Chapter Text
The morning sun filtered through the kitchen windows, catching on the soap suds in the sink as Max scrubbed at a plate with more concentration than strictly necessary. Beside her, Lucas was drying dishes with mechanical precision, both of them hyper-aware of Mrs. Sinclair moving around the kitchen behind them.
They'd made it through breakfast without incident. Erica had dominated the conversation with stories about the sleepover she was heading to, and Max had been grateful for the distraction. But when Erica had finally thundered back upstairs to pack her overnight bag, the energy in the kitchen had shifted.
Mr. Sinclair was wiping down the table, humming something under his breath, oblivious. Max envied him for that. Having the ability to exist in a space without constantly calculating, without wondering if you'd been caught.
"Max, honey," Mrs. Sinclair said, her tone casual but deliberate.
Max's hands stilled in the soapy water. "Yes?"
"Did you sleep well last night?"
It was an innocuous question, the kind adults asked all the time. But something in Mrs. Sinclair's voice made Max's stomach drop. Beside her, she felt Lucas tense.
"Um, yeah," Max said, forcing herself to keep scrubbing the plate. "The guest room's really comfortable."
"That's good to hear." There was a pause, and Max could feel Mrs. Sinclair's gaze on her back. "You know, I woke up around midnight last night. Charles forgot to put water on the nightstands again."
Mrs. Sinclair directed this comment at her husband with the kind of look that only came from years of marriage: part exasperation, part affection, wholly pointed. Mr. Sinclair had the grace to look sheepish.
"Sorry hon," he said. "I'll remember tonight."
"Mm-hmm." Mrs. Sinclair turned back to Max and Lucas, who were both standing very still now, dishes forgotten. "Anyway, I went downstairs to get some water, and on my way, I noticed the guest room door was open. I thought maybe you'd walked back over to the Wheelers', Max."
Max's mouth went dry. She could feel her face heating up, that telltale flush that always gave her away. Beside her, Lucas had stopped drying the plate in his hands entirely.
"But then I realized your shoes were still by the front door," Mrs. Sinclair continued, her voice measured, "and your backpack was in the guest room. So I figured you were probably still here somewhere."
The kitchen felt too small suddenly, the walls closing in. Max wanted to say something, to explain, but her brain had short circuited. All she could think about was that stupid door, the one she'd meant to close, the one she'd convinced herself didn't matter.
"Max," Mrs. Sinclair said, and now her voice was gentle but firm, the tone of someone who already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway. "Were you in my son’s room last night?"
"Mom—" Lucas started, but Mrs. Sinclair held up a hand.
"I asked Max the question, Lucas."
Max forced herself to meet Mrs. Sinclair's eyes. The older woman's expression wasn't angry, exactly, but it was serious. Mr. Sinclair had stopped wiping the table and was watching the exchange with growing awareness.
"I—" Max started, then stopped. There was no point in lying. Mrs. Sinclair knew. "Yes. I was."
The silence that followed felt like it lasted an eternity. Max braced herself for the lecture, the disappointment, maybe even being told she couldn't stay over here anymore.
But Mrs. Sinclair just sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to carry years of experience. "Okay," she said finally. "Thank you for being honest."
Max blinked. That was... not what she'd expected.
Mrs. Sinclair crossed her arms, leaning back against the counter. "Look, you two are juniors in high school. I'm not going to hover over you or pretend like I don't know what teenagers do. Lord knows I was the same way when I was your age, worse, probably. My mother was much stricter than I am."
Lucas looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Max felt the same way, though there was a tiny spark of relief growing in her chest. This wasn't going the way she'd feared.
"But," Mrs. Sinclair said, and her voice took on a sharper edge, "I need you both to understand something. This is a family home. Erica is twelve years old, and she is not ready to hear or see things she shouldn't. If you two are going to... spend time together like that, you need to be smart about it. And respectful. That means closed doors, quiet voices, and absolutely no chance of her walking in on something that's going to traumatize her."
Max nodded quickly, her face burning. "Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry."
"We're sorry," Lucas echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mr. Sinclair, who had been standing frozen by the table this whole time, cleared his throat. "Sue, maybe we should—"
"Charles, we're having this conversation now," Mrs. Sinclair said firmly. Then she turned back to Max and Lucas, her expression softening just slightly. "I'm not trying to embarrass you. I'm really not. But you're both under this roof and that comes with responsibilities. I trust you two. You're good kids. But trust goes both ways, and part of that means being honest and careful."
"We will be," Max said, and she meant it. The shame of being caught was still there, hot and uncomfortable, but underneath it was gratitude. Mrs. Sinclair could have kicked her out, could have called the Wheelers, could have made this so much worse. Instead, she was treating them like people who were capable of making better choices.
"Good." Mrs. Sinclair's shoulders relaxed a fraction. "Now finish those dishes, and then maybe you two can take a walk or something. Get some fresh air."
It was a clear dismissal, a way to end the conversation before it got even more awkward. Max and Lucas turned back to the sink in unison, their movements stiff and mechanical. Behind them, Mrs. Sinclair and Mr. Sinclair exchanged a look and she could feel it even without seeing it, and then footsteps retreated toward the living room.
For a long moment, Max and Lucas didn't say anything. The only sound was the running water and the clink of dishes.
"That was mortifying," Lucas finally whispered.
"Beyond mortifying," Max agreed, scrubbing at a fork with unnecessary force.
"But... it could have been worse."
"Yeah." Max glanced at him sideways. "Your mom's pretty cool."
"Don't ever say that to her face," Lucas muttered, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "She'll hold it over me forever."
Max let out a shaky laugh, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. They finished the dishes in silence, but it was a more comfortable silence now, the kind that came from surviving something together.