cold war Yuki had prayed for.
Until 2:17 a.m. on day eight.
Yuki shuffled out of his room in mismatched socks, throat scratchy from too much screaming-at-PowerPoint earlier. He needed water.
The kitchen lights were already on — dimmed to thirty percent, because of course Max had mood lighting even at ass o’clock.
Max was there.
Standing in front of the open fridge. One hand braced on the door, the other rubbing slow circles at his temple.
Yuki stopped in the doorway.
Max looked… wrong.
Same stupidly perfect posture — but the color was gone from his face. Not just pale. Ghost-pale. Lips almost gray. Shadows under his eyes so deep they looked bruised.
Yuki’s first, honest instinct was: good, maybe he’ll keel over and I can have the apartment to myself.
His second, traitorously slower instinct was: …what if he actually dies though.
He cleared his throat. “You look like shit.”
Max didn’t startle. Just closed the fridge slowly. “I’m looking for paracetamol.”
His voice was rougher than usual.
Yuki squinted. “You sick?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Yuki rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. “Yeah, okay, tough guy. You look like you’re about to pass out in your own kitchen at stupid o’clock. Move.”
He stepped forward, reached past Max for a glass, filled it from the filtered tap. Took a long sip. Watched Max out of the corner of his eye.
Max hadn’t moved. Just stood there swaying the tiniest amount.
Yuki set the glass down harder than necessary. “Seriously. You okay?”
Max exhaled through his nose. “Stomach ache. That’s all.”
“Bullshit.” Yuki narrowed his eyes. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” Yuki stepped closer. “Let me see.”
Max finally looked at him. Eyes glassy. “Don’t.”
Too late.
Yuki reached up and pressed the back of his hand to Max’s cheek.
Max froze.
Hot.
Not warm. Burning. Skin scorching under Yuki’s fingers.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Yuki hissed, yanking his hand back. “You’re on fire. You have a fever, you idiot.”
Max blinked slowly. “It’s just—”
“Shut up.” Yuki grabbed Max’s wrist — thin, surprisingly delicate under all that racer muscle — and dragged him toward the bar stools. “Sit. Now.”
Max sat. Mostly because he looked too dizzy to argue.
Yuki rummaged through drawers like he owned the place. Which, legally speaking, he kind of did now. “Where’s your medicine shit?”
“Top cabinet. Left.”
Yuki found the paracetamol, shook out two tablets, shoved a fresh glass of water at Max. “Take them.”
Max stared at the pills like they might bite.
Yuki crossed his arms. “I’m not carrying your corpse out of here at three in the morning. Swallow.”
Max took the pills. Drank. Set the glass down carefully.
Silence stretched.
Yuki should have left. Should have gone back to his room, locked the door, and pretended this never happened.
Instead he leaned against the counter opposite Max, arms still crossed, glaring.
“You’re an idiot,” he said finally.
Max huffed the tiniest laugh — more air than sound. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” Yuki’s voice dropped. “Why didn’t you just… say you felt like death?”
Max shrugged one shoulder. “Didn’t want to bother you.”
Yuki stared.
Max looked away first. Toward the dark windows. Voice quieter than Yuki had ever heard it. “You hate being here. I get it.”
Something ugly twisted in Yuki’s chest.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“I don’t hate you enough to let you die in your own kitchen, asshole.”
Max’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.
Yuki pushed off the counter. “Come on. Bed. Before you faceplant on the marble and crack your million-dollar skull.”
Max stood — slowly, carefully — and immediately listed sideways.
Yuki caught his elbow without thinking.
They both froze again.
Max’s skin was still furnace-hot.
Yuki swallowed. “Don’t make this weird.
And because the universe clearly hated him — he kept his hand on Max’s arm the whole way down the hall.
Just in case.
Yuki had finally crashed around 3:30, laptop still open on the pillow beside him, cursor blinking accusingly on an unfinished methodology section. The paracetamol he’d forced down Max’s throat earlier had seemed to work — or at least Max had stopped swaying like a drunk lamppost and disappeared into the master bedroom without another word.
Until 4:03 a.m.
A low, guttural groan rolled through the wall like someone had punched the air out of a body.
Yuki’s eyes snapped open.
Another one — louder, ragged, ending in a sharp hiss of breath.
He sat up so fast the duvet slid to the floor.
“Max?”
No answer. Just another sound — wet, choked, like Max was trying to swallow a scream and failing.
Yuki was out of bed before his brain caught up. He didn’t bother with the hallway light. Just stumbled down the corridor in the dark, heart doing something annoying and fast in his chest.
He reached the master bedroom door. Knocked once — sharp, impatient.
“Max? Hey.”
Nothing. Just breathing now — fast, shallow, pained.
Yuki pushed the door open.
The room was dim, only the faint blue glow from the city bleeding through the blinds. Max was on the bed, curled on his side, knees pulled up tight. The sheets were soaked dark with sweat, clinging to his back and shoulders. His hair stuck to his forehead in wet spikes. One hand fisted in the duvet over his stomach.
He looked small.
Max Verstappen — the man who could stare down a 300 km/h corner without blinking — looked small.
Another groan ripped out of him, low and broken.
Yuki’s stomach flipped.
He didn’t want to care this much. He really didn’t.
But the sound Max made next — half-whimper, half-gasp — cracked something in Yuki’s chest.
“Hey. Hey.”
Max didn’t respond. Eyes squeezed shut, lashes wet, jaw clenched so hard the muscles stood out in sharp lines.
Yuki grabbed the edge of the duvet Max was tangled in and yanked it back. The fabric was drenched, heavy. Max flinched at the sudden cold air, body jerking.
“Where does it hurt?” Yuki demanded, voice sharper than he meant. “Max. Talk.”
Max’s lips moved, but only a strangled sound came out. His hand pressed harder against his abdomen — low, right side.
Yuki swore under his breath.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed, one hand hovering uselessly over Max’s shoulder. “Appendix? You think it’s your appendix?”
Max gave the tiniest nod.
“Fuck.” Yuki’s brain raced. Fever. Pain. Nausea probably. Classic signs. “Okay. Okay. Don’t move.”
He reached for Max’s forehead again — still scorching. Sweat slick under his palm.
Max’s eyes cracked open, glassy and unfocused. “Yuki—”
“Shut up. Save your energy for not dying.”
Yuki stood, scanned the room like it might have an emergency appendectomy kit hidden behind the abstract art. Nothing. Just Max’s stupid expensive watch on the nightstand and a half-empty water bottle.
He turned back. Max was shaking now — full-body tremors.
Yuki didn’t think.
He climbed onto the bed and wedged himself behind Max, sitting up against the headboard. Then he pulled Max back against his chest, one arm looping around Max’s ribs, careful not to press on the stomach.
Max went rigid for a second.
Then — slowly, like he was giving up a fight he didn’t have the strength to win — he let his head fall back against Yuki’s shoulder.
Yuki could feel every shuddering breath Max took. Could feel the heat pouring off him in waves.
“I’m calling an ambulance,” Yuki muttered into Max’s damp hair. “Don’t argue.”
Max’s fingers found Yuki’s wrist — weak grip, but there. “Wait… maybe… morning…”
“Are you brain-dead? You’re literally dying. No.”
Max exhaled — shaky, defeated. “Just… hurts.”
Yuki’s throat tightened.
He tightened his hold a fraction. Not a hug. Not really. Just… containment.
“I know,” he said, quieter. “I know it hurts. Just breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
A ghost of a huff — almost a laugh — against Yuki’s collarbone.
Yuki reached for Max’s phone on his free hand. Dialed emergency services one-handed while Max trembled against him.
“Hi, yeah — my… husband,” the word tasted strange, “has severe abdominal pain, high fever, he’s shaking, can’t really talk properly. We need help now.”
While he gave the address, Max’s hand slid down to rest over Yuki’s where it was braced across his ribs.
Yuki didn’t pull away.
He stayed like that — back against the headboard, Max slumped against his chest, both of them breathing unevenly in the dark — until the sound of sirens started cutting through the city.
The ambulance ride was a blur of red lights flashing through tinted windows, paramedics speaking in clipped tones, and Max’s hand still loosely curled around Yuki’s wrist.
Yuki didn’t let go.
At the hospital, everything moved too fast and too slow at once.
They wheeled Max straight into emergency. Nurses swarmed. Someone asked questions Yuki barely registered — symptoms, timeline, allergies. He answered on autopilot, voice flat, while his eyes stayed glued to Max’s face: pale, slick with sweat, eyes half-lidded and unfocused.
Max groaned again — low, animal — when they pressed on his abdomen. The sound punched straight through Yuki’s ribs.
A doctor — mid-40s, calm, no-nonsense — arrived with an ultrasound cart already rolling. Quick scan, quick words. Yuki caught fragments.
“Appendix. Inflamed. Perforation starting… free fluid… infection spreading.”
The doctor looked up at Yuki while the machine beeped.
“It’s ruptured, or very close. That’s why the fever’s so high and the pain’s severe. It’s a little late — we’re past the ideal window — but it’s not too late. We can still operate before full sepsis sets in.”
Yuki swallowed. Hard. His throat felt lined with sandpaper.
Hell. He almost let Max die.
The thought landed like a brick. If he hadn’t heard the groans. If he’d rolled over and put in earbuds. If he’d stuck to the plan.
The doctor was still talking.
“We need to go in now. Emergency appendectomy, possibly laparoscopic but we’ll convert if it’s too messy. As next of kin — your husband — we need your consent.”
Yuki stared at the clipboard thrust toward him. The pen felt foreign in his hand.
He looked at Max.
Max was staring back — barely. Eyes glassy, pupils blown wide from pain and fever and whatever they’d already pushed through the IV. But he was looking at Yuki like… like he trusted him to decide.
Yuki’s hand shook once. Then steadied.
He signed.
The papers disappeared. Nurses started moving Max’s gurney toward the OR doors.
“Wait—” Yuki stepped forward instinctively.
Max’s fingers flexed weakly, brushing Yuki’s palm one last time before the gurney rolled away.
The double doors swung shut.
And then — silence.
Yuki stood in the hallway alone. The clock on the wall said 4:47 a.m.
He sank into one of the plastic chairs bolted to the wall. Elbows on knees. Face in hands.
This was supposed to be easy.
Hate Max. Ignore Max. Graduate. Leave.
Not this.
Not sitting in a hospital at dawn with his stomach in knots, replaying every single time Max had looked at him.
He didn’t care.
He shouldn’t care.
But his leg was bouncing. His fingers kept twisting. Every time the OR doors opened — a nurse, a doctor, someone else — his head snapped up so fast.
Minutes dragged into an hour. Then two.
A different doctor came out eventually. Mask pulled down. Face tired but not grim.
“Surgery went well. Appendix removed. There was quite a bit of pus — it had perforated, but we irrigated thoroughly. He’s stable. In recovery now. He’ll need antibiotics, probably a few days here, but he’s going to be fine.”
Yuki exhaled so hard.
The doctor gave him a small, knowing smile. “You can see him soon. He’s groggy, but awake enough to know you’re here.”
Yuki nodded. Couldn’t speak.
When they finally let him into the recovery bay, Max looked… smaller again.
Pale, but less gray. IV in his arm. Oxygen cannula under his nose. Eyes half-open, tracking slowly until they found Yuki standing at the foot of the bed.
Max’s lips moved. No sound at first.
Then, soft, slurred, thick with post-anesthesia haze and Dutch accent:
“…bedankt.”
Yuki blinked.
Max tried again, voice barely there.
“…dank je… dat je gebleven bent.”
Yuki didn’t speak Dutch. But he understood enough.
He pulled the chair closer. Sat. Reached out — hesitated — then rested his hand over Max’s where it lay limp on the blanket.
Max’s fingers twitched. Curled weakly around Yuki’s.
Neither of them said anything for a long time.
And Yuki — stubborn, spoiled, furious Yuki — didn’t pull his hand away.
The private room smelled like overpriced flowers from some sponsor Yuki didn’t recognize. Max was propped up against three pillows, hospital gown looking ridiculous on his broad shoulders, IV still dripping antibiotics into the back of his hand. The color had returned to his face.
Yuki had arrived around noon carrying:
-His laptop
-A charger
-Two energy drinks
-Three boxes of sushi he’d bought “just because he was hungry, not because he thought Max might want one”
He’d claimed the armchair by the window, opened the laptop, and immediately disappeared into his thesis document.
Max watched him for ten solid minutes.
Yuki typed. Scrolled. Muttered curses under his breath. Didn’t look up once.
Max shifted. Winced. The incision site pulled even with the smallest movement.
Eventually, boredom won.
“You don’t have to stay,” Max said quietly. Voice still rough. “I’m fine here alone. Really.”
Yuki’s fingers froze over the keyboard.
He didn’t look up right away.
When he did — slowly, deliberately — it was the single most lethal side-eye Max had ever received in his life.
Eyes narrowed to slits. Jaw tight. One eyebrow arched so sharply it could’ve drawn blood. The kind of look that said, without a single word:
Try that sentence again. I dare you.
Max swallowed. Audibly.
The room temperature dropped five degrees.
Yuki went back to typing.
Max stared at the ceiling for a while, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the acoustic tiles.
After another minute:
“…Sorry.”
Yuki didn’t respond. Just kept typing. But the tempo of the keys slowed slightly.
Max tried again, softer.
“I just meant… you have your thesis. And you hate to be around me.”
Yuki finally looked up. Properly this time.
His expression had thawed — barely — into something that hovered between annoyance and something dangerously close to concern.
“I’m not leaving you here to rot alone,” Yuki said flatly. “You just had surgery. You can barely sit up. And if I go home and you pull your stitches or get an infection or whatever, then I have to deal with your lawyers and my lawyers and funeral arrangements. I’m busy enough.”
Max blinked.
Yuki gestured at the laptop with an irritated flick of his wrist.
“So shut up. Let me work. And if you get bored, watch something on the shitty hospital TV or stare at the wall. But don’t you dare tell me to leave again.”
A long beat.
Max’s mouth twitched — the tiniest, most exhausted half-smile.
“…Okay.”
Yuki huffed. Turned back to the screen.
But five minutes later — when Max winced trying to adjust the pillow behind his back — Yuki stood without a word, crossed the room, and fixed the pillow himself. Gentle. Precise.
Max watched him the whole time.
When Yuki sat back down, he muttered — so low Max almost missed it:
“And eat the damn sushi. They’re cooked.”
Max reached for the bag slowly.
“…Thanks.”
Yuki didn’t answer.
Discharge day came faster than Yuki expected.
The paperwork was signed, the IV line finally disconnected, the nurse gave Max a list of instructions longer than Yuki’s thesis abstract, and then — somehow — they were back in the elevator of that stupidly luxurious apartment building, Max leaning lightly against the mirrored wall while Yuki carried both their bags.
Max still moved carefully. One hand pressed to his side. Face pale from the effort of walking upright like a normal person. Yuki kept stealing glances, ready to catch him if he swayed.
They didn’t speak in the car.
They didn’t speak in the lobby.
They didn’t speak in the hallway.
Yuki dropped the bags by the entrance. Max shuffled straight toward the living room couch and lowered himself down with the caution of someone defusing a bomb.
Yuki disappeared into the kitchen. Came back with a glass of water and the painkillers the hospital had sent home.
He set them on the coffee table without ceremony.
“Take them. Don’t be stupid.”
Max nodded once. Swallowed the pill dry, then chased it with water. Set the glass down carefully.
Silence stretched again. Thick. Uncomfortable.
Then Max spoke — quiet, almost careful.
“You don’t need to work yourself to death on that thesis.”
Yuki froze halfway to the armchair where he was about to open his laptop.
He turned slowly.
Max was looking at the floor. Fingers picking at a loose thread on the blanket draped over his lap.
“I know you want to be free from me as soon as possible,” Max continued, voice low, steady, like he’d rehearsed it. “I’ll give it to you. You don’t have to push so hard.”
Yuki’s stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with hunger or exhaustion.
Something hot and ugly rose in his throat.
“Shut up.”
Max’s head lifted slightly. Eyes flicking up — surprised.
Yuki took a step closer. Voice low. Dangerous.
“Just… shut up. Focus on not ripping your stitches open. Focus on recovering. That’s it. That’s all you need to do right now.”
Max blinked. Opened his mouth.
Yuki cut him off before the first syllable.
“I said shut up.”
The room went still.
Max closed his mouth. Looked away again. Jaw tight.
Yuki stood there for another second — chest tight, fists clenched at his sides — then turned on his heel and stalked toward the hallway.
He stopped at the archway. Didn’t turn around.
“And for the record,” he said, quieter now, almost to himself, “I’m not killing myself over the thesis just to get away from you.”
A beat.
“I’m doing it because I’m good at it. And I refuse to let this whole circus ruin the one thing I actually care about.”
Day by day, the apartment stayed quiet in the same stubborn way.
Max healed — slowly, stubbornly, refusing to ask for help even when reaching for a glass made him grimace. Yuki worked — relentlessly, obsessively, laptop glowing until his eyes burned. They passed each other in hallways like ghosts sharing the same space. Coffee machine turned on at 6 a.m. Dishes washed without comment. A blanket left folded on the couch where the other had fallen asleep. Small, wordless proofs that neither of them had actually left.
And then — finally — the day arrived.
Thesis defense day.
Yuki woke up before his alarm. Stomach already churning. Throat dry. Hands cold. He stared at the ceiling for ten minutes, breathing through the nausea, telling himself it was just nerves, not the fact that the last six months of his life had been rewritten around a marriage he never asked for.
When he dragged himself into the kitchen, Max was already there.
Standing at the stove in soft gray sweats, hair still messy from sleep. Two plates on the counter. Simple: scrambled eggs, toast, sliced avocado, a small bowl of fruit.
Max glanced over. Caught Yuki’s eyes. Froze for half a second like he’d been caught doing something illegal.
“Morning,” Max said. Voice low. Careful.
Yuki rubbed his face. “I can’t eat.”
Max nodded once. No argument.
He grabbed his bag instead. Laptop. Notes. Charger. Water bottle he’d probably forget to drink from.
At the door he paused. Hand on the knob. Didn’t look back.
Max cleared his throat behind him — awkward, hesitant.
“Yuki.”
Yuki stopped.
Max took one step closer. Hands in pockets. Shoulders tense like he was bracing for rejection.
“Can I… come? When you finish?” The words came out rushed, clumsy. “If you don’t want me around, that’s fine. I get it. Just— anyway. Good luck today.”
Silence.
Yuki turned slowly.
Max looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
Yuki stared at him for a long beat. Then huffed — sharp, exasperated.
“Gosh, you talk too much.”
Max blinked.
Yuki rolled his eyes so hard.
“Just come if you want to come. I don’t own the campus.”
He yanked the door open before Max could respond. Before the weird tightness in his chest could turn into something stupider.
Max left the apartment twenty minutes after Yuki stormed out.
The fruit still sat there from earlier: a few perfect strawberries, some sliced mango, a couple of kiwis Yuki had ignored in his pre-defense panic.
Max stared at it for three seconds.
Then — without letting himself think too hard — he grabbed a small reusable container from the cupboard, filled it with the fruit, and snapped the lid shut.
He was already halfway to the elevator when he realized what he’d done.
Idiot.
But he didn’t turn back.
The drive to campus was quiet. Rain had started — light, annoying drizzle that made the wipers click every few seconds. Max kept both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, trying very hard not to think about the fact that he was about to show up at Yuki’s thesis defense like some kind of… what? Supportive husband? Creep? Ex-husband-to-be who couldn’t take a hint?
He parked in the visitor lot, killed the engine, and sat there for a full minute breathing through his nose.
Then he saw the small flower shop across the street — tucked between a café and a bookstore, fairy lights strung in the window even though it was barely noon.
He didn’t plan it.
His feet just moved.
The bell above the door jingled softly when he stepped inside. Warm air smelling of roses and wet soil hit him immediately. Shelves lined with buckets of blooms — whites, soft pinks, pale yellows.
Max stood in the middle of the tiny shop, hands in his pockets, suddenly feeling like he’d walked into enemy territory. He had no idea what he was doing here. He didn’t buy flowers. Ever.
A woman in her fifties appeared from behind the counter — apron dusted with pollen, kind eyes behind round glasses.
“Morning,” she said gently. “Looking for something special?”
Max cleared his throat. “Uh… yeah. Something simple. For a friend.”
She tilted her head, studying him with the practiced eye of someone who’d seen every nervous boyfriend, apologetic husband, and last-minute apology bouquet in the city.
“Simple,” she repeated, smiling a little. “We can do simple.”
She walked him over to a cooler near the back. Pulled out a few options: a small bunch of white ranunculus, a single stem of pale eucalyptus wrapped with cream lisianthus, a tiny posy of waxflower and baby’s breath.
Max stared at them.
The florist waited patiently.
Then — quietly, almost under his breath — Max muttered:
“…It’s for my husband.”
The florist’s smile turned knowing, secret, warm. She didn’t say anything teasing. Just nodded once.
“Ah. Even better.”
Max’s ears went red. He rushed to add:
“But nothing too… showy. He hates that. Really hates anything flashy. Just— simple. Please.”
She chuckled softly — not mocking, just fond.
“Simple it is.”
She reached for the smallest, cleanest option: a single large white anemone, stem wrapped in kraft paper and tied with twine. No ribbon. No extras. Just the flower — stark, elegant, quietly beautiful.
“Anemone means ‘I expect you’ in the old language,” she said as she handed it to him. “Or sometimes ‘I feel the same.’ Depends on who you ask.”
Max took it carefully.
He paid in cash — too fast, too much tip — and walked out before she could say anything else.
Back in the car, he set the flower on the passenger seat. Stared at it. Then at the fruit container.
What the hell am I doing?
But he started the engine anyway.
Drove the last few blocks to campus with the anemone beside him.
Max arrived just as the lecture hall doors were swinging open.
Yuki was already out — faster than most of the other students, like he couldn’t stand being inside the room one second longer than necessary. He’d found a bench under one of the big oak trees lining the main walkway, dropped his bag beside him, and was staring blankly at the ground between his sneakers.
Max spotted him from twenty meters away and immediately felt like his heart had relocated to his throat.
He walked over slowly. One hand curled around the small fruit container, the other gripping the kraft-paper-wrapped anemone so tightly the stem might snap.
He’d never been this nervous in his life.
Not before a quali lap in the wet. Not before contract talks. Not even the first time he’d met Yuki at that courthouse.
This? This felt like being sixteen again, palms sweaty, rehearsing lines in the mirror, convinced he was about to make the biggest fool of himself in recorded history.
He stopped a couple steps away.
“Hey.”
Yuki’s head snapped up.
For a split second his expression was unguarded — tired, relieved, a little raw around the edges. Then the usual mask slid back into place: one eyebrow arched, lips pursed like he was already preparing a sarcastic comeback.
Max swallowed.
“How was it?”
Yuki leaned back against the bench, crossing his arms.
“Nothing much. ‘Cause I’m that smart.”
Max let out a small, surprised laugh — short, genuine, the kind that escaped before he could catch it.
“Yeah?” He tilted his head, teasing just enough to keep things light. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost this morning though. Thought you were gonna puke on the kitchen floor.”
Yuki huffed, but there was no real heat behind it.
“Hey. I was nervous, okay? But I nailed it.” He paused, then added softer, almost to himself: “I think.”
The air between them shifted.
Suddenly quiet. Tense.
Max shifted his weight. Cleared his throat.
Then — before he could second-guess himself into oblivion — first the fruit container. Then the single white anemone, still wrapped simply in brown paper and twine.
“Congrats on your degree,” he said quietly. Voice rough around the edges.
Yuki stared at the offerings.
First at the little tupperware.Then at the flower.
One perfect anemone.
Yuki reached out slowly. Took them both.
“Thanks,” he murmured. Fingers brushing Max’s for half a second — electric, accidental, gone too fast. “You have good taste.”
Max shrugged one shoulder, looking anywhere but Yuki’s face.
“Didn’t want anything loud. Figured you’d hate it.”
Yuki turned the flower in his hand, studying the petals.
Then he glanced at the fruit container still in his other hand.
“Oh — here.” He popped the lid, picked out a strawberry, held it out to Max. “Eat something. You didn’t take breakfast either.”
Max blinked.
Then — slowly — he leaned forward and took the strawberry from Yuki’s fingers. Their knuckles brushed again. This time neither pulled away immediately.
He bit into it. Sweet.
Yuki watched him chew for a second, then picked one for himself. They ate in silence — just the quiet crunch of fruit, leaves rustling overhead, distant students laughing somewhere far off.
The bench was starting to feel too small for the amount of silence piling up between them.
Max shifted, setting the empty fruit container down beside him. He cleared his throat — the awkward sound of someone who’d run out of excuses but still wanted to escape before he said something irreversibly stupid.
“Well…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You probably want to enjoy your time with your friends. Celebrate properly. I’ll head home.”
He started to stand.
Yuki’s voice stopped him cold.
“I don’t do friends.”
Max froze halfway up, one hand on the bench for balance. Slowly sat back down.
“…Oh.”
Another beat.
“Me too,” Max added quietly. Almost like an afterthought.
The wind rustled the oak leaves above them.
Yuki spoke before Max could try another polite exit.
“You want to hang out with me?”
Max’s brain short-circuited.
He turned his head so fast something in his neck popped.
“Really?”
Yuki shrugged one shoulder. Casual. But his fingers were twisting the twine around the anemone stem again — nervous habit he probably didn’t realize he had.
“Yeah. I mean… if you don’t have anywhere better to be.”
Max stared at him for a second longer than was polite.
Then — soft, surprised laugh escaping like he couldn’t help it.
“Ah. Sure. Yeah.”
Yuki finally met his eyes. Small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Let’s go grab coffee then.”
Max nodded — too fast, too eager, like a teenager who’d just been asked to prom by his crush.
“Okay. Coffee. Yeah.”
They stood up at the same time. Shoulders brushing for half a second as they fell into step on the campus path.
Neither of them said anything about how this was the first time they’d walked anywhere together without one of them storming ahead or trailing behind like they were being held at gunpoint.
The nearest café was just off the main quad — small, indie, fairy lights strung across the ceiling even in daylight. They ordered at the counter in awkward tandem: Yuki got an iced oat latte with extra shot, Max went for black Americano because thinking about milk felt like too much decision-making right now.
They found a table by the window. Corner spot. Quiet.
The anemone sat between them like a quiet referee.
White petals open, black center staring up at the ceiling lights. Yuki had placed it exactly in the middle of the small round table — not leaning toward him, not toward Max. Neutral territory.
Max kept glancing at it, then at Yuki, then quickly away again.
He wrapped both hands around his cooling Americano.
“So,” he started, voice low enough that the clatter of cups at the counter almost swallowed it. “How does it feel? Finally finished with uni.”
Yuki stirred his iced latte with the straw, ice cubes clinking softly. He shrugged.
“Nothing special.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “It should be special.”
A small, self-deprecating huff escaped him.
“I mean… I didn’t even finish high school.” He said it lightly. “Dropped out at sixteen to chase cars in circles. So this—” he gestured vaguely toward the campus outside the window, “—this is kind of a big deal.”
Yuki’s mouth curved. Not quite a full smile, but close.
He laughed — short, soft, surprised out of him.
“Guess I’m the overachiever in the family now.”
Max’s answering smile was small, crooked, real.
Silence settled again. Comfortable, but edged with something unspoken.
Max took a sip of coffee. Set the cup down carefully.
“So… what’s the plan after this?” he asked. “Masters? Job hunting? Taking a break?”
He kept his tone casual. Curious.
Yuki’s fingers tightened around his glass.
He waited.
Waited for the follow-up he’d been bracing for since the courthouse.
The divorce. The papers. The clean break. You’re free now. I’ll sign whatever you want.
It didn’t come.
Max just watched him — blue eyes steady, patient.
Yuki looked down at the melting ice in his drink.
“Dunno,” he said finally, trying to sound flippant. “Maybe just… stay at home. Spend your money. Be a trophy husband or whatever.”
He meant it as a joke.
A deflection.
A test.
Max didn’t flinch.
He laughed — quiet, warm, surprised again.
“Yeah,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You could do that.”
No sarcasm.
No bitterness.
Just agreement. Like the idea wasn’t ridiculous.
Yuki’s heart did something inconvenient.
He glanced up through his lashes.
Max was watching him — not the flower, not the window. Him.
“You’d get bored in a week,” Max added, softer. “But… we could figure something out.”
We.
Not you.
Not I’ll let you go.
We.
Yuki swallowed.
He reached for the anemone stem, rolling it gently between his fingers.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Maybe.”
The café noise hummed around them — barista calling orders, soft indie music, chairs scraping.
But at their table, it was just the two of them.
And the space where the word divorce used to live, was suddenly quiet.