#poly lumax

Your bedroom door clicks shut a little too loudly.

That's the first mistake.

The second is Lucas’s mouth on your neck from behind, warm and distracting, while Max’s hands are already fisted in the hem of your shirt as she kisses you like she’s trying to make up for lost time.

The three of you are half-laughing, half-breathless, glued together in your bedroom—lips touching, tongues licking, hands everywhere, and the faint smell of Max’s shampoo and Lucas’s cologne mixing into something dizzying.

"Okay," Max murmurs against your mouth, grinning. "We are definitely pushing our luck."

"Mm,” Lucas hums into your neck.

“So worth it," he adds, low and smug, just before leaning in to plant his lips at the base of your ear again. One hand slides underneath your skirt, and the other reaches for Max's nipple, fingers flicking and squeezing her sensitive area with just the right amount of pressure, earning him a soft groan.

The sound she makes into your mouth doesn't give you the chance to react before—

"Y/N!" Steve calls from downstairs.

Your heart drops to your ass, blood running cold.

"Fuck!" you whisper, eyes widening with panic. The three of you scramble in silent horror.

"Hide," you hiss, already shoving at Lucas' chest.

"What—where?" he whispers back, panic flashing across his face. "You realize if we get caught, I'll be the first one he kills, right?"

You ignore him, grabbing his wrist and drag him across the room.

"What happened to Mr. So Worth It'?" Max teases lowly, an amused grin spreading across her flushed face.

You yank open your closet door so hurriedly it rattles, clothes sway on their hangers, and sneakers scattered on the floor.

"In—don't breathe."

"I'm literally always breathing," he mutters, but squeezes in anyway, ducking just as you slam the door shut on him.

"Y/N?" Steve calls again, voice carrying up the stairs, closer now. "Why does it sound like you're rearranging the whole damn house?"

Meanwhile, Max doesn't even wait for instructions. She kicks off her shoes, dives into your bed, and yanks you down with her just as the door swings open.

Steve leans against the doorframe, keys still in his hand. He squints immediately.

Your heart is pounding so hard you’re pretty sure he can hear it.

"Hey," he says slowly. "...Max. Didn't know you were here."

Max offers him an insouciant smile. "Surprise."

She's charmingly unbothered, relaxed—her effortless cool is so typical, Steve doesn't really pay her any attention.

You, on the other hand, force a tight, innocent smile, trying to look casual as you prop yourself up on one elbow. "Hey, Steve."

Suspicion sharpens his expression for a second.

"I'm gonna go grab takeout," he says, eyes flicking between the two of you. "You guys want anything?"

Max shakes her head. "I'm good, thanks."

"Yeah," you add, way too fast. "I'm good too."

Steve frowns. "Weird. You never turn down takeout."

You swallow. "Just—not that hungry."

You smile. It feels like your face might crack.

Your brother stares at you for a long beat, and you're afraid if he doesn't quit it, the uneasiness of guilt settling in your stomach will overpower you.

He squints at you.

Then his gaze drifts to your hair—messy, tangled, very obviously not the result of nothing.

"What's up with your hair?" he asks. "Was there a pillow fight in here?"

You scoff immediately. "That’s such a cliché—and a false stereotype, Steve."

He snorts. “Then, what ever happened to personal grooming?"

Your cheeks burn instantly. "Steve!" you protest, mortified.

He just laughs, already turning away. "I'm gonna be like ten minutes. Don't do anything you're not supposed to. Like closing the door if Sinclair comes over. You know to leave the door open—"

"Eight inches," you both grumble in unison.

The door closes behind him.

You don’t breathe until you hear his footsteps heading back downstairs.

Then Max bursts into quiet laughter, burying her face in your shoulder.

"Oh my god," she wheezes. "You almost blew it."

You drop back onto the bed, groaning. "I thought I was going to die."

You’re still catching your breath when the closet door creaks open.

Lucas leans out, eyes bright, grin slow and unapologetic. "For the record," he murmurs, glancing at your tangled hair, "I think it looks exactly like what happens when someone’s having a very good time."

Max lets out a small laugh.

You groan, covering your face with a pillow. "You’re awful."

"True," he says easily, stepping out and closing the closet door behind him. "But I’ll happily volunteer to mess it up again."

Max reaches out to Lucas and stands up with his help. "You are not helping."

Lucas smirks anyway—clearly pleased with himself, and grabs her by the waist.

You glare at him, but you’re smiling despite yourself. “You’re lucky I didn’t suffocate you in there.”

“Your brother’s got great instincts. Terrible timing. But great instincts.”

“Shut up and come here.” Max hooks a hand behind his neck and pulls Lucas closer, kissing him with a breathless urgency, as though they’re already out of time.

You move in on instinct, drawn by the tension between them. You stand behind Lucas, your hand sliding down his toned arm, the other tightening on Max's sleeve that she has wrapped around his waist.

You plant small, intentional kisses down his neck, making sure he enjoys every single one of them.

Still kissing Max, he tilts his head, giving you silent permission to trail more kisses down his collarbone.

You stop, and slide your hand underneath his jaw to face him to you. Breaking his kiss with Max, your lips move to his next.

"Okay—switch. My turn.” Max tells him, watching you kiss Lucas hungrily, like you can't seem to get enough of him. She loved receiving attention from you both at the same time. Who didn't? But it was always her favorite.

Lucas breaks your kiss with a frown. "You were in the middle last time. Don't be greedy, MadMax."

She rolls her eyes.

"Fine," she agrees. "But don’t skip my turn," she says, her lips moving to nip at his ear now.

You laugh quietly between them, heart still racing, the three of you pressed together again—just a little more careful this time.

It hits Max in August.

Not all at once. But slowly, just the little things. Small, stupid things.

Like the way you laugh—freely, unrestrained, like you've finally found a safe space.

Like how Lucas' hand automatically finds hers when the three of you are walking downhill.

Like how you push your hair behind your ear whenever Max looks at you too long.

Little things. Beautiful things. Dangerous things.

She hates that she thinks that way, but it's true. Because nothing about what the three of you share feels small anymore. Not after the kiss on the rooftop. Not after the secret moments you've shared hiding in your bedroom all summer. Not after laying in the summer meadow under the fireworks, feeling like maybe—maybe—she finally has a place she belongs.

That's the moment the fear starts clouding her mind.

You and Lucas show up to her trailer unannounced one summer morning.

You figure she could use a little cheering up, considering all that's happened in the last two weeks.

She opens the door to see you holding milkshakes, and Lucas holding up a mixtape. You both smile at her like she's the best part of your day. Because she is. When you're together—it is.

But something inside her breaks.

Because no one's ever looked at her the way either of you do, treated her the way both of you do—cared about her this way.

Like she's something great.

"I brought you your favorite," you say, holding out an extra milkshake. You seem so happy to just be there, eyes sparkling with excitement, smile blindingly bright, and wide, and gorgeous.

“Straw~berry,” Lucas sing-songs beside you at the doorway.

He waits for Max's reaction, anticipation in his expression. But she's distracted next by how effortlessly handsome he is with that stupid, charming grin on his face that she, oh, so loves.

Her heart swells at the sight of the both of you. She almost forgets about all the bad things.

Almost.

She takes the strawberry milkshake, and smiles, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Lucas catches it, head tilting slightly, but he doesn't say anything.

"How about we take this back to your place?" Max suggests, looking to you with hopeful eyes.

“I'd invite you in," she closes the door behind her, quick—almost too quick. "But my room's a mess."

You're already walking down the stairs, oblivious to Max's current state of mind. She doesn't like talking about what happened. Lucas knows that. And it's why you never push her to.

But Lucas is more attentive than you are, and sometimes instinctive concern overpowers his resistance.

"You okay, Max?" he asks, voice gentle.

She startles, looking to him. "Yeah," she says dismissively.

He stays at the entrance, searching her face for a sign of dishonesty; a small twitch of the lips. The tightening of her jaw. Anything for him to catch.

But he doesn't.

Billy's belongings are still put away in some cardboard box, locked away in a storage closet. Max's mom now sleeps on the couch sometimes—and the house smells faintly of stale beer, grief, and abandonment.

But Max doesn't tell you, and she doesn't tell Lucas.

Because she can't. Because you'd both worry, you'd ask things, and you'd care.

And caring meant letting someone see her when she's not brave.

A couple days later, the meadow hums with cicadas and bad reception.

Lucas is crouched near the edge of the clearing, radio antenna tilted at a hopeful angle like that might magically convince the signal to cooperate. The static crackles anyway—loud and obnoxious.

A couple feet behind him, you and Max sit in the grass shoulder to shoulder, your knees brushing. For a moment, everything feels impossibly still—impossibly perfect. Like a world where Max's problems don't exist.

You brush a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes glancing over her pink lips.

"How bad would it be if I let instinct win, right now?" You ask softly.

Heat creeps up her face under your gaze, her eyes going past your shoulder to glimpse at your group of friends. "Not unless you want to blow our cover."

You roll your eyes and stand, dusting yourself off. "Please. Those guys couldn't put two and two together if we put it in their faces."

Max shakes her head, disagreeing. "This is Dustin Henderson you’re underestimating, Harrington."

You straighten, eyes scanning the edge of the meadow. "Y'know what," you say loudly, already backing away. "I'm gonna go pick some flowers."

Max arches an eyebrow. "Flowers."

"Yeah,” you reply, saccharine and sharp both at once. "Because someone will appreciate them."

Your emphasis on Lucas is impossible to miss, eyes briefly glancing in his direction.

She scoffs. "Since when are you such a romantic?"

"Since my girlfriend,” you say the word gentler than the rest of the sentence, “decided she doesn't want to kiss me." You throw her the middle finger as you walk backward now, grass brushing your calves.

"Harrington, come on—"

You catch her gaze and mouth, you owe me, punctuating it with a smile, and subtle wink.

Max breaks immediately, laughing under her breath, shaking her head as she rolls her eyes.

“Unbelievable,” she mutters—but she’s smiling.

By the time you turn and disappear toward the wildflowers at the edge of the clearing, the boys are still arguing about signal range and elevation.

“Okay,” Dustin says, squinting at Lucas’s back like he’s solving a riddle. “I’m just gonna say it, because someone here clearly won’t.”

Lucas groans without turning around. “If this is about your theory on antenna physics again, I swear—”

“It’s not about the radio,” Dustin says. “It’s about you.”

Mike perks up instantly.

Lucas straightens, already suspicious. “Why is it never about you?”

“Because,” Dustin says smugly, “I’m not the one giving off deeply confusing romantic energy.”

From a distance, Max’s head tilts a fraction, catching their conversation.

Lucas sighs. “Can we not do this right now?”

“I’m having a little trouble deciphering whether you’re into little Harrington,” Dustin continues, “or Max.”

Lucas finally turns. “Who cares?”

Mike blinks. “Wow. Cold.”

"You're always hanging out with the both of them," Dustin says. "Alone."

"So?"

“All I’m saying,” Dustin presses on, undeterred, “is they both seem to like you.”

There’s a beat, and static crackles.

“Yeah, well,” Lucas says, jaw tightening, “it doesn’t matter.”

Mike grins. “Lucas Sinclair. Heartbreaker.”

Lucas shoots him a look. “You gonna help me find signal, or are you just going to narrate my love life?”

“I’m just asking,” Dustin says, sing-songy, “you gonna ask one of them out? Before senior year turns you into a mysterious jock with commitment issues?”

“Will you guys shut up?” Lucas snaps. “And try to help me? I seem to be the only one actually focused.”

Max’s stomach does a flip.

She didn’t mean to listen. Hadn’t meant to catch any of it. But now the thoughts are there, lodged somewhere uncomfortable and sharp.

People are noticing.

She risks a glance at you. You’re still smiling faintly, picking flowers unknowingly, like none of this has touched you. Like your world isn’t about to tilt.

Max looks back at the boys—at Dustin’s grin, Mike’s knowing look, the way Lucas’s shoulders are tense even as he pretends not to care.

And suddenly she can see it.

Hallways. Lockers. Whispers that start with did you hear and end with that’s weird.

She shifts slightly, pulling her knee in toward herself.

You notice immediately, reaching her side again.

Your voice is soft, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Max says quickly. “Just—hot out here.”

You nod, accepting it easily.

That somehow makes it worse. Your obliviousness, your innocence. The gentle, reassuring smile you throw her way makes it feel like she can't breathe. Like she's guilty of something she hasn't even done yet.

“Maybe we can cool off with your favorite,” you suggest with a small smile. Ice cream. “After Lucas finishes basketball practice with Steve. You know how they are.”

Across the meadow, Lucas finally gets a faint blip of signal. He smiles despite himself, victory small but real.

Max doesn’t smile back. Nor does she plan to join you and Lucas on any evening dates of basketball practices and ice cream.

Because now all she can think is: If they’re already talking about it out here—what happens when school starts?

The waves of anxiety don't end there.

When Max gets home, it's like she's stepping into an alternate universe. When she's with you and Lucas, she smiles brighter and laughs louder.

She's distracted, and actually happy. Because when she's with you—she's in a picture perfect world. Being with you and Lucas, then coming home hits her like whiplash.

Spending time with the both of you is like consuming a drug—like riding an addicting high of adrenaline and serotonin that comes to an end as soon as she walks through the front door of her trailer home.

Because when she steps through the front door of her trailer home, her mom's passed out on the sofa, surrounded by empty cans.

She doesn't say anything, just cleans up, thinking: I can’t drag them into this. I’ll poison it. I’ll poison them.

She decides then, and it happens quietly. The way people pack away summer clothes when they know the cold is coming.

It really starts happening in pieces.

One piece when Billy died; one when her stepdad left, another when her mom stopped getting out of bed until noon. And another—the one that hurts deeply—when she remembers the rooftop kiss.

Not because she regrets it. God, no. Never that.

It’s because she finally has something good. Something soft. Something real.

Lucas’s hands warm around hers. Your breath against her cheek. All three of you whispering secrets into your bedroom walls like they belonged only to you. She has something beautiful—only now she doesn't think she deserves beautiful things.

Not anymore. Not after everything she's lost.

Not when she’s becoming someone she doesn’t even recognize.

She tells herself distance will protect you both.

Protect you, the girl she thinks about constantly; who's shown her nothing but a gentle love. Protect Lucas, who she cares about so deeply; who looks at her with that unbearable, hopeful expression she can’t lie to anymore. Protect both of you from the ugly parts of her life she can’t untangle.

She starts talking less, laughing almost never. Max closes the door before anyone else can—because losing you slowly might hurt less than losing you suddenly.

You don't question her quietness over the days, but it's become more evident, and Lucas is the first to speak about it.

He talks about respecting her space, which you both do, of course.

You still see her. Only now it's when she wants to—turning you away when you knock at her door, rejecting your invite to arcade dates, or comic and movie nights. She hasn't come out to skate with you either, not for a couple days anyway.

Sometimes she says she's helping her mom around the house, which you and Lucas can understand.

Now that the school year's started, she often says she's too busy with homework. But after a couple of times, you don't seem to believe it anymore.

It's not just your dates with Lucas. She doesn't join the party—your friends—at Mike's house anymore either.

There is one day in particular where, it's almost like, she decides to just pull away—completely.

It happens on a Wednesday.

You're attending school as a senior now, and a month has passed since the start of the school year. In the last three weeks, you've felt a major shift.

Not sudden, but slowly, the way someone falls asleep.

Heat still hangs in the hallways, lockers rattling as juniors and seniors shove past each other.

You spot Max instantly.

She’s at her locker, headphones around her neck, red hair falling over her shoulders, just like when you met her for the first time. Only now she looks small. Tired. Like she didn’t sleep. Like she hasn’t slept in days.

You brighten, despite yourself.

“Max!” you call, weaving through a cluster of upper-classmen. She hears you—you see her hear you—and her shoulders stiffen, chin lifting just slightly.

For a second she looks almost... relieved to see you.

You’re just about to lift your hand and wave—when she slams her locker shut. Hard.

Then she turns, only not toward you.

Away.

You freeze in your tracks.

She doesn’t look back, she keeps walking. Her shoulders tense, and her eyes stay forward.

She reaches the end of the hallway. And you watch her do something she's never done to you before: she walks faster. Like she’s avoiding you.

Your stomach drops sharply, like missing a stair. You call again, forced brightness cracking, “Max!”

The space between you feels like something breaking, and you stop calling. Only then, does she stop.

Just barely, but it's enough for you to catch up. She turns—not fully, avoiding your eyes.

Her voice is thin, and tired. “I— I have go, Harrington. I have a meeting.”

“What kind of meeting?" You ask.

Her jaw twitches, and you take a step closer, searching her face for an answer. But it doesn’t come. “Are you mad—did I do something?”

Max’s eyes flicker—something wounded—and she looks away sharply. “No. I just—” She swallows. “Can we… just not do this right now?”

Her tone hits harder than any shouted argument could.

Because she’s not angry. She looks tired. Done.

Before you can say anything else, she adjusts her bag, pulls her headphones up, and walks away. Not rushing. Just quietly leaving you behind in a crowded hallway that suddenly feels way too loud.

Your throat goes tight. And for the first time since the rooftop… you feel something cracking.

Lucas catches up to her behind the school that afternoon, breaking Max from her thoughts. She’s sitting on the curb near the track field, knees pulled up, staring at nothing.

He hesitates before approaching—because he knows all too well that Max hates being cornered—but instinctive concern wins. “Max?”

She flinches like the sound of his voice hurts, but he steps closer. “Hey. Can we talk?”

She shakes her head immediately, defensive. “Not now.”

“Max,” he says, softly. “Please.”

She tenses at the gentleness in his voice. Like it’s something she doesn’t deserve. Like it terrifies her.

Lucas sits beside her anyway—not too close, but close enough she knows he’s there. “You didn’t answer my calls last night.”

“I was busy.”

“No you weren’t.”

She shuts her eyes. Usually, this is where she snaps back with something sarcastic, something to push him away just enough that he’ll stop asking questions.

But right now? She just looks tired.

"I saw you walk into the counselor's office today."

“I don’t wanna talk right now, Lucas.”

His voice comes out gentle—cautious. “You’ve been pulling away... from both of us.”

Max’s eyes flick—just barely—but he sees it, a flicker of sadness.

Lucas continues, helpless. “If something’s going on, you can tell me. You can tell us. You don’t have to go through it alone.”

Her jaw tightens.

Then her voice goes tight. “I am alone.”

Lucas recoils like she just slapped him. “No, you’re not.”

“Lucas…” She finally meets his eyes, and it’s like looking at a ghost. “You and Harrington—you’re still… good. You don’t need me messing everything up.”

“What?” His voice falters. “What are you talking about?”

Max’s jaw clenches. “It’s better this way.”

“No, it isn’t,” Lucas fires back, raw. “Don’t do that. Don’t run. You don’t need to shut us out.”

She stands abruptly, and walks away from him, but Lucas follows anyway. “Max—”

“Stop!” she snaps, voice rising for the first time, eyes bright with something close to tears. “I can’t do this, okay? I can’t—talk about summer. Or—or pretend everything is fine. I just… I can’t.”

Lucas stares at her, chest heaving, every word hitting him too hard. “You don’t have to pretend,” he whispers.

She shakes her head, and he steps forward—slowly—his hand reaching for hers.

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking. “Just… talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

But Max pulls her hand back like his touch burns, and turns the other way. “I have to go.”

“Max!—”

She turns the corner, and doesn’t look back.

She walks away, same as she did with you, leaving Lucas alone on the field, breath shaking, holding the empty space where her hand should’ve been in his.

Later that week, the gym smells like sweat, rubber, and cheap floor polish—familiar, grounding, and suffocating all at once.

Lucas dribbles down the court, weaving past players, trying to lose himself in the rhythm. Trying not to think about how Max won’t look at him anymore. Trying not to think about how you’ve been quieter lately, like you’re trying so hard to keep it together, acting like everything’s fine for the sake of him. Trying not to think about how none of it feels like summer anymore.

He makes the pass.

“Yo, Sinclair!”

He turns, and Jason grins, more taunting than friendly. “Your girlfriends coming today?”

Lucas forces a breath. “They’re not—”

“Oh right,” Andy laughs. “Only one usually shows up now, huh? The redhead mad at you again?”

“She probably found out about the other one,” Chance adds.

“Dude’s juggling two chicks at once.”

“Redhead and Harrington’s sister."

"They're like two lesbians fighting over him."

“Careful Sinclair, leave them alone too long and they’ll start macking on each other.”

Laughter erupts. Hard, and echoing.

"Ever get in bed with the weirdo freak lesbos?”

A ball bounces once across the floor behind Lucas, but he doesn’t hear it. All he hears is blood rushing in his ears. Because it’s not funny.

Not when they're laughing at the both of you.

Not when Max won’t return his calls. Not when you’ve been sitting at lunch, picking at your food instead of talking. Not when Lucas has spent months balancing some impossible line between protecting something beautiful and hiding it from a world that wouldn’t understand.

Not when he feels like he’s losing both of you. And especially not when they’re disrespecting the both of you.

Jason claps him on the back. “C’mon Sinclair, lighten up—”

Lucas grabs his jersey and slams him into the wall before he knows he’s moved.

Every head in the gym snaps toward them. “Don’t,” Lucas says through clenched teeth, “talk about them like that.”

Jason’s shock flickers into smug amusement—until he sees Lucas’s eyes. The rage and impatience that burn in them.

“Whoa—hey now—” Jason tries to raise his hands defensively.

“Shut up.” Lucas shoves him harder. “You don’t know anything about them. You don’t know anything about me.”

“Sinclair!” Coach’s whistle shrieks through the air. “Back off!”

But Lucas doesn’t step away. His jaw is locked, his pulse hammering, knuckles prominent with his tight grip on Jason's jersey.

“Lucas!” Coach barks again. “Step off the court until you cool your head!”

Lucas releases Jason like the fabric burned him. The whole gym is staring—some of the guys and cheerleaders whispering. He wipes his palms against his shorts, breath shaking, and walks away towards the locker rooms.

His hands won’t stop trembling. Not just from anger. But from the ache and fear of it all. Because it hits him like a gut punch; first the fear:

If guys like this ever found out the truth—about what the three of you really are—they wouldn’t just laugh. They’d go out of their way to destroy it.

And then the ache hits:

He doesn't want to lose either of you. But he already feels it happening.

You're on your way to second block, and you're a little confused by all the talk going on in the hallways. People seem to be looking at you a lot more than you're used to.

You walk outside because the world feels too loud today. When you turn the corner—you freeze.

Lucas is sitting on the low brick wall outside the school, backpack at his feet, staring at the pavement like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

He doesn’t see you at first. His knee bounces restlessly. One thumb digs hard into the heel of his opposite palm, like he’s trying to ground himself by force.

“Lucas?” your voice comes out small.

His head jerks up. And you see it.

Raw, exhausted relief—like he’s been drowning quietly and someone finally tossed him a rope. The relief that floods his face destroys you a little—seeing what looks desperately like he’s been holding himself together.

You sit beside him. Not touching. Not yet, because he looks away, jaw working.

After a quiet moment, he finally speaks.

“Coach chewed me out today."

Lucas sighs. "Jason has probably told everyone I’m psycho. A lot of people saw what I did—” His voice falters, and he shuts his mouth, seemingly upset with himself.

You wait. He’s always been able to talk to you when he’s ready.

He speaks again, quieter this time. “They were talking about you. And Max. About… us. Like it was some joke.”

You swallow, feeling your chest tighten. “So you defended us.”

“That’s not defending.” He shakes his head, eyes burning. “I snapped. I almost—if I’d actually hurt him, people would think—” He cuts himself off, breath shuddering.

Your heart sinks. You think back to that first night. The first real conversation you had with him and Max in the abandoned lot.

The night he shared his troubles, and his fears.

“I don't wanna prove anyone right. The perception they might have of me..." His head hangs in defeat.

Your hand finds his back, and you rub it soothingly. "Lucas, look—"

"That’s not the only reason I'm worried, Y/N.”

He turns to you, eyes blown with concern. "If they ever find out about summer… about what we are… they’ll tear it apart.” He shakes his head, a broken sigh escaping him. “They’d tear you apart… Max apart. I don’t want that for either of you.”

You reach out before he could bury his face in his hands. Just a light touch, fingertips brushing his wrist. Then you hold his hand.

Lucas falters—in that awful, overwhelmed way someone does when they’ve been trying not to cry. His breath shudders, and he looks at your interlaced fingers like it’s the first solid thing he’s had to hold onto all day.

And then he breaks just a little—shoulders curling inward, forehead tipping toward you, voice barely there. “I don’t want to lose either of you.”

You reach up to his face, thumb stroking once against his skin. “You're not going to. We'll get through this.”

He lets out a shaky breath—half a sob, half a laugh—and for the first time since the gym, he finally breathes like he believes it might be true.

The bell rings, and your hand cradles his face now, eyes searching his. "I'll see you in third block, okay?"

He nods at your reassurance, and you pull him in to plant a quick kiss on his lips before heading out to your next class.

The end of second block couldn't get here any faster. You don't know what happened or was said in the morning about you, but you know it was bad enough for your classmates to whisper about it without any consideration for you noticing.

You've received a handful of stares in one class period, and it's making your heart stammer so hard in your chest you think it might explode.

You seriously can't wait for third block. All you want is to see Lucas right now.

Which only brings you back to the thought of Max. You can't help it, you can’t help how bad you miss her. You miss being with the both of them. Together.

Your entire life you've felt like an outsider. An outcast. Like you could never fit in... not until you were with them.

The bell rings.

You don't want to take the main hallways to your next class. Your chest still hurts from the ugly stares and whispers of your classmates, and from the ache that came when Lucas whispered 'I don’t want to lose either of you.'

So you take the long way around the science wing—quiet hallway, lockers dented with old graffiti, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. A hallway not many students take. You’re almost around the corner when a voice cuts through the air.

“Oh, look. Harrington."

You freeze in your tracks.

You recognize three of the basketball players from the team. They lean against the old lockers in their letterman jackets, smirking, almost amused.

The tallest, blonde one grins.

“Hey, aren’t you the one Lucas is juggling? The ‘other’ girlfriend?”

Your stomach drops, but they keep talking.

“Oh no, wait,” another laughs. “Isn’t she the backup? Since Mayfield dumped him?”

“Or maybe she stole him,” the third adds. “You know how nerd girls get when they want attention.”

Your jaw tenses, and you swallow, clutching your books to your chest. Just keep walking, you tell yourself.

But one steps directly into your path.

“Tell us, Harrington,” he says with mock curiosity, “what’s it like ruining things for Max Mayfield?”

"Bad enough she lost her brother. Then you steal her boyfriend too?"

Your heart drops to your stomach. “That’s— I didn’t— I’m not—”

“Oh, come on,” he coos. “You think people don’t see the way you follow Lucas around like some desperate little—”

“Stop,” you say, barely loud enough.

The second guy cuts in before you can say more. “No wonder Mayfield won’t talk to him. You probably freaked her out, right?”

You try to keep your hands from shaking, eyes glued to the floor.

“Seriously,” the first one laughs. "Are you trying to steal her too?”

They all laugh.

“You a lesbian, Harrington?” The other taunts, tone degrading.

Your face flushes, and your eyes sting. You try to blink away any tears that are forming.

“Or is that just part of the deal? What do they call that—" He snaps his fingers, pretending to search for the term. “—a threesome?”

The hallway swallows your breath whole. “Leave me alone,” you manage, but it wobbles and they hear it.

They laugh harder, encircling you.

But you don’t hold back, you shove past them—turning the corner too fast, blinking too fast, desperate to leave that hallway—and that’s when you see her.

Max.

Standing right around the corner. Skateboard tucked under her arm, frozen, staring.

She heard all of it. Every word.

Your chest caves, and Max’s face goes pale—then red—then you see something worse: guilt. Like she’s the one being punched.

She drops her gaze instantly.

You don't have anything to say. Barely able to even breathe.

She turns just as fast, walking the other way without a word. You feel something crack open inside you, and a tiny, awful sound escapes your throat.

And from somewhere down the hall, the guys’ laughter fades as they walk away. You run around back until you're finally alone.

You slide down the locker until you’re sitting on the floor, hugging your knees, breath stuttering, tears falling before you even realize you’re crying.

You’re alone. And for the first time in months, you feel it. You really feel it. Maybe this world really won’t let the three of you exist.

In third block, Lucas instantly notices your empty seat.

He tells himself that maybe you stopped at the nurse’s station. Or that something trivial came up. Or maybe you’re running late. But he can't convince himself of that because you're never late.

Something cold crawls up his spine, and he excuses himself from class. He checks the bathroom hallway. The back stairwell. Your locker.

Nothing.

Then he hears it.

Not loud. Not obvious. Just… quiet, uneven breathing, echoing from behind the old science wing. He turns the corner—and stops.

You’re sitting on the ground, knees hugged to your chest, back against the wall with your face buried in your sleeves.

Your shoulders shake, and something inside Lucas breaks so fast it hurts. “Hey,” he breathes, stepping forward.

“Hey—hey, baby, what’s wrong?” He crouches in front of you, trying to get a look at your hidden face.

You look up, and your eyes are red. Your breathing is uneven, and your mouth trembles when you try to speak. Lucas’s heart breaks cleanly in half.

“What happened?” he whispers, dropping to sit beside you. “Is it Max? Did she say something to you?"

You shake your head, tears now blurring your vision at the memory of Max witnessing your humiliation and running off afterward, only making the shame burn more.

"Did—did someone hurt you?”

You shake your head again, too fast this time. Like you’re trying to convince him. Like you're trying to convince yourself of a lie.

“Lucas, I— I just— I don’t wanna talk about it," You manage between hiccups.

“That’s okay,” he says softly, “you don’t have to talk. Just let me be here—” His hand lifts on instinct, gentle and familiar. The way he’s always comforted you. But when his palm brushes your cheek to wipe away a tear, you flinch and turn away.

Lucas freezes, startled and confused.

His hand hangs in the air like he touched a live wire, and everything goes quiet.

Too quiet.

“Y/N?” he whispers.

You breathe in too sharply, like the air hurts. “I can’t—” your voice finally breaks. “Lucas, please. Just leave me alone. Please.”

His stomach drops as you angle your body away from his, curling in on yourself.

This is it.

This is his nightmare. Happening in real time. Right in front of him.

He might already be losing you.

“Hey—hey, look at me—” he tries again, voice shaking now. "Did I do something wrong? Did I—?”

“You didn’t,” you interrupt, turning to meet his eyes—and your expression destroys him. “It’s me. I’m just—I’m tired.”

“Tired of… me?” His voice cracks on the last word.

Your breath catches, and it pains you that the thought even crosses his mind. You cry harder at that.

That he could possibly think he was the problem.

“No, Lucas. God. Never of you.”

He tries again, and reaches for your hand this time—but you pull it into your lap. Protective. Closed-off. Not because you don’t love him—but because you’re hurt, and more than that—terrified.

“I just…" you whisper. "I can’t do any of this right now. I can't be what you need.”

Lucas looks like you just punched the air out of him.

He sits back slightly, blinking rapidly, like he’s trying not to drown in what he’s hearing. “What are you talking about? You are exactly what I need.”

His voice grows desperate. “You always have been. You and Max— both of you—I’m not me without you—”

“Lucas—”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.” His voice tightens, eyes searching your expression.

He knows you too well.

“Did someone say something to you?”

Your silence is the answer.

And that’s when the fear goes from cold to wildfire.

“Please don’t do this,” Lucas begs. “Please don’t shut me out too. I’m already losing Max, and I—I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”

Your eyes fill again, and you break. “I’m trying, Lucas!"

“I’m trying so hard. But everything’s falling apart and Max won’t talk to me and people are saying things and I—I don’t know how to fix any of it!"

Lucas’ expression softens, at first—then cracks when it hits him.

Because you don't raise your voice. Not at him. Not at anyone.

And if you are now—it means you've been drowning in this, and he didn't see it.

“Why didn’t you come find me?” he asks, voice barely there.

“Because you’re hurting too,” you say, tears spilling over. “And I can’t be the reason you hurt more.”

Lucas is quiet for a second. Then softly, and firmly disagrees. “You’re not."

You shake your head, gaze fixed somewhere past him. You know it’s not that simple. What the three of you have—it’s heavier than you thought it would be. And right now, it feels like even being seen together could break something else.

So you don’t look at him. Because if you do—if you see his face, look into his eyes, hear his voice the way it always softens for you—you might give in.

"Just talk to me. Tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

It almost works.

It almost pulls you back.

But the fear is louder.

“You have me. We’ll get through this together.”

You still don't look at him, because you can’t—not when his eyes are pleading you. Not when he looks at you like that. Like he still believes this is fixable. Like you're not already halfway gone.

Lucas searches your face anyway, like he’s trying to find something—anything—to hold onto.

And then it hits him.

Not all at once. Not loud.

Just a quiet, sinking realization. That you really are slipping away; because your silence tells him everything. And there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

“You don’t believe me anymore…" His voice breaks, "do you?”

You stay quiet.

And that's enough.

Lucas lets out a shaky breath, dropping his head into his hands as he sits there beside you.

And for the first time since you met him in sixth grade, Lucas Sinclair looks truly, completely defeated.

Because for the first time since the summer on the rooftop… you’re not reaching for him.

You’re pulling away.

Lucas’s meltdown at practice is still replaying in Steve’s mind when he goes looking for you.

He’d been in the gym stands when it unfolded—watching Lucas, as not only his friend, but trainer who helped him practice for the tryouts that school year. He felt an obligation to keeping an eye on his progress.

Steve was worried. And when your older brother gets worried, he acts.

He rounds the corner of the building and freezes when he hears voices. Sharp, strained—not loud enough to be a fight, but heated enough to make him stop.

Then he hears your voice.

“Max—please, just—wait.”

You’re standing near the chain-link fence, wind tugging your hair. Max stands before you, skateboard tucked under her arm, shoulders hunched.

“I said leave it alone, Harrington,” Max snaps, staring at the pavement, not at you.

“We can’t keep ignoring each other,” you plead. “You’ve been avoiding me—”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“You won’t even look at me,” you say softly. “Not the same. Not since the summer. Not since—”

Max’s jaw clenches hard, and Steve’s eyebrows pinch together.

The summer? He freezes mid-stride, and his heart stops.

He thinks back to what the guys on the court were saying.

Then his blood runs cold. And suddenly—the walk-in.

Lucas kissing Max. Then kissing you. Max brushing hair from your face. The way your hands stayed linked... longer than friends ever would. Only he didn't realize it then. Lucas acting like he was caught committing a felony—it all snaps together like magnets.

And then—you reach for her hand.

Not as friends. Not as “girls being girls.” Not as anything Steve understands instantly.

It’s tender, and raw—like a plea.

Max’s hand jerks back like she just touched fire.

“Stop!” Her voice cracks. “Just… stop, okay? I don’t wanna do this. I don’t wanna talk about any of it. Not us, and definitely not about anything that happened in the summer.”

The word us echoes, and Steve’s stomach drops.

You look like you’ve just been hit.

“Max,” you plead. “If this is about what you heard in the hallway—”

“I mean it,” Max says, stepping back, eyes glassy. “I can’t be part of… this. Not anymore. I don’t want to be.”

That is what shuts you up. Your eyes sting, and you swallow, fighting the lump forming in your throat.

Max doesn't stay to witness your expression. Because she can't. Not when those last words to you are a total lie.

She kicks off on her skateboard—fast, almost frantic—wheels scraping harshly against concrete as she bolts away from you.

Steve steps out from behind the corner just as you turn around.

Your eyes are wet, and you freeze when you see him.

He lifts both hands slowly, the way you might approach a scared animal.

“Hey,” he says gently. “I didn't mean to intrude. I just… saw a little.”

Your chin trembles, so you look away.

Steve’s voice softens even more. “So... it's not Lucas, huh?”

You don’t know what to say.

“You and Max?” he finishes quietly. “No judgment. I promise.”

Your eyes widen—fragile and scared, and relieved all at once.

He steps closer, careful not to corner you. “Hey,” he murmurs. “You can tell me. Whatever it is… you’re still my sister, okay? That doesn’t change.”

The dam breaks, and tears spill over.

Steve catches you in his arms before you crumble completely. You bury your face against his shoulder, and he holds you like he used to when you were little and had nightmares.

His voice is low and protective. “Whatever’s going on… I’m here. Okay?”

You nod into his shirt. The first real comfort you’ve felt in weeks.

After you've settled down, you and Steve both sit on a curbside on the backside of the school. 

He shifts to face you fully. “Wanna talk about it?”

You stare at your knees. “I think…” Your breath shakes. “Everything is messed up.”

He processes your words, a quiet moment passing. “How?”

“I… I like Max.”

Steve blinks once, waiting, and patient.

You wait for anger. Or confusion. Or disgust. But Steve just nods slowly, processing. “Okay,” he says softly. “Okay. That’s fine.”

Your shoulders sag with relief. Then he adds, a little confused: “So then, you and Lucas aren't, you know… a thing?”

You sniff. “We are.”

Steve chokes on nothing. Air maybe, and then stares. “You—what?”

You laugh wetly through your tears—the smallest, saddest sound. "Or we were, at least. Before I pushed him away…"

"Because you like Max?"

Your gaze finally meets his. “I like Max... and Lucas. And they... like me too."

Steve’s mouth falls open just a little.

“Oh,” he says again, but softer this time. More understanding. More gentle.

You begin to choke up. "Well, they did. Before everything fell apart.”

Steve’s face softens in a way you didn’t expect—a way that makes you want to cry all over again. “I’m so scared, Steve.”

“Oh, kid,” he murmurs. And then he leans over and pulls you into his chest. “You’re not wrong. And you’re not weird, and you’re definitely not alone. You hear me?”

You break. Fully. Completely.

He holds you through every shaky breath, hand in your hair, voice low and steady, whispering reassuring words.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper brokenly. Steve sighs—long and soft, and unexpectedly understanding.

Your tears fall harder.

“Well,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Good news—you’re not alone. Big ol’ brother Steve’s got you.”

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☆ — a/n hi!!! hope you all enjoyed <3 i was planning on making this two parts only, but this was pretty lengthy alone, so i'll have to put the rest of it in a part three. lol oops. i got a little carried away with this lumax fic. but yes, the third part will mostly be angst/comfort with a lil humor. it's been so fun writing this. so please do look forward to it! if you'd like to be tagged for the final part lmk. if you're already in the taglist above, you'll automatically be tagged in part three.