Chapter Text
Max wasn’t sure who planted that idea into Chloe’s blue-haired head, but she’d already regretted agreeing to leave Seattle for what felt like the millionth time. Technically, they weren’t just heading out of the city — they were leaving it entirely and driving south toward Tacoma. Max had been there a couple of times with her parents before she moved back to Arcadia Bay, and she couldn’t say Tacoma was remarkable in any way. Just another business-heavy Washington city — fine, but nothing special.
Chloe, however, insisted that a weekend in Tacoma was exactly what the doctor ordered after a draining week of work and classes (which, of course, meant the second item on Dr. Price’s prescription list — the first always being a joint).
Right before the trip, the Price pickup had one of its “those days” — the way Chloe jokingly called mornings when her truck refused to start, sending her into a minor rage spiral. Max’s dad offered them his Ford Explorer as an alternative, so the girls set off early. Max was sure the drive couldn’t take more than forty minutes. Yet an hour slipped by, and the half-empty highway ahead said otherwise.
“Uh… Chloe, are we even—” Max fell silent under her friend’s pointed stare.
“‘Uh, Chloo-yaa,’” Chloe mocked, then flashed a mischievous grin. “Relax. I’m just gonna sell you for parts and run off to the Windy City with the profit.”
“Oh, absolutely. Chicago will run out of space the moment you arrive,” Max laughed, then realized they had turned left, leaving the big road behind. “Seriously though — where are we going? This definitely isn’t Tacoma.” Her smile grew nervous as she watched leafy trees slide by.
“Duh,” Chloe snorted. “We’re going somewhere way cooler than that dull industrial excuse for a city. Pass me a cigarette, will you?”
“I’d still like to live a little longer, so no smoking while driving.”
“Okay, coward. Then we’ll pull over for a mini-brunch.”
The forest road abruptly ended, and the Ford bounced onto an unfamiliar highway. In the distance stood a gas station, and just beside it — a diner with a flickering sign: FRANKIE THE HUNTER.
“What a crappy name,” Chloe muttered while parking.
‘Frankie the Dealer’ would’ve sounded way more poetic, Max mused to herself. She tried not to think about Frank — about how most people from Arcadia Bay were gone for good. Max buried that inside herself, along with the truth about her powers — the fact that rewind was still literally at her fingertips. After the storm, she swore she’d never even try it again, but four months later it happened — by accident.
It was early March. One sunny Sunday morning, Chloe grabbed a bag of marshmallows, a bunch of long skewers, dragged Max along, and headed to the nearest park.
“Chloe, we can’t start a fire here,” Max hissed as she tried to dismantle the tiny teepee of sticks and old newspaper Chloe was about to light with her zippo.
“Oh, Maxine, you’ve always been my portable conscience.”
“What—”
“They allow campfires in this part of the park. And wipe that skeptical eyebrow — I checked.”
Max had no choice but to trust her. Living under the Caulfields’ roof had put some brakes on Chloe — her temper no longer resembled a lit powder keg. Sometimes Max felt Chloe had grown up a lot. But after a few classic-Chloe incidents, she realized her friend had simply learned to wear adulthood like a mask. What truly went on inside the girl who had lost everything — Max had no idea.
A marshmallow on Max’s skewer hissed loudly and burst into flame.
“Shit!” she yelped, jerking back. The charred blob flew over her shoulder, landing in a pile of damp leaves. “Put it out, Chloe!” Max gasped, glancing around — half-convinced park rangers would leap from the bushes and arrest them for attempted arson.
“Relax.” Chloe did the least helpful thing imaginable and poured Pepsi over the smoking marshmallow.
A minute of silence passed. A thin stream of smoke curled upward. Max’s heart hammered — with fear or from the ridiculousness of it all, she couldn’t tell.
“We’re about to start a wildfire hotter than Arcadia three years ago,” Chloe drawled. “I can see it — Max Caulfield, sentenced to the electric chair by environmentalists for killing the fragile lungs of our precious planet.”
“That’s not funny!” Max grabbed a handful of sticky marshmallows and threw them at her. Two missed, but one smacked Chloe right in the forehead and tangled in her hair.
“What the hell is this crap?!” Chloe cried, trying to pull the melted sugary mush out of her strands. It clung to her fingers — most of it stayed stubbornly in her hair. “I swear to God, Maxine Caulfield, I’ll put you on that skewer! Get back here!”
Thirty minutes of chasing and shrieking later, both collapsed in the grass, trying to catch their breath and fix themselves up. Max’s cheeks were streaked with marshmallow — Chloe had tried to feed her an entire fistful of them at once. They used up the whole water bottle cleaning Chloe’s hair into something vaguely human again.
Despite the bright spring sun gently warming the clearing, Max rubbed her fingers and breathed warm air onto them before holding them closer to the fire. The flames crackled lazily, sending a trail of sparks into the sky.
“Let me warm them,” Chloe said, setting her skewer down. She took Max’s left hand into her own. Something about the movement felt familiar — soft and intimate. Like Max had seen this moment before. Like she was watching it from the outside.
Chloe brought Max’s hand to her lips and breathed warm air onto her skin.
Then she kissed it.
Her eyes never left Max’s face.
Max didn’t know what scared her more — the kiss, or the tenderness behind it. It was ridiculous. Strange.
This is a date, her brain supplied far too late.
Her right hand jerked upward instinctively. A hazy echo of “No!” rang in her ears — Chloe’s voice overlapping with the moment itself.
“Let me warm them,” Chloe said again, reaching for the skewer.
“No need,” Max tried to sound casual, hiding the turmoil inside her. Her heartbeat thundered in her skull, thoughts scattering like startled birds. “Just roast me another marshmallow,” she added with a bright, forced cheer.
The back of her hand still burned where Chloe’s lips had touched.