The next second, she froze in her tracks, completely at a loss.

Her mind went blank.

Maxwell hadn’t fallen at all. He was sitting perfectly fine on the sofa by the window, not in pajamas, but draped in a white bathrobe. The neckline hung wide open, leaving his throat, collarbones, and half his bare chest exposed to the air.

His hair was soaking wet, water still dripping down. A single bead rolled over his collarbone, traced the sturdy curve of his chest, and finally slipped into the abyss of his bathrobe, vanishing against the hard, hidden planes of his abs.

He leaned there, lounging with lazy, effortless grace, one hand propping up his chin. His eyelids were flushed, and as he looked up at her, the outer corners of his eyes glowed with a faint, intoxicating crimson.

He looked every bit the decadent, playboy prince.

Arianna blinked. "What are you doing? Why aren't you sleeping?"

Maxwell’s voice was low, raspy, and thick with fatigue. "Waiting for you."

In that moment, Arianna honestly wondered if Maxwell had been some kind of seductive siren in a past life. He didn't have to do anything—just one glance from those deep, soulful eyes, and she would have followed him anywhere.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

She forced a calm tone. "Waiting for me for what?"

Maxwell patted the sofa beside him, his gaze soft and pleading. "Can you sit and talk with me for a while?"

"Can’t you sleep?"

Maxwell nodded with a fluid, drunken rhythm. "Mhm."

"…Alright." Arianna walked over slowly and sat on the far end of the sofa.

Maxwell watched the "Great Divide" she had created between them in silence. His eyes darkened, and without a shred of subtlety, he made his request. "Could you sit a little closer?"

"Arianna, are you afraid of me?"

She wasn't.

Arianna thought to herself, *I’m afraid of myself. If my brain slips, I might just do something animalistic to you.*

She kept her composure, shuffling a few inches toward him.

Maxwell used the same shampoo and body wash she did. The familiar scent filled the air, and Arianna’s heart slowly settled. She asked quietly, "What do you want to talk about?"

"Those stray cats from back in college—whatever happened to them?"

"They’re doing great," Arianna said, confused by the sudden pivot to felines, but answering honestly. "People fed them every day. The staff at the cafeteria would feed them, too. They were all round and well-fed."

"What about you?" Maxwell asked. "Did you go feed them often?"

Arianna nodded.

"With who?"

Arianna was bewildered. "With friends, obviously."

Maxwell tilted his head, his gaze intense, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Cameron Hughes?"

"No." Why did he have to bring him up? Arianna replied flatly, "With friends from the dorm. Not guys."

Maxwell’s brows relaxed instantly, his lips curving into a satisfied, pleased smile.

He gave a soft, content hum.

Maxwell was definitely drunk. Add that to the heat of the bathroom, and his mind was clearly floating in a fog. Mentioning that name had instinctively reminded him of the scene at the dinner table that afternoon, and the way Cameron had looked at her with such heat.

His expression dimmed in an instant.

He stared at Arianna with that heavy, soulful intensity he usually reserved for something far more precious than a wooden post. "Arianna, will you ever leave?"

Arianna was lost. "Leave where?"

"I don't know." Maxwell didn't want to bring up that name, and he certainly didn't want to talk about that man in front of her.

He locked eyes with her, enunciating every word slowly. "But you can't leave. You’re my Arianna. You’re my wife."

Arianna: "..."

He was rambling, making no sense at all. She assumed he was just talking nonsense because of the alcohol.

She went along with it, hoping to calm him down. "I get it, I’m not going anywhere. Besides, where would I—"

Before she could finish, Maxwell lunged forward. He pulled her into his arms, his hand cupping the back of her head, and brought his lips down to hers with unerring accuracy.

Arianna: "!!!"

She stiffened, her brain buzzing with static. She stared at him, unable to believe what was happening.

Maxwell was still kissing her, but he didn't try to go deeper; he just pressed his lips to hers. His eyes were closed, his thick lashes resting against his skin, masking the dark, boundless hunger beneath.

Arianna’s heart rate skyrocketed to its absolute peak.

Skin touched skin. The air between them felt scorching.

She didn't know how much time passed before her sluggish brain finally kicked back into gear. Arianna reached up to push him away, her voice trembling. "Maxwell."

Their lips were still pressed together. When she spoke, her mouth moved against his, and Maxwell let out a muffled, frustrated sound. He tightened his grip on the back of her head, murmuring against her mouth, "Be good. Let me hold you a bit longer."

Arianna: "..."

*You call this a hug?* she thought in shock.

Is this really a hug?! Did she misunderstand the definition of such a simple word, or was Maxwell so drunk that he’d lost his mind?

He couldn't even tell the difference between a hug and a kiss?!

She didn't know how long this "hug" lasted before Maxwell finally pulled away. Just before he broke the contact, he pressed firmly against her flushed lips, leaving one final, lingering graze.

His expression softened. His right hand trailed over the skin of her neck, stroking it again and again, light as a feather.

Arianna felt like she was being driven to the brink of insanity.

She lowered her voice, nearly gritting her teeth. "Maxwell."

Hearing her tone, Maxwell finally froze.

He stood still for a few seconds, as if trying to find his lost grip on reality. Arianna let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, relieved.

But a moment later, Maxwell pulled her back into his arms, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

His voice was barely a whisper, stubborn and desperate. "You can't leave. You can't ever leave me."

Arianna couldn't help but wonder if Maxwell had suffered some kind of childhood trauma.

She had been exactly the same way when she was little.

After her parents divorced and started new lives, neither of them wanted to take her with them. Back then, she would tremble in bed at night, terrified: *What if one day, Grandma decides she doesn't want me anymore, either? Where would I go? I’d be a homeless child.*

Whenever she woke up crying from those nightmares, her grandmother would clutch her hand, eyes red, and promise, "Grandma isn't going anywhere, Arianna. I promise, I will never leave you."

And now, Maxwell was showing the exact same symptoms.

Insecure. Desperately clinging to the fear of loss.

She had always assumed someone like Maxwell—a man born with a silver spoon in his mouth, enjoying a level of wealth most people couldn't earn in a lifetime—couldn't possibly harbor such dark, painful anxieties.

Maxwell held her tight, repeating the words in a slow, broken rhythm. "You’re my Arianna. You can’t leave."

In that instant, Arianna saw her younger self staring back at her.

She reached up, slowly and clumsily patting his back, soothing him with a soft, steady voice. "I’m not leaving."

"Don't worry. I won't ever leave you."