This is mostly unfamiliar territory for him in the weeks that follow the charged kiss. He doesn't want to break her very steep relationship boundaries, but doesn't want to lose her, either. They go about their days the way they did before, but with more hand-holding, sometimes a kiss or two. Each one lasts a little bit longer than the other, but they never go much further than that. He just wants to be around her as often as he can be without being too much. He steals a graze of her thigh every so often, a trip down her neck when he can. Her music drives him wild, and he wants to go so much further but he cannot.

She's like glass. Relationships make her nervous because of her father, because of the way her mother disappeared from her life. He doesn't know what would make her happy, but he's too afraid to ask. They stand on some middle ground and that's where it stops: right in the gray, right in-between nothing and something.

He finds her by her bees on the last day of finals in May. Blair is mewling in a crate beside her, scratching at the door.

He approaches her from behind, grabs a pigtail and gives it a weak tug. "Maka?"

"Mmm?" She stands up and greets him with a suffocating hug. "I'm going to miss you this summer."

"More than last summer?"

"Definitely."

"Why is that?"

She pulls back, then leans forward and gives him a kiss so full of longing he thinks he might fall apart right then and there.

"But," she says after it ends, "I'm living with Liz, Kid and Patty at the end of July until school starts again. I picked up some part-time work nearby. So… if you can spare a visit, feel free."

"I will as often as I can."


"You know," she says one night as they lay on the Liz's couch after a long movie night, "I still have that jar of ocean water from our project. I always put it on the window of my dorm room. My window at home, too. I always bring it with me."

"Does the water still look okay?" He plays with the ends of her hair, twirling strands between his fingers like silk.

"Better than a fresh water sample would look, thanks to the salt. It just looks really nice in the moonlight, I've noticed. It comforts me. Like… a lava lamp or something." She smiles against the skin of his chest. "I just like excuses to think of you, I think."

"We need excuses to think of each other? I've been doing it wrong, then." He laughs as she nudges him.

"You're too nice," she mumbles. "I'm suspicious."

"I can be awful, too," he says, and bravely he kisses her till their lips are sore and they drift off into a calm sleep.


He loves when he catches her after class in her favorite lab. She ordered a lab coat two sizes too large and it swallows up her ballerina figure as she leans into the near-fossilized microscope. Her lab goggles are off to the side, a large crack through the middle of them. He thinks maybe for Christmas he'll buy her new ones; though she's strangely attached to the ones she has, as if it's a family heirloom.

He approaches her with reverence so he doesn't startle her as he tends to do. He tugs an end of her hair, which falls in loose waves almost to the center of her back. He thinks she's growing it out because he mentioned once that he likes it long and it makes him smile.

Maka leans into him and closes her eyes. "I'm so tired," she says. "I've been trying to figure out which blood sample has lyme disease for the past hour."

"That sounds like lots of fun. Just guess one and let's go get dinner. I'm starving."

"You just ate like an hour ago with Black Star, didn't you?" Her emerald stare is intent on him.

He grins, sheepish. "I only had two tacos."

"I want Italian."

"You always want Italian."

"You always want tacos!" She almost falls out of her chair.

"Speaking of Italian," he says with some reluctance, "would you possibly want to be with at my family's New Year's bash this year? My parents will pay for your ticket. They wanted to, actually, since they were so thrilled I… have a girlfriend." His face is a deep burgundy.

"Is that what I am?" She grins.

"I mean… if you want to be?"

She pulls him down for a kiss. "I already thought I was."

He rolls his eyes. "So arrogant."

"And you love it."

"Absolutely."

His gaze drifts to the window where a slow-crawl snow begins. He's so blessed to have the warmth of her presence in this mostly steel-plated room. There is a whir of a machine he's never seen before in the distance, the clack of Maka changing samples again. He worries, for a heartbeat, if these moments will be permanent. Not much in his life is.

She jots a few more notes and then turns to him with a glittering smile.

Even if she moves on he thinks as he returns the smile, these are pieces of his life that he will always carry in his heart, just like jars of saltwater.

He keeps her as close as possible while they walk back to their dorm in the midst of the growing storm, as if she might get swept away by the winds.

They hole up in his room to wait out the blizzard. Even after a long walk which coated them both in snow, he can still smell a bit of a desert breeze on her hair as she falls asleep in his arms.

He wonders what she considers to be home.


Her father sobs relentlessly after she tells him over dinner on Christmas Eve that she'll be spending the remainder of her break with her boyfriend in New York City. His fiancé tries his best to subdue him, but he cannot be tamed. She supposes part of it is her never having serious relationships in high school. She wonders if he thought she'd be single her entire life and grimaces at the thought. Her father puts on her a pedestal only when it conveniences him.

"Maka! You're going to share a hotel room with him? You're not even married! That's taboo!" he blubbers over his small plate of the ham that she baked.

"You weren't married when mama got pregnant," she retorts.

"Exactly! That's why I'm worried! Let me meet this boy before I decide if you can stay there or not."

She slams her fork down. "I am not my mother and I am not you! I'm me, and I won't make the mistakes the two of you did. I'm smarter than that, which is why I never let you make any decisions for me, including this one." She worked for hours on their holiday dinner, but dumps the rest of hers in the trash and slams her way upstairs to her bedroom where her suitcase rests, packed already for the long trip ahead.

She sighs as she looks at one of the pictures on her nightstand: her and her father at the daddy-daughter dance in seventh grade. She looks like the happiest person in the world in the photo, but all Maka can think about it is how he disappeared to entertain a single mother just twenty minutes later. The office had to call her mother to pick her up after being left behind. That fight between her parents was one of the last.

Being abandoned at a school dance was so much easier than the way her mother left.


Maka rises early in the morning, and opts for the cab to the airport instead of the lift her father promised her.

"I'm terrified for the first time in my life," she says as they approach the front door of his parent's mansion just outside of the bustling city. She tightens her grip on the bowl of white chocolate popcorn she made as if afraid it'll fall from her grasp. She wonders if they even need her bland dessert with the spread they have somewhere in the middle of this enormous place that Soul calls home. It doesn't go well with lobster or Riesling, both of which have to be on their menu. She wants to turn and run, but he reaches out and grabs one of her hands and she's locked in place beside him as they ring the doorbell.

She takes a deep breath. She knows he's nervous, too. They huddle close in the cold as they hear footsteps.

His mother opens the door, as glamorous as she expected the matron Evans to be: two pearl strings and a black dress that was probably a Tom Ford ballgown in its day. Her hair is long and a blonde as light as sand and sparkles like diamonds in the dim lighting of the hallway. She considers shading her eyes when the woman smiles with immaculate teeth.

"You must be Maka!" she says. She steps forward and pulls her in for a smothering hug, then backs up and pinches one of her cheeks. "So precious! I can't believe my youngest managed to get such a beautiful girl." She pats her son's head.

"Ma, seriously," he groans.

"It's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Evans. I brought some, um, chocolate popcorn." Maka holds out the bowl, hesitant.

"Just call me Maron." She takes the bowl and places it on the nearby table. "Now, come upstairs with me. I have a dress lined up for you."

"How did you get her size?" Soul throws her a sideways glance.

"Wes found her on facebook and my designer did an estimation. He's magically talented. Now, go find your brother before he gets into the champagne, would you?" She drags her up the red-carpeted stairs and into the oblivion of the next wing.

His brother is slouched at the kitchen island, staring with a great intensity at his phone while he takes a swig straight from an open bottle of wine.

"Starting early, Wes?" Soul asks as he drops into the seat next to his older brother.

"I never stopped, actually," he says with a wicked grin. His younger brother sees an ache at the edge of his eyes and shakes his head. Wes fills another glass and slides it over. "Join me. I'm tired of drinking alone in the quiet of this house."

"Where's dad?"

"In bed."

"On their favorite party of the year? That's weird."

His brother looks at him and he looks very suddenly like he's aged ten years since Soul has last seen him. It makes his stomach roil. "Wes?" he asks.

"Mom is trying to keep it from you for some strange reason, but I won't. Dad is sick. Terminally sick, Soul. Cancer. Bad cancer. Actually, I think mom is keeping it from you because she's trying to pretend it's not even real at this point. She avoids talk of it at all costs. She's behaving differently, in case you haven't already noticed. There's just this big, fake smile plastered to her face all the time like if she just keeps doing that she can pretend it's not going on. It makes me want to sink into the ground. I've gone through almost all of the wine in this house since I've been home, but it's not working. Nothing is working for either of us. Any of us. Dad is refusing any sort of treatment. Says he wants to reserve all their money for mom and our grandchildren instead of him." He exhales the way he used to smoke his cigarettes in the backyard when he thought their parents weren't watching: long, battered and slow. Soul wraps his mind around it at a very tired pace. His whole body feels tired. His spirit.

"You should talk to him," Wes says.

"He doesn't like talking to me," he replies. Soul thinks of their fight last New Year's, which ended with the usual slamming of doors and biting silence. He wonders if his father was sick then.

"Dad loves you whether he acts like it or not. I'm not even saying forgive him for the way he's treated you – you don't have to – but at least let him see you. He has maybe six months, Soul. He was devastated because, and I quote, 'I won't even get to see my son graduate.' He meant you."

"Pour me more wine and I'll consider it."

Wes hands him the bottle.


After two more glasses, Soul heads up the stairs, languid and aching. Halfway down the hall, he sees Maka donning the dress his mother forced her into: a green gown that flows far past her feet, like the leaves of a drooping flower. It brings out the viridian in his girlfriend's eyes and he pushes a smile despite the raging storm brewing in his chest like a toxin. She is so beautiful that he's afraid to touch her now more than ever, like she might come undone.

She smiles. Her mother dusted her with some light makeup and it highlights the smattering of freckles across her cheeks. He resists the urge to cup her head in his hands.

She twirls once just a few feet from him. "How do I look? Like a Disney princess?" She laughs.

"You always do, anyway."

"Are you okay? You seem… off." She reaches out, but he avoids her grasp.

"Yeah. Just need to talk to my dad. I'll be down in a minute." He wonders if she can see the parts of his heart that have caved in, the bruises and the marks.

"Okay," she says. She slides past him.

He doesn't bother to knock. He opens the door and steps in. There are no machines beeping in the backdrop, no nurses fluttering to and fro like he expected. There is just his father wrapped up in his enormous comforter in the darkness of the room.

"Hello?" his father says. His voice is as heavy as Soul's feet feel as he makes his way to his mother's vanity. He sounds like he's lost all his color, his vitality. It came on so quick that Soul can understand why his mother might pretend it's not even real.

He sits in his mother's chair and meets his gaze. "Hi, dad. Did I wake you?"

"I don't sleep much, anyway. Your mother is in and out constantly."

"She doesn't know what to do with herself." And honestly, I don't, either.

"She always thought she'd be the one getting sick. I'm glad it's me, though. Your mother could live without me, but I don't think I'd do very well without her."

"Dad?"

"She's an amazing mother, Soul. I hope they way I've treated you never gets in the way of your love for her. I didn't deserve her love, either, but she always gives it to me unconditionally."

"Yeah." He swallows a large lump. He's lost his breath, his words. This is too much. This room has always seemed so big to him until now. Now, he wants to leave. His leg jitters. There are tears forming and he fights the urge to wipe them away. His father is shrinking before his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Soul."

"I've decided to become a piano teacher," he blurts. He doesn't want apologies. He remembers the first time his father sat him at a piano. He was three years old. The floor in the music room then was black-and-white checkered. His mother changed it every few years or so, but he remembers what it looked like that day. The keys felt familiar under his small hands as his father guided him, told him every note and the weight it carried. They had bad days and good days. Mostly bad days, he would admit. But he would focus – now more than ever – on the good. That's what they needed.

"I'm really happy to hear that. I thought you'd given up on piano after what I did." His father does look happy, and it eats at Soul just a bit.

"No. I've found a lot of inspiration these past few years."

"Your mother was my muse, too."

He scratches the back of his neck, embarrassed.

"I'm glad you haven't lost it, Soul."

"You gave it to me to begin with, anyway."

"You're actually somehow the most sensible person in this house, you know. Look after your mother and brother, please. They'll probably need it. Wes the most."

He sees a lot of his brother in his father. "I will."


They run from his house in the cold back to their hotel, holding hands. Her heels clack on the iced sidewalk and she's surprised she doesn't slip. They dash through the seemingly endless halls to their room at the end of the wing on the sixth floor. The snow starts while they catch their breath in the warm quiet of the hotel.

She leans against the door as he spreads out on the bed.

"Soul," she says, "what's going on? You're hiding something."

"I'm not." He doesn't meet her gaze.

"I know you well enough by now to know that you're hiding something." She removes her heels, one by one.

"Convince me to talk, then. You're good at that." He rolls over on the bed. His eyes are red-rimmed.

The taste of his midnight kiss still rests on her lips, cracked from the cold. "I am." She unzips her dress as far as she can, then allows it to slide off in one fluid motion with all the ease of a second skin. She revels in the way his stare widens.

"Maka?" His voice breaks.

"Come here. Let me get you to talk."

"The last thing I want to do with you right now is talk."

"Then we'll save that for after."

He approaches her slowly.

"Am I… okay?" she says when he's just a few inches away. She covers herself as much as she can. This vulnerability is new.

He pulls her hands away, gentle and precarious. "Perfect." He kisses her.


She wakes up first, like always. But for now, she leaves him to sleep. She observes how long his eyelashes are, the way he sleeps so much easier with her nearby. She wants to wake up like this every morning from now on, but she shoves the selfish thoughts somewhere out of reach. She runs a finger along what looks like a very long, antiquated scar that starts at one of his broad shoulders. He stirs at her inquisitive touch.

He turns to her and smiles. "Hey." His voice is lathered with morning laziness and late-night wine.

"What's this from?" she asks.

"Motorcycle accident. Wes and I had a lot of rebel phases as teenagers. We were really good at working our parents' last nerves." There is a strange glint to his eyes, and she holds in a breath as the next question leaves her.

"Soul, what was going on with you last night? I think I did an okay job of convincing you enough to talk?"

"I don't think I'm ready to discuss it yet. It doesn't even seem real yet. I feel like it'll never seem real to me." His gaze is blank, less affectionate than before. He's cutting her off. She tries to hold back her bit of irritation.

"You should talk to someone about it if you can. Doesn't even have to be me."

"I'll talk about it when I'm ready."

"Okay. I'm just saying."

"Just saying what?"

"Stop being so defensive! I'm just saying if you need help, get it."

"Who says it's even about me?"

"Whatever," she says. "Push me away then, someone who is trying to reach out to you." She turns away, untangles from his hold.

"If you're that easy to push away, then why are you here at all?" There is a weirdness to his voice, like he's not convinced of his own words. She can hear the wavering, but she still rises from the bed. He's angry, but in a way she's never seen. In a way she can't deal with in this moment, a moment that is supposed to be calming and secure.

"You tell me, Soul." She dresses in a matter of minutes and is out the door before he can answer.


The semester starts faster than she was prepared for. She avoids him in small ways: uses a different lab each day after class, blocks his number in an inexplicable rage, and hides out at Liz and Patty's instead of her dorm room. The sad part is, she's not even sure he's looking for her. She's adjusted to being left behind and tries to shrug it off, but this is the loss of someone she considered her best friend and she finds her days on campus much emptier and longer than before.

She cannot wait for the warmth of spring. The ashen clouds that have become a permanent winter fixture in the sky make the hardening of her heart worse. She considers hibernation as another avoidance option, but remembers that this semester involves student teaching.

She wonders what classes Soul ended up picking. He always does it last minute and gets stuck in some rough classes. Then she tells herself that it's no longer her job to care about him, even if it goes against her nature.

She sees him for the first time at one of Liz and Patty's after-blizzard parties in late February. She wants to crawl out of her skin and embrace him all at once, but she does neither. She circumvents him, acts like he's a ghost. She wraps herself up in distracting conversations, makes sure to laugh every so often – loud enough that he can hear her from across the room.

She steals a glance at him when she has a second and their eyes meet. No words are exchanged.

She's exhausted.

The gap in this room is so small, but it suddenly feels like miles.