Chapter Text
The sky was a white howl, a sheet of noise that swallowed the horizon. Wind pressed against the windows in steady pulses, driving snow like handfuls of salt against the glass. Beneath it, the ground had disappeared under a blanket of fresh powdery snow, the whole world scoured clean. Inside, a fire snapped and breathed, a single warm pocket in the storm with a lone figure bundled under a wealth of blankets on the nearby couch.
A hand slowly slid out from a crack in the patterned blankets to grab a steamy mug of hot chocolate that sat on the coffee table, pulling it close before placing their other hand around the warm mug. “That’s better,” said a voice, muffled beneath layers of blanket and sarcasm. “Or… at least it’s a start.”
Her phone buzzed somewhere in the folds as she fished it out. Max blew her hair out of her face and eyed the barely familiar reflection in the screen quizically, as if looking for answers to some question bouncing around inside her head. She tapped the screen with her thumb, causing it to light up, a single notification waiting at the top.
Amanda.
The name tightened behind her ribs, a small storm answering the one outside. Within an instant, Max’s mind raced. A week had passed since everything with Safi had transpired, and still her thoughts bounced from memory to memory until her head throbbed. I should have been more honest with you…I-I shouldn't have used that version of you to soothe myself when I was hurting.
The phone loosened from her hand, resting the top on her forehead. She stared into the swirl of chocolate, thinking of snow. Then she drank—liquid courage, she told herself. The warmth spread through her chest as she breathed deep before tapping on the notification, and suddenly the outside world vanished, leaving only the blue glow of Amanda’s messages.
Amanda: hey, old sport!
Amanda: sorry—probably a reference you don’t want right now…
Amanda: Sorry.
Amanda: I know it’s crazy outside, but I was kinda…sorta…wanting to swing by? Shoot the shit?
Max didn’t move until she reached the last line. For a moment, the room felt almost ordinary, quiet, but the weight between them stayed. They hadn’t spoken properly since that morning at the Snapping Turtle, when Max told her everything, and Amanda asked for time.
Max tried to read between the lines, decipher the minutiae that is all too often lost over DMs. It was kind of her to reach out, but Max could feel the usual comedic deflection Amanda used whenever things were turning serious. Amanda had asked for some time to ‘sort her shit out’—something Max understood, though the uncertainty still twisted in her stomach.
Before she could type a reply, the phone buzzed again. A new chat bubble blinked to life—Chloe’s face in the icon. Her heart stuttered—a reflex, muscle memory from everything they’d survived together. They’d tried to reconnect after the last storm, when Chloe had reached out for the first time in years—just to make sure Max was safe. Such a simple act, and yet it carried a weight she still couldn’t name.
Chloe: so Max! U got Xmas plans yet?
Chloe’s message was casual. It was like a high tide washing away a sand castle. All the tension between them vanished in less than thirty characters. Max was split down the middle, pulled on one side by Amanda, that witty, caring goofball that Max could never get enough of; Chloe on the other—her partner in time. Or she had been. Max leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. She could almost read the letter Chloe had sent from Tennessee against her eyelids.
“I love you, Max. That will always be true. I hope you find someone you no longer feel the need to rewind for, and can look forward, unafraid.” Chloe’s words were heartfelt but final.
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes before she scrunched her face and swallowed hard. Of course, she still loved Chloe—that had never really stopped. Love doesn’t switch off; it just fades into the background until something shakes the dust off.
Sometimes she wondered if losing Chloe after everything wasn’t karma, but balance. A cosmic correction she’d never be brave enough to say out loud.
Max groaned and writhed as if incapable of containing whatever she was feeling. Chloe had been right to call her out—Max was incapable of letting life play forward, always needing to rewind until it looked perfect. It wasn’t the perfection she wanted, though; it was safety. Fear had built the habit: fear of losing Chloe again after sacrificing friends, family, their home—everything—just to keep her. How could she risk anything pulling them apart?
Max was angry. Her fingers tightened around the phone until the casing creaked. A dozen unsent words crowded behind her teeth. How unfair it felt that Chloe could just walk away, leaving Max alone with the guilt of every choice she’d ever made. But Max held back. Instead, she scrolled back through her recent messages with Chloe until she reached the first message Chloe had sent after the storm. Maybe we can just…start fresh, Max thought. Then she remembered the Crosstalk posts, how Chloe had been thriving, at least on the surface. Chloe looked happy—had been happy. Maybe that was enough.
Max: Hey Chloe! Can I call you later? Things are just a little crazy here just now.
A lie, of course. The truth was harder—she simply didn’t know how to start. Max flipped back to Amanda’s messages and typed out a response, drawn to the quiet steadiness that came with seeing Amanda’s name.
Max: Don’t apologise! It’s funny, really. I should have known that was so out of character for you in the first place.
Max: Are you sure? It’s a white-out out there!
Amanda responded almost immediately—a thumbs up, followed by a mirror selfie of herself bundled in a heavy parka and cosy boots, her answer obvious without words. Amanda lived just outside of campus, so Max knew she had a little time. Looking around, she noticed the clutter that had gathered over the week. She hadn’t exactly been in the best headspace, and Hellerton House showed it.
Max quickly unravelled herself from the tangle of blankets and scrambled to her feet. Magazines and prints were swept into neat piles on the coffee table; dirty plates and cutlery whisked to the sink, and the blankets carefully folded over the back of the couch. She hadn’t been Artist in Residence for long, but she’d already mastered the art of making herself—and the house—look presentable in record time whenever friends dropped by.
The following hour dragged by. Max had dressed faster than she’d expected, and now she drifted through the house without purpose. Every few minutes, she paused at the window, squinting through the blur of snow and wondering if Amanda would actually make it.
The fire crackled, the floorboards creaked, and she wheeled a small space heater into the main room to chase the cold from the corners. Nervously, she rearranged candles and photo frames, pulling her sleeve over her thumb to wipe away a fingerprint. One of the frames still held a photo of her and Chloe—worn edges, a sunset bleeding through. Max’s chest tightened. She’d stopped counting how many times she’d told herself she’d put it away and couldn’t.
A sharp thump echoed from the porch. Max froze, heart jumping. For a second, she pictured Amanda’s boots stamping the snow from the steps—but the sound came again, softer this time. Just a loose shutter knocking in the wind. She exhaled, half-laughing at herself, and went back to straightening the frames.
Max wandered to the photo wall, scanning the spread of polaroids that mapped her life—something she’d done a hundred times before. Each picture was a reminder, some grim, some warm in a way no fire could match.
Her eyes lingered on a shot of her and Chloe, one of the last they’d taken together. Her chest tightened, a familiar pain flaring like a healed bone before the cold. Despite the sadness behind it, she smiled and ran a finger lightly over Chloe’s face, remembering the smell of engine oil and salt that clung to the truck. The ache that followed was familiar, like an old scar—painful, but proof she’d survived.
Her gaze drifted to the newer photos: Safi, Moses, Diamond, Gwen, Amanda—Max smiled as the hum of the Snapping Turtle jukebox seemed to fill her ears, idle banter in the background as Moses won another game against Diamond. It was comforting that more people knew about her powers now. It was strange—almost comforting—that more people knew about her powers now. With Chloe, it had been sacred, secret. With these new friends, it felt almost…normal—family, if a fractured one.
A sudden rhythmic knock echoed through the house, sending a jolt through Max. Amanda was tapping out a simple beat on the front door. Max tore her attention away from the photo wall and ran down the stairs. “Coming!” she called as she rounded the corner.
Max hesitated, checking her reflection—a last attempt to wrest back some control. A pang of anxiety spiked in her stomach. She tightly gripped the door handle and pulled it open. “Hey, Amanda!”
A rush of cold air swept in, laced with cinnamon and chestnut. The usual colours of Amanda’s clothing were buried under a dusting of powdery snow. She pulled two earbuds out—Max faintly catching the sound of a Revenge Horse song—and shook her full body, the snow flaking off with each movement. Amanda was wearing her striped shearling jacket, black tight-fit jeans and a knit pullover with a dark gradient. Her hair was damp with snow, but her usual space-buns held firm.
It was the little things that attracted Max to Amanda—the subtle laugh lines at the corners of her mouth, the warmth of her hazel eyes, the messy way strands of charcoal hair escaped each bun. She was different from Chloe in so many ways, but that didn’t make Max any less crazy about her.
“Nice weather we’re having,” Amanda said, voice muffled through her scarf. She planted her fists on her hips and looked up into the flurry. “Us locals, though—we can handle it.” Her breath fogged in the space between them, close enough that Max caught the faint scent of coffee and festive spices from her hair. It made something in her chest flutter—stupid, reflexive.
“I think you’ll find the weather inside much more comfortable.” Max offered a hand to take Amanda’s coat and scarf. “Fire’s going in the main room. Anything I can get you?” Max asked, gesturing towards the couches as she hung up the coat and scarf to dry.
Amanda stomped her boots on the welcome mat, shaking off every last drop of snow. “Weird being on the other side of the bar,” she joked. “Water would be nice—boring, I know—but that walk was killer,” Amanda said, heading toward the couch. A flicker of disappointment tightened in Max’s chest when she saw Amanda hadn’t taken her boots off. Maybe she doesn’t want to stay long.
Max followed suit, two bottles of water in hand. On the couch, Amanda raised a hand for Max to toss her a bottle. Max did so, a little too hard. Clumsily, the bottle sailed just off target, but Amanda snatched it one-handed. “Oh, honey, we need to work on your throwing arm,” she teased. Max rolled her eyes, but Amanda’s grin—wide, teasing, unguarded—made her stomach somersault. She blamed the fire for how warm her face suddenly felt.
Sitting on the opposite end of the couch, Max let out an exaggerated, sarcastic laugh, though a genuine one always followed when Amanda joked with her. “So ‘shoot the shit’ is code for ridicule Max?” She pulled the blanket over her legs and gave Amanda a playful kick. The sound of her own laugh startled her. It felt light, too light—a sound she hadn’t made in years. And for a fleeting second, it felt like betrayal.
Amanda took a long swallow from the bottle, as if bracing herself. “Only half correct,” she joked, then hesitated. “I-I actually wanted to get to know you better.”
A lump formed in Max’s throat. Even after everything, opening up was still something she couldn’t do easily. Amanda rested a hand on the blanket over Max’s knee—light, testing the contact that lingered half a second too long. Heat bloomed beneath the touch, diffusing through the fabric and soaking into Max’s pulse. She couldn’t look directly at her; instead, she focused on the flicker of flame reflected in Amanada’s eyes.
“I know the whole power thing is a minefield, and I kinda sorta understand why you couldn’t tell me before…but now. Now that I know, and Moses knows, and everybody else, I feel like you could fill in some redacted Max history.”
She pulled her hand away, almost instinctively, as though shielding herself from another secret. “I get it if you don’t want to, though,” she murmured, almost under her breath. Her tone had cooled, the warmth retreating behind old defences.
Max pushed herself to sit up straight, not quite able to meet Amanda’s gaze. “Amanda…I—I want to. I really do, and I still feel awful about hurting you, about not telling you about everything sooner.” Her eyes drifted toward the stairs leading up to the photo wall. A sigh escaped her lips, thin and tired. “The truth is…I’m a mess. My past, Arcadia Bay—everything—it’s just one trauma after another.” Max looked to Amanda, finding her rhythm as her heart raced. “I don’t know if you could look at me the same, and…I don’t know if I can take that again.”
Her words spilled out, emotion swelling within her. “Hey. You don’t need to tell me everything. Not today. We can go bit by bit, as long as you’re comfortable.”
Amanda paused, reaching out to take Max’s hand. “And Max—whatever happened, whatever you’ve been through—it led you here, right? And this version of you, right here, right now, is the one I see.”
Max softened, ever so slightly. “You’re still too nice to me, Amanda. But…” Max took a deep breath in and closed her eyes for a second, quelling some tears that threatened to escape. “Wait here, okay?” Before Amanda could respond, Max stood up from the couch and rushed up the stairs. A decade, and I still can’t talk about it? No. I can do this, she whispered to herself. Her heart pounded—not just from nerves, but from the ghost of another storm. Would Chloe understand? The thought came uninvited, sharp as the winter air.
Amanda sat up a little straighter, trying to stay comfortable but not too relaxed, sensing that whatever came next might be heavy. In the brief time Max was away, she scanned the walls of Hellerton House, taking in all the unique intricacies that revealed it was Max’s home. A mix of CDs and Vinyl lined the shelves, filled with soft, wispy melodies. Beside them sat a stack of Blu-ray boxes, each holding some obscure cult flicks. She smiled, enjoying the gentle reminders of the many things that attracted her to Max.
“Here,” Max announced as she dropped a small stack of polaroids on Amanda’s lap, a photo of the Arcadia Bay lighthouse sat at the top. “I don’t think I’m ready to relive everything, but…we can start with home. Arcadia Bay.”
Amanda looked up at Max, who was sporting a brave face, but it betrayed the vulnerability hidden beneath. Her eyes softened—something tender, almost protective, passing through them. She wanted to reach for Max again, but stopped herself halfway, her hand curling into a fist in her lap. “Have you mentioned that before? The name rings a bell, but I can’t place it.”
Max slumped back down beside Amanda. She wanted to lean closer, but a pang of guilt tumbled in her stomach and stopped her. Max flicked through the selection of memories she’d laid before her. “No. Well, at least not to everyone,” Max paused briefly, fixed on a picture of the Two Whales Diner, fighting back a mournful frown. “You might’ve seen it on the news. There was a storm—a lot like the one with Safi, only worse.” Max handed the photo to Amanda before continuing, never quite making eye contact. “It destroyed everything. The whole town—and that’s not even the worst part.” The lighthouse flashed behind her eyes; the wind, the sirens, Chloe’s hand in hers. “It…it was my fault.”
Tears started to flow freely as Max dropped her head into her hands. Amanda tightened her grip on the photo, silent — not prying, not interrupting — only watching as Max began, at last, to break.