Adjacent Buildings
Part 1
pairing: max verstappen x oc
'They say that 'home is where the heart is.' I think it is where the house is, and the adjacent buildings.' - E.D.
Max has to share a bed with his first love on his family vacation. Only problem is, they haven't spoken since they were fifteen.
rating: mature!! (18+) *no smut in this chapter!
word count: 5.8k
warnings: forced proximity, there's only one bed, smut (eventually, not in this chapter!)
Max Verstappen had three requirements for his summer break: silence, sunshine and not a single question about the season.
The flight from Monaco to Olbia had been blissfully quiet–private jet, noise-canceling headphones, uninterrupted hours of not thinking about championship points (of which he was seriously lacking). He’d slept most of the way. It was a deep and dreamless sleep he only managed when he was truly exhausted, where his body finally stopped humming with leftover adrenaline.
He’d woken up twenty minutes before landing, groggy and disoriented, neck stiff from sleeping at a weird angle against the window. The cabin was dim, the flight attendant moving quietly through the space, and for a moment Max had forgotten where he was, why he was going, what day it was. Then it all came back: Sardinia. Victoria’s villa. Two weeks of family and Mediterranean sun and hopefully–finally–some fucking peace.
The first half of the 2025 season had been brutal. Not terrible results–podiums, points, at some points he was even leading the championship by a comfortable margin–but brutal nonetheless. The car had been a bastard to drive at most of the circuits, fighting him through every corner like a bucking horse. Silverstone had been a nightmare of understeer. Hungary had nearly broken him with the heat and the traffic. And Spa–Spa he was out before the race even started.
The team had been managing, adapting, improving. But it had required every ounce of focus Max had, and then some. Eighteen-hour days at the factory. Simulator sessions that stretched well into the night. Debriefs that somehow became arguments because everyone was tired and stressed and trying to conjure two tenths of time out of thin air.
And through it all, the media wouldn’t shut the fuck up about Kelly.
Three months since the breakup. Twelve weeks. Ninety-one days of journalists asking the same questions in just slightly different ways: How are you handling being single again? Does it affect your performance? Do you think the split gave you more focus, or less?
What Max wanted to say: I’m fucking fine. Better than fine. The relationship had been over for a long time before we made it official, and honestly, I’m just glad I don’t have to pretend anymore. Glad I don’t have to smile for photos and attend events and play the role of devoted boyfriend when really I was just…going through the motions. Doing what was expected. Being who everyone thought I should be.
His actual response: “I’m focused on racing. Next question.” Which was true. He was focused on racing. He’d always been focused on racing. That was never the problem.
The problem was that everyone else seemed to think his personal life was somehow more interesting than the fact that he was the reigning champion and was having the most impressive comeback of the season. That Red Bull had finally sorted out their porpoising issues. That he was driving better than he ever had, more mature, more calculated, finding lines other drivers couldn’t see even with a car that had a multitude of still unresolved issues.
But no. They wanted to talk about Kelly. About whether he was dating anyone new. About whether being single made him “dangerous” on track, whatever the fuck that meant.
He was fine, though. Really. Lighter. Like he’d been carrying something heavy without realizing it and someone had finally taken it off his shoulders.
The breakup had been mutual, clean, no drama. They’d sat down one evening in Monaco, looked at each other across the dinner table, and both just…known. Known it was over. Known they were both going through the motions. Known that staying together because it was comfortable and easy and what everyone expected was slowly suffocating them both.
Kelly was a good person. Smart, successful, beautiful. On paper, they should’ve worked. In practice, there’d always been this distance between them. This sense that they were playing roles–she was the daughter of a Formula 1 driver, and then the sister of a Formula 1 driver, so it was only natural she dated Formula 1 drivers. After things didn’t work out with Daniil, Max and Kelly were already such good friends it just made sense to develop that into something more concrete. But underneath that, there’d been nothing. No spark. No deep connection. No feeling that being together made them better than being apart.
She’d said it first: “We’re not in love, are we?”
And Max had felt nothing but relief when he’d answered: “No. We’re not.”
So they’d ended it. Cordial, mature, with the kind of careful politeness that came from two people who’d genuinely tried to make something work and failed. She’d moved out of their Monaco apartment the next week. He’d archived the photos from his Instagram. They’d released a joint statement through their PR teams, all very civilized and polite. And Max had felt nothing. No heartbreak, no grief, no sense of loss.
Just relief.
Which probably said everything about why it had never worked in the first place.
The driver dropped him at the villa’s gate just as the sun was starting its slow descent toward the horizon. Max hauled his duffel out of the trunk himself–he’d packed light, mostly training gear and swimwear–and waved the guy off before starting up the limestone steps. The villa was exactly the kind of place Victoria got giddy about. She’d been sending him photos for months–Look at this terrace! and Max the VIEWS and We’re going to have the best time!!!–and he’d mostly ignored them because he trusted his sister’s taste and also he’d been too busy trying to extract performance from a car that seemed to hate him as much as he hated it. But standing here now, looking up at the whitewashed stone and bougainvillea and the ridiculous beauty of it all, he had to admit: Victoria had picked well.
The place was massive. Multiple levels terraced into the hillside, each one offering a different view of the coastline. Bougainvillea in shades of purple and pink dripped from every railing, creating these cascading walls of color. The stone was that perfect weathered white that only came from decades of sun and salt air. And everywhere–literally everywhere–there were these little touches that screamed money: hand-painted tiles, wrought-iron fixtures that were definitely custom, olive trees in enormous terracotta pots that probably cost more than he cared to know.
It was beautiful. And Max was already planning how quickly he could escape to his room and avoid everyone for the next twelve hours.
He could hear voices from somewhere inside–Victoria’s laugh, high and bright, the lower rumble of her husband Tom’s voice in response. Music playing softly, something jazzy and summery that his sister probably curated on their journey there. The sound of children shrieking with delight, which meant his nephews had already found the pool.
Sounds of the kind of chaos he’d grown up with and generally enjoyed in small doses.
Just…not right now. Right now he wanted silence. Wanted to not be on for anyone, not even his sister.
But he’d promised Victoria he’d come. Had promised his mum, who was joining them next week and had made him swear he’d actually relax for once instead of spending the whole time on his phone. So he picked up his bag and headed toward the front door.
The door was open–of course it was, Victoria never locked anything and it drove him absolutely crazy–and Max stepped into blessed coolness. Air conditioning, thank God. The interior was all clean lines and natural light, terra-cotta floors and whitewashed walls. French doors lined the back wall, leading to what looked like the main terrace. Beyond that, he could see the pool, the view, the endless stretch of blue, water meeting sky.
And there were people. Victoria and Tom and the kids, plus–
Max slowed to a stop.
There was someone else on the terrace. A woman, standing at the railing with her back to him, looking out at the water. She had on denim shorts, frayed at the hem. A loose white linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the fabric moving slightly with the breeze. Dark blonde hair was caught in a low, messy braid at the nape of her neck. She held a wine glass in one hand, the stem casual between her fingers, and her posture was relaxed. Comfortable. Like she belonged here.
Something about her was familiar. The line of her shoulders, the way she was standing, the–
“Max!” Victoria materialized from nowhere, pulling him into a hug that smelled like sunscreen and white wine and that expensive perfume she’d been wearing since she was nineteen.
“You’re here! How was the flight? Are you exhausted? We were just having aperitivos–”
“I’m good. The flight was fine.” Max hugged her back, but his attention kept drifting to the woman on the terrace. Who was she? A friend of Victoria’s? Tom’s sister? Someone from–
“There’s someone here I’m excited for you to see,” Victoria said, and there was something in her voice. Something pleased and teasing that made Max’s spine straighten with suspicion.
“Vic, please tell me you didn’t–”
“Relax. I’m not setting you up with a stranger. I promised.” She grabbed his wrist, tugging him toward the terrace. “It’s a surprise. A good one this time, I swear!”
Max followed because what else was he going to do? His sister was already pulling him through the French doors, out onto the terrace where the late-afternoon sun painted everything gold, and–
“Ada?” Victoria called. “Look who finally showed up.”
The woman turned.
And Max’s entire world tilted sideways.
[9 Years Old]
“You’re cheating.”
Max looked up from the Nintendo 64 controller, genuinely offended. “I’m not cheating. You just suck at Mario Kart.”
Ada Bakker–nine years old, gap-toothed, with hair in two braids that were already coming undone–glared at him from her spot on his bedroom floor. “I don’t suck. You’re using the shortcut on Rainbow Road. That’s cheating.”
“It’s not cheating if it’s part of the game.”
“It’s cheating if you didn’t tell me about it.”
“I don’t have to tell you all my secrets.” Max grinned, smug with victory. He’d just beaten her for the seventh time in a row, and the scoreboard on the TV screen was proof of his prowess.
Ada threw her controller at him. Not hard–they’d been friends since they were six, she would never want to actually hurt him–but did it with enough force to make a point.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“For being annoying.” But she was smiling now, that gap-toothed grin that made her look younger than nine. “Teach me the shortcut.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I’ll tell Victoria you’re the one who broke her Walkman.”
Max’s eyes widened. “That was an accident!”
“Don’t care. Teach me the shortcut or I tell.”
They stared at each other, locked in a battle of wills. Max broke first–he always broke first with Ada, something about her made it impossible to not give in–and sighed dramatically.
“Fine. But you can’t tell anyone else. This is classified information.”
“Who am I going to tell? I don’t have any other friends who play Mario Kart.”
“You don’t have any other friends, period.”
She reached out to punch his arm, and Max laughed, ducking away. They reset the game, and he showed her the shortcut–the exact location on the bridge optimal for the cut, how to angle the jump, how to nail the landing without falling off the edge.
Ada listened intently. She didn’t do anything halfway, didn’t understand the concept of casual. If she was going to play Mario Kart, she was going to master Mario Kart. It was one of the things Max liked best about her.
“Got it?” he asked after demonstrating three times.
“Got it.” She grabbed her controller. “Race me again.”
“You’re going to lose.”
“Maybe. But at least now I know how to cheat properly.”
Max laughed, and they started another race. And another. And another, until his mom called them down for dinner and they had to pause the game, arguing about who was really winning if you discounted the first seven races where Max had been “cheating.”
Later, after dinner, they sat on the back deck eating popsicles and watching the sunset.
“Max?” Ada’s voice was quiet, thoughtful.
“Yeah?”
“We’re going to be friends forever, right?”
“Obviously. Why wouldn’t we be?”
“Promise?”
He held out his pinky, sticky with popsicle juice. “Promise.”
She linked her pinky with his, and they shook on it, solemn as a blood oath.
Forever.
Standing on Victoria’s terrace seventeen years later, staring at Ada Bakker in the golden afternoon light, Max felt that memory hit him like a physical blow.
Forever.
They’d promised forever when they were nine years old. Had spent nearly ten years being inseparable–best friends, partners in crime, a friendship so close that it made other people envy what they had found in each other at such a young age.
And then that summer when they were fifteen, everything had changed. One kiss had changed everything.
And now she was here.
After twelve years of silence, twelve years of wondering what the hell had happened, twelve years of comparing every person he dated to a memory of a girl who’d kissed him once and then disappeared–
She was here. In Sardinia. On his vacation home’s terrace.
Looking at him with those same big brown eyes he remembered so clearly, flecked with gold in the sunlight.
She looked exactly the same and completely different all at once. And Max’s brain had gone completely offline. She was–
God, she was beautiful.
Her face had matured, lost the softness of adolescence, but her eyes were the same. Warm and expressive, showing everything she felt before her mouth could catch up. She’d always been like that–terrible at hiding her emotions, which had made her both thankfully easy to read and dangerously honest.
She was taller than he remembered. Or maybe he was just seeing her differently now, not looking down at a girl but across at a woman. She’d filled out in all the ways people did between fifteen and twenty-seven, but she was still–
She was still Ada.
The girl who he’d shared baths with after playing in muddy gardens when they were five.
The girl who’d cheered him on at his first karting match.
The girl who’d kissed him under the stars when they were fifteen, tasting like cherry chapstick and cheap wine and changed his entire understanding of what wanting someone could feel like.
The girl who’d disappeared the next morning and never spoke to him again.
And now she was here. Staring at him with an expression he couldn’t quite read–surprise, definitely, maybe nervousness.
“Max,” she said, and her voice was exactly the same. A little raspy still, like she’d just woken up.
Max’s mouth had gone dry. His brain was screaming at him to say something, anything, to not just stand there like an idiot. Staring at her, mouth agape like a fish out of water.
“Hey,” he managed.
Smooth. Very smooth. World Champion of eloquence, he was.
Victoria was grinning like she’d just won the lottery, completely oblivious to the fact that Max felt like he’d been hit by a truck. Or maybe she wasn’t oblivious. Maybe this was exactly the reaction she’d been hoping for.
“Surprise!” Victoria said, her voice bright with false innocence. “I ran into Ada in Amsterdam a few months ago–can you believe it? Small world, right?–and when I told her about Sardinia, she said she hadn’t had a proper holiday in ages, so I told her she had to come.” She squeezed Ada’s arm affectionately, like they were best friends, like this was all completely normal and fine.
“It’s been way too long since the three of us hung out.”
“Yeah,” Max said, because his brain had apparently decided to abandon him entirely. “Way too long.”
Twelve years. Twelve years since he’d last seen her, since that morning after they’d kissed. Since she’d smiled at him–soft and unsure and maybe a little scared–and said I should probably go before disappearing into the guest room at his parents’ house.
He’d waited for her to come back out. Had sat in the kitchen drinking a hot chocolate his mom had made, pretending to read a magazine, waiting. But she’d never emerged. And by the time he’d worked up the courage to knock on her door the next morning, her family had already packed up their things and were long gone.
Family emergency, his mum had said. They’d had to leave in a hurry.
She’d call, his mum had promised. She’d left a message saying she’d call.
Except she never had.
And now–now she was here, standing twenty feet away, looking at him like she wasn’t quite sure what to say either.
“How have you been?” Ada asked, and the question was so normal, so casual, so completely inadequate for the moment that Max almost laughed.
“Good. Busy. You know. Racing.” He sounded like an idiot. He was definitely sounding like an idiot. “You?”
“Good. Also busy. Work is…yeah.”
“Right. Work.”
This was excruciating. They were talking like strangers. Like they hadn’t spent years intertwined, like they hadn’t known each other since they were five years old, like they hadn’t–
Victoria was watching them with poorly concealed delight, and Max wanted to strangle her.
“Well,” Victoria said brightly, “I’ll let you two catch up! Tom’s probably wondering where I disappeared to. Ada, you remember where your room is, right? Max, why don’t you show her around the villa? Give her the grand tour?”
“I just got here–” Max started.
“I’d love a tour,” Ada said quickly, and there was something in her voice–relief? Desperation for an excuse to escape this awkward conversation in front of Victoria?
“Great! Perfect!” Victoria was already backing away, still grinning like the meddling nightmare she was. “Take your time. Dinner’s at eight. Very casual, just us.”
She disappeared into the villa, and Max was left alone on the terrace with Ada Bakker.
The silence stretched, painful and loaded with twelve years of things unsaid.
Max cleared his throat. “So…the villa’s nice.”
“Yeah. Sardinia is beautiful…” Ada took a sip of her wine, and Max watched her throat work as she swallowed. Watched the way the evening light caught in her hair, like spun gold. Watched her fingers tighten slightly on the stem of her wine glass.
She was nervous. That made him feel marginally better about his own complete inability to function like a normal person.
“Victoria didn’t mention you’d be here,” Max said carefully.
“She didn’t mention you’d be here either.” Ada’s lips quirked in something that might have been a smile. “I think she was deliberately vague about who exactly was coming on this trip.”
“That sounds like Victoria.”
They fell silent again, and Max tried to figure out what he was supposed to do now. Small talk felt wrong. Ignoring the past felt impossible. But diving straight into why did you ghost me twelve years ago seemed like a terrible idea when they were supposed to spend the next two weeks in close proximity.
“I would show you around,” he said finally. “like Victoria suggested. Except I just got here and I’m willing to bet money she’s already given you a tour. So really, I think you should show me around. Before she comes back to check on us.”
“She’s really not subtle, is she?”
“She’s never been subtle in her entire life.”
That got a real smile out of Ada, small but genuine, and Max felt the tightness in his chest loosen a fraction. This was still Ada. Underneath the unresolved history, he was sure this was still the girl who’d laughed at his jokes and called him out on his bullshit and made him feel like the best version of himself.
They walked through the villa together, Ada pointing out the various rooms–the kitchen with its restaurant-grade appliances that Victoria would probably never use, the living area with furniture that looked expensive and uncomfortable, the kids’ room with bunk beds and toys already scattered everywhere despite them only arriving yesterday.
And the whole time, Max was hyperaware of Ada beside him. The space between them–careful and just slightly too wide to be casual. The way she’d tuck her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, a gesture he remembered from childhood. Some things never changed.
“This place is incredible,” Ada said as they stepped onto one of the upper terraces. The view was even better from here–the coastline stretching in both directions, the sky starting to paint an array of colors as the sun made its final descent for the evening. “Victoria really outdid herself.”
“Yeah, she’s good at that.” Max leaned against the railing, keeping a careful distance between them. “So…Amsterdam. That’s where you’re living now?”
“Yeah. For about five years now. I moved there for work after–” She stopped, like she’d been about to say something else and thought better of it. “After university. You’re still in Monaco?”
“When I’m not traveling. Which is most of the year.”
“Right…how’s it going? Victoria mentioned you’re making a bit of a comeback?”
“Yeah. It’s been–it’s been good. The car’s been difficult, but we’re managing. And we’ve got a few more upgrades in the works.”
Careful small talk. Surface-level questions that avoided everything real.
Max hated it.
“Ada–” he started.
“Max–” she said at the same time.
They stopped, and Ada laughed–a nervous sound that reminded him so much of when they were younger that it ached.
“You first,” she said.
Max took a breath, trying to figure out how to say what he needed to say. How to ask the questions that had been sitting in his chest without making this even more awkward than it already was.
“I just–” He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. Victoria didn’t–she didn’t warn me. And now we’re here and it’s–it’s weird, right? It’s not just me?”
“It’s definitely weird,” Ada agreed softly. “I wasn’t expecting to see you either. Victoria said it was a family trip, and I assumed–I thought you’d be busy. I didn’t think you’d actually be here.”
“Would you have come if you’d known?”
The question hung between them.
Ada looked out at the water, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Aits been a long time. And now you’re here and I still don’t know.”
At least she was being honest. That was something.
“We don’t have to figure it all out right now,” Max said, even though every cell in his body was screaming at him to demand answers immediately. “We can–we can just take it day by day. See how it goes.”
“Day by day,” Ada repeated, like she was testing the words. “Okay. We can just see how it goes.”
“Good. Great.” Max pushed off the railing, already planning his escape to wherever Victoria had put his room. He needed space. Needed to process this. Needed to call Daniel and have a complete breakdown about the fact that his childhood best friend–his first kiss, his first heartbreak, his first everything–was apparently staying at the same villa as him for two weeks. “I should probably go find my room. Get settled in. Unpack.”
“Right. Yeah. Me too.”
They walked back through the villa in silence, and Max was so focused on planning his exit strategy that he almost missed when Victoria intercepted them in the main hallway.
“There you are!” She was still grinning, still clearly thrilled with herself. “Did you two have a nice catch-up?”
“Sure,” Max said flatly. “Very nice. Where’s my room, Vic?”
“Oh! Right. About that.” Victoria’s grin turned slightly sheepish, which was never a good sign.
“So, I might have slightly overestimated how many bedrooms we actually have available?”
Max’s stomach dropped. “What does that mean?”
“It means that Tom’s parents are coming, and obviously the kids have the bunk room, and Mom’s taking the master suite when she arrives, and–”
“Victoria.”
“–so you and Ada are in the guest cottage! It’s very cute, totally private, right on the property but separate from the main house. You’ll love it.”
Max stared at his sister. “A cottage?”
“Yes. The cottage. It’s lovely. Very romantic–I mean, not romantic, just, you know, nice. Peaceful. Good views.”
“How many bedrooms does this cottage have?”
Victoria’s grin turned slightly sheepish. “Technically? One.”
Fuck.
[15 Years Old]
The bonfire had burned down to embers by the time everyone else had gone inside, leaving Max and Ada alone on the back lawn of his parents’ house.
It was late July, the night before Ada and her family were supposed to drive back to Amsterdam. They’d spent two weeks at the Verstappen house–an annual tradition, their families taking turns hosting each other for part of the summer. Max’s favorite two weeks of every year.
This year had been different, though. This year, every time Ada laughed at one of his jokes, Max’s chest did something weird. Every time she leaned close to look at his phone or steal food off his plate, he was hyperaware of her proximity. Every time she pushed her hair back from her face, he found himself staring.
It was annoying, actually. She was Ada. His best friend. The person who knew him better than anyone, who’d seen him at his worst and still chose to spend time with him.
He wasn’t supposed to be noticing the way her face had changed over the past year, losing a bit of the softness of childhood. Wasn’t supposed to be counting the freckles across her nose, or noticing the way her eyes crinkled when she really laughed, or the fact that she’d started wearing different clothes–less tomboy, more…feminine. And pretty.
“What are you thinking about?” Ada asked, and Max realized he’d been staring at the dying fire, lost in thought.
“Nothing. Just–I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow already. This summer went too fast.”
“They always do.” She pulled her sweatshirt tighter around herself. It was his sweatshirt, actually–he’d given it to her earlier when she’d complained about being cold. It was too big on her, the sleeves hanging past her hands, and something about seeing her in his clothes made Max’s stomach flip. “But we’ll see each other soon.”
“Yeah, but it’s still–I don’t know. It feels different this year.”
“Different how?”
Max didn’t know how to explain it without sounding like an idiot. That everything felt different with her lately. That he’d spent the past two weeks hyperaware of her in ways he’d never been before. That the thought of her leaving tomorrow made his chest feel tight in a way that had nothing to do with missing his friend.
“Just different,” he said finally.
Ada turned to look at him, and in the dim light from the dying fire, her face was all shadows and angles. “Max–”
“I’m going to miss you,” he interrupted, because he needed to say it, needed her to know. “I know that sounds dumb and I always miss you when you leave, but this year it’s–it feels…bigger. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah.” Her voice was soft, barely audible over the sound of crickets and the distant hum of the road. “It makes sense. I’m going to miss you too.”
They sat in silence for a moment, and Max tried to work up the courage to say what he’d been thinking about all week. All month, really, if he was being honest with himself.
“Ada, I–”
She kissed him.
Just leaned over and pressed her lips to his, quick and uncertain, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed. Like she’d been thinking about it as much as he had and finally just went for it.
Max froze for half a second–shock and disbelief having to cycle through–and then he was kissing her back. His hand came up to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, and she made this small sound against his mouth that made his whole body light up.
She tasted like the cheap wine his mum had served at dinner. And like cherry chapstick. Like summer and bonfires and like everything he’d been wanting without knowing how to name it.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathing a bit harder, Ada’s eyes were wide. Scared, maybe. But hopeful, too.
“Was that–is that okay?” she whispered. “I’ve been wanting to and I thought maybe you wanted it too but if I didn’t know and I’m so sorry–”
“It’s okay,” Max interrupted, his voice rough. “More than okay. I’ve been wanting–I wanted to do that too. I just didn’t know if you–if we–”
“We should probably go inside,” Ada said, but she hadn’t moved away. If anything, she’d leaned closer, her hand resting on his chest, right over his heart that was beating way too fast.
“Probably.”
“Before someone comes looking for us.”
“Yeah.”
Neither of them moved a muscle.
“Max?” Ada’s voice was barely a whisper now.
“Yeah?”
“Can we–can we do it again?”
He kissed her in answer, slower this time, taking his time. Learning the shape of her mouth, the soft sound she made when he tilted her head to deepen the kiss, the way her fingers curled into his shirt like she was trying to pull him closer.
They kissed until the fire had gone completely cold, until the sky had shifted from deep purple to true black, until Max’s mom called from the house that it was late and they should come in.
“Tomorrow,” Max said as they finally stood up, still holding hands. “Before you leave. Can we talk about this?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.” Ada squeezed his hand. “I promise.”
But the next morning when Max woke up, Ada and her family were already gone.
Standing in Victoria’s villa hallway, staring at his sister’s too-innocent expression, Max felt that memory crash over him like a wave.
She’d promised they’d talk. And then she’d left without a word, and Max had spent three weeks texting and calling and leaving voicemails until someone had answered her phone and told him Ada didn’t want to talk to him.
And now Victoria had put them in the same room. In a cottage with one bed.
For two weeks.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Max said.
“Language,” Victoria chided, but she was still grinning. “Look, it’s not ideal–”
“Not ideal? Vic, we’re–we can’t–we can’t share a room.”
“Why not? You used to have sleepovers all the time when you were kids.”
“We were kids. This is different.”
“How is it different?”
Because the last time he’d seen Ada, he’d kissed her by a bonfire and thought maybe–finally–she felt the same way about him that he felt about her. Because he’d spent twelve years trying to move on and failing spectacularly. Because sharing a room with her felt like some kind of cosmic joke designed specifically to torture him.
“It just is,” Max said through gritted teeth.
Beside him, Ada had gone very still, very quiet. Her face was carefully neutral, but her fingers were white-knuckled around her wine glass.
“I can take the couch,” she offered. “In the cottage. If there’s a couch. I don’t mind.”
“There’s a couch,” Victoria said. “But it’s not really sleeper-sized. It’s more decorative than functional.”
“That’s fine. I’m not–I don’t need much space.”
“You’re not taking the couch,” Max said automatically. “If anyone’s taking the couch, it’ll be me.”
“Max, you’re kind of a high performance athlete. I’ll take the couch.”
“Neither of you needs to take the couch,” Victoria interjected. “You’re both adults. The bed is huge–king sized. You can share it without it being weird.”
“Vic–”
“Look, if you’re really that uncomfortable, I can ask Tom’s parents to postpone their visit and you can have their room. But that means disappointing them, and they were so excited to come, and–”
“No,” Max sighed, recognizing when he was beaten. “No, don’t do that. It’s–it’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”
He looked at Ada, who was still clutching her wine glass and looking like she wanted the terrace floor to open up and swallow her.
“Is that okay with you?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Her voice was tight. “Yeah, it’s fine. We’re adults, we don’t have to make it weird.”
It was going to be so fucking weird.
But Max nodded anyway, because what else was he going to do? “Okay. Fine. Where is this stupid cottage?”
Victoria gave them directions–down a stone path, past the lavender garden, tucked into the far corner of the property. Private. Romantic.
Sometimes he really hated his sister.
Max grabbed his bag and headed out, not waiting to see if Ada was following. He needed a moment. Needed to process this. Needed to figure out how the hell he was supposed to survive two weeks sharing a bed with Ada Bakker when he could barely survive five minutes on a terrace with her.
The cottage was exactly as Victoria had described–beautiful, private, with views of the sea and that one very large bed dominating the bedroom.
Max dropped his bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.
Two weeks.
This is going to be the longest two weeks of his fucking life.
And then he heard footsteps on the stone path outside, heard the cottage door open, heard Ada’s voice say softly, “How…cozy.”
Max looked up to find her standing in the doorway, still holding that wine glass, looking as shellshocked as he felt.
“Yeah,” he said. “Cozy.”
Their eyes met, and something passed between them–acknowledgment, maybe, of just how impossible this situation was. How much history was crammed into this small space. How much they’re avoiding.
“It'll be fine,” Ada said. But she didn’t sound convinced.
“Yeah,” Max agreed, not convinced either.
But as she set down her wine glass and started unpacking her bag, carefully maintaining distance, moving around him like they were defusing a bomb–Max thought:
His vacation was fucked.