Max Dusks Alt: Romance Isn't Dead

The February air in Baton Rouge carried that particular kind of chill—not biting, but enough to make Max's breath visible as he stood on the front porch of the house. Their house. Still felt strange to think it, even after months of patching drywall and replacing outlets and cursing at the plumbing that had opinions of its own.

He shifted his weight, the wooden boards creaking under his boots. In his hands, he held a heart-shaped box—red, a little lopsided because he'd made it himself from cardboard and some fabric he'd found at the craft store. The woman at the register had smiled at him like she knew, and he'd just grunted and paid in cash.

A month. He'd spent a month on this stupid thing.

Max wasn't a Valentine's Day person. Never had been. The whole concept of being told when to show someone you loved them rubbed against every oppositional fiber in his being. Capitalism dressed in pink and red, selling overpriced chocolate and wilted roses to people who couldn't be bothered to show affection the other 364 days of the year.

And yet.

He looked down at the box. Inside were dozens of hand-drawn cards—small, some the size of playing cards, others barely bigger than postage stamps. Hearts in various stages of anatomical accuracy (some cute, some deliberately grotesque). Little creatures he'd sketched during slow shifts at the shop—a possum holding a tiny heart, a raccoon with a rose in its teeth, a moth drawn to a flame shaped like a person.

Cheesy shit. Embarrassing shit.

The card in the center said oops. I love you in his scratchy handwriting.

And buried near the bottom, because he had absolutely no shame (or perhaps too much): please sit on my face.

He snorted quietly to himself, shaking his head. A month of work, and that's what he chose to include.

Their first Valentine's Day. A full year together, give or take. A year since he'd driven three days straight on coffee and rage, since he'd walked past Franklin like the man was nothing more than an obstacle, since he'd found her curled up and quiet and said time to go.

Now they had this—a three-bedroom house with an open-concept kitchen that still needed new cabinet handles, a living room where they'd eventually put a real couch instead of the secondhand one with the questionable stain, a front porch where he was currently standing like an idiot, holding a handmade Valentine's box and trying to remember how to open a door.

The sun was starting to set, casting everything in that golden Louisiana light. Through the window, he could see movement inside—her, probably. Home.

Max tucked the box under one arm, pulled his keys from his jacket pocket, and opened the front door.

"Hey," he called out, voice low and a little rough from the cold. His pale green eyes scanned the space immediately, finding her the way they always did—automatic, instinctive. "Got somethin' for you."

He held up the heart-shaped box, expression carefully neutral even as something vulnerable flickered beneath the surface.

"Before you say anything—" He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with his boot. "I know it's a made-up holiday. I know. But I started this thing a month ago and it... got away from me."

A pause. His jaw worked slightly.

"So. Happy whatever. Don't read 'em all at once or... in front of me. Please."

The tattoo shop had been slow today, which meant Max had too much time to think.

And thinking was dangerous.

He'd heard her on the phone this morning. Hadn't meant to eavesdrop—he'd just been grabbing his keys from the kitchen counter, running late because the hot water heater was acting up again and he'd spent twenty minutes cursing at it. But her voice had carried from the bedroom, soft and self-conscious in that way that made his chest tight.

Diet. She'd said the word diet.

Not in a "I want to eat more vegetables" way. Not in a "my doctor recommended" way. In that way. The way that meant she'd been looking in the mirror and seeing something wrong where there wasn't anything wrong.

Max had stood frozen in the kitchen, keys biting into his palm, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

She'd put on weight. He'd noticed—of course he'd noticed. He noticed everything about her. The soft new curve of her hips when she walked past him. The way her thighs pressed together now, warm and full when she sat in his lap. The gentle roundness of her belly when she stretched in the morning, shirt riding up.

He'd noticed, and he'd loved every single fucking pound of it.

But he'd said nothing. Didn't want to make it weird. Didn't want her to think he was watching her body like some creep keeping score. He just... appreciated. Quietly. Desperately. The way her body was softening into something that looked comfortable, like she was finally letting herself exist without apology.

And now she wanted to diet.

Because of what? Because some magazine said she should? Because some voice in her head—maybe an old one, maybe one that sounded like someone who'd hurt her—told her she was taking up too much space?

No.

His shift dragged. Every client who sat in his chair got technically perfect work, but Max was somewhere else entirely. Planning.

At 4:47 PM, he left early. Told his coworker he had "a thing."

The grocery store was playing some soft rock bullshit over the speakers. Max grabbed a basket and moved with purpose: milk chocolate—the good kind, not the waxy shit. Strawberries, red and ripe, the container that didn't have any moldy ones hiding at the bottom. Whipped cream. He hesitated at the wine aisle, then grabbed a bottle of the rosé she liked even though he thought it tasted like carbonated regret.

The cashier tried to make small talk about Valentine's Day being over and wasn't it nice that chocolate was on sale now.

Max just stared at her until she stopped talking.

The front door didn't slam when he came home, but it closed with intent. Heavy. The kind of sound that announced something.

He set the grocery bag on the kitchen counter without ceremony, shrugged off his jacket—the leather one with the patches, the one that smelled like motor oil and cigarette smoke he'd mostly quit—and went to find her.

She was in the living room. Good.

Max crossed the space in three strides, and before she could say hey or how was work or what's in the bag, his hand was around her throat.

Not squeezing. Not hurting. Just there. His callused palm curved against her pulse, fingers wrapping around to the back of her neck, thumb resting against her jaw. Firm. Present. The kind of grip that said I have you and you're not going anywhere and pay attention.

His pale green eyes locked onto hers, and there was something burning in them. Not quite anger. Something adjacent to it—frustration and want and a fierce, almost feral protectiveness.

"Heard you on the phone this morning," he said, voice low and rough. Not a question. A statement. "Talking about a diet."

His grip tightened just slightly—still not painful, but undeniably possessive.

"We're gonna have a conversation about that." His other hand came up to grip the back of her head, threading through the hair at the base of her neck. "And you're gonna listen. And I'm gonna make sure you understand."

He leaned in, lips brushing against her ear, breath warm.

"Got chocolate and strawberries in that bag. You're gonna eat every single one I feed you. And between bites—" His teeth grazed her earlobe. "—I'm gonna show you exactly what I think about this body you're so eager to change."

He pulled back just enough to look at her face, searching her expression. His thumb stroked along her jaw, a gentle contrast to the intensity in his eyes.

"If you want to be healthier—fine. I'll meal prep with you. I'll go on runs, even though running is stupid and bikes exist." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "But if this is about you thinking you're too much? That you need to be less?"

His grip on her throat shifted, tilting her chin up.

"Nah. That's not happening. Not in my house. Not with my girl."

He held her there, steady and unwavering, waiting for her to speak.

The rain had started sometime around 4 AM.

Max knew because he'd been awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to it tap against the window like impatient fingers. The kind of Louisiana rain that wasn't violent—just persistent. Gray and steady and relentless, turning the world outside into a watercolor blur.

He'd glanced at the clock. Then at her, curled up beside him, breathing slow and deep. Her hair fanned across the pillow. Her shoulder rising and falling in that rhythm he'd memorized without meaning to.

Fuck work.

The thought had come unbidden, but once it arrived, it settled in like it belonged there. He wasn't manic. Wasn't spiraling. Just... tired. The good kind of tired that came from months of actually sleeping next to someone who made the nightmares quieter.

At 6:15 AM, he'd grabbed his phone from the nightstand and sent a text to Danny, the shop owner who'd become something like a friend over the past year.

Max: Not coming in. Rain day.

Danny: rain day isn't a thing

Max: It is now.

Danny: you're lucky you're good. tell wifey I said hi

Max had stared at that text for a long moment, something warm and unfamiliar curling in his chest. Then he'd plugged his phone back in, turned over, and wrapped himself around her like she was the only solid thing in a world made of water.

Hours later, the rain was still going.

The bedroom was dim, curtains drawn, the only light a muted gray seeping through the fabric. Max had barely moved—just adjusted when she adjusted, a constant recalibration to keep her close.

His chest pressed against her back, one arm tucked under the pillow beneath her head, the other wrapped around her middle. His hand splayed across her stomach, possessive and warm. His legs tangled with hers under the blankets, knees tucked behind hers, feet brushing against her calves.

Big spoon. He was the big spoon. Always.

His face was buried in the curve of her neck, nose pressed against the spot just below her ear where her pulse lived. He breathed her in with every inhale—sleep and warmth and that lotion she used, the one that smelled good but not too sweet. His lips rested against her skin, not quite kissing, just there.

The rain drummed against the roof. Somewhere in the house, a pipe made that groaning sound he kept meaning to fix. The world outside was gray and wet and cold.

In here, under the blankets, tangled up in her, Max was warm.

He tightened his arm around her middle, pulling her back against him more firmly. A low, contented sound rumbled in his chest—not quite a hum, not quite a groan. Something animal and satisfied.

"Called in," he murmured against her neck, voice rough with sleep and disuse. "Danny says hi."

A pause. His thumb traced lazy circles on her stomach.

"Actually, what he said was 'tell wifey I said hi.'"

He let that hang in the air for a moment, lips curving against her skin.

"That's what they call you. At the shop." His arm tightened again, like he was bracing for impact—or maybe just holding on. "Everyone. Danny, Marcus, even the new kid who's scared of me. They all call you wifey."

His nose nudged against the spot behind her ear.

"Started a few months back. Someone asked who I was texting, and I said 'my girl,' and Danny—" A quiet snort. "Danny said 'you mean your wife' like it was a fucking correction. And I didn't... I didn't say no."

He shifted slightly, pressing closer, eliminating any space that might have existed between them.

"So now that's just... what they say. 'Max's wifey.' 'The wife.' Marcus asked if you were coming to the shop Easter party, said 'is the missus gonna make those cookies again,' and I just—" He exhaled, warm against her neck. "I just let him."

Silence, except for the rain.

His hand slid up from her stomach, settling over her ribs, feeling her breathe.

"Thought you should know," he said quietly. "That people think you're my wife. That I let them think it."

Another pause. When he spoke again, his voice was even lower, barely above a whisper.

"That I like them thinking it."

He pressed a single, soft kiss to the curve of her neck, then buried his face there again, hiding whatever stupid ass expression might be showing on his face.