n the seconds that follow, my heart starts to race. I keep my hands raised and look at him through the gap in my gloves, able to see him smiling. In here is the only time he smiles at me; it makes me feel like I've earned it.

I try to surprise him with a sudden right jab. He ducks just as quickly, straightening back up with a cute, boyish grin. I frown and try again, but landing a hit on somebody like Max is pretty much impossible.

He suddenly comes alive with rhythm, his hands jabbing out in one-two movements, gently tapping my helmet. I can tell he's going easy on me, but I lack the finesse to dodge or duck, so every hit makes contact.

"Have I told you I hate boxing?" I ask between hits.

Max grins and gets in one last hit before dropping his hands. "It just takes practice. You'll get it eventually."

"You don't know that," I say. "What if I'm one of those people who give one hundred percent but never get the hang of anything?"

He thinks for a moment. "Then you still get an A for effort."

I smile and try to sidetrack him with a quick one-two jab, but he ducks and aims for my helmet. I dart to the left, but my feet get all tangled and I trip. His hands are on my waist in an instant, and he softens my fall to the ground.

"Okay," I say. "I officially give up."

He rolls his eyes. "You're such a quitter." His hands stay positioned either side of my hips. I can feel their warmth through my tank top.

"There's nothing wrong with quitting," I say. "Maybe I'm just smart enough to know when it's time to give up."

He suppresses a smirk. "You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"It's part of my charm."

He's silent for a moment, and I watch as he lowers his gaze to my lips. From the look on his face, he's thinking about our kiss last night; I'm thinking about it, too. I lean in a little, loving the way his neck muscles tense, but just when I think he's about to lean in too, he drops his hands.

"I'm starving," he says. He gets to his feet and offers his hand, helping me up. I clasp my fingers around his, allowing him to pull me up. "Come on. Let's get some food."

He drives us to a local restaurant not far from the gym, and we park outside before heading in. The place is small, with maroon-colored walls and a garishly patterned carpet. The waiter sits us by the only window, and we take a moment to scan the menu.

"It's probably not what you're used to," Max says, and what looks like embarrassment crosses his face. "But I swear, the food is amazing."

I frown, because, for the briefest of moments, it's like I see myself in his eyes; what I see isn't pretty. "No, it looks good."

The waiter comes back to take our drink orders and asks if we're ready. On Max's recommendation, we each order something called Inegol kofte, and the waiter smiles before disappearing into the back.

We spend the next few minutes talking about food, before the conversation moves to other things, like our childhoods. He speaks about Kino mostly, about their adventures as kids, about the way they used to play games in his room while his parents argued downstairs.

He tells me his mom is the strongest person he knows, and that he'd considered quitting boxing when his father left but quickly decided against it. "Quitting meant letting him win," he says, "so, I ended up fighting harder than ever."

I am fascinated by the way he talks. He's lived the kind of life I could never imagine, filled with pain, and joy, and sometimes danger. He tells me about the 'wrong crowd' he got involved with as a teenager, and I watch him focus on the table as he says it, his eyes clouding over with regret.

"Is that why you're so hard on Kino?" I ask. "To keep him away from all that?"

He looks up now, surprised. "You think I'm hard on him?"

I play with the corner of my napkin, running my finger along the smooth edge. I have never been the type to feel nervous around a boy–if anything, they get nervous around me–but around Max, it's different. "A little," I say honestly. "I get that you're just trying to keep him safe, but I imagine it can feel a little overbearing for him sometimes."

He frowns and says, "Did he tell you that?"

"He didn't need to," I say. "I'm a very perceptive person, you know."

He smiles, unable to help himself. "I'm starting to see that. What about you, anyway? For someone who talks a whole lot, I don't know anything about you."

I think about saying something stupid like you know how I taste, but only because flirting has become my defense mechanism, my way to avoid the hard topics. With Max, I don't want to avoid them; I want to be honest.

"My life is everything you probably think it is," I say. "Countless friends, a big house, parents who are still together. My mom was a beauty queen whose parents helped her to marry into wealth. My father comes from a long line of wealthy businessmen who deal with property developments and community projects. My friends are the kids of rich business owners and plastic surgeons."

He nods slowly, then says, "So, you've told me about your parents, and your friends. When are you going to tell me about you?"

I smile and look at my napkin. "If I told you about me, I think I'd scare you away." I look up, and he leans in closer until his arms are touching mine.

"Try me."

I hesitate before saying, "I was awkward looking as a kid. My mom used to say I would grow into my looks, but she never sounded certain. She started taking me to the beauty salon, made appointments with the doctor to get my ears pinned back. For some reason, being beautiful was the most important thing to her, so for a while, it became the most important thing to me."

I pause for a moment, but he doesn't interrupt. He just waits for me to continue. "By the time I started high school, I was a completely different person. I already had everything I wanted in terms of material possessions, so the only thing left to go after was popularity." I look at him now, something I've been too afraid to do until now. "Once I got it, even that became empty."

Max watches me with an unreadable expression. Before he can speak, the waiter comes over with our food, and we spend the next few minutes eating.

At last, he says, "So, why did you join the gym? I mean, you have the money to train at some high-end place if you wanted to."

I focus on my plate as I say, "I think I'm unhappy." I look at him, and he doesn't look surprised. "I mean, I didn't realize it at first. I didn't know what this feeling...was. But it's unhappiness. Maybe that's wrong of me. Maybe I don't deserve to be unhappy with everything I have."

Max furrows an eyebrow. "Unhappiness has nothing to do with what you have and everything to do with what you're missing."

I take a sip of my water. "Either way, GymCon makes me realize how lucky I am. How much more there is outside of my little bubble. I guess it helps a little."

My phone buzzes, and I'm grateful for the interruption. I pull it beneath the table to see a text from Justin, asking me where I am. My stomach immediately tightens. Despite the fact I wish I could dump him, I'm trying to keep him sweet until this deal with my parents is over.

"Everything okay?" Max asks.

My head snaps up. There is no way I can tell him I'm still speaking to Justin after what happened at the fight, not without telling him the truth. But telling the truth means admitting to dating someone–manipulating someone–for a business deal. For money. It's the kind of thing, deep down, he probably thinks I'd do; I don't want to prove him right.

"It's just my mom wondering where I am," I say, and I tuck my phone in my pocket. It's a lie I hate telling, but the truth would make Max run a mile. Right now, that seems like the scariest thing of all.

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