Technically, Max held the title of Ayla's boyfriend. It gave him the right to hold her hand in public—a little gesture that carried a hint more intimacy than friendship, but only just.
Their closeness stopped right at that thin boundary.
Even the kiss on the street had been Max's idea. Ayla went along with it, her lips meeting his, but the connection was tentative. She seemed distant, almost as if she were measuring the experience, testing if it stirred anything new inside her.
The soft, polite kiss Ayla returned was fleeting, no more than a brush of lips. For Max, though, even that tiny reciprocation was enough. He knew Ayla wouldn't, or maybe couldn't, offer him anything deeper. That much was clear in the way she held back.
Still, Max found satisfaction in these small moments.
Their unspoken understanding, the easy trust between them, made Ayla comfortable enough to let him massage her shoulders. The more time Max spent with her, the more he marveled at their rare, almost uncanny sense of connection.
To find a kindred spirit like this felt nothing short of miraculous.
Watching Ayla, Max couldn't help himself—he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.
He wished her a good night, hoping her sleep would be undisturbed, hoping she would wake happy.
...
But outside that peaceful room, life was already spiraling out of control.
With the children finally settled and Kayla gone, Draven pulled out his phone.
The screen filled with images—Ayla and Max kissing on the street.
And there was more.
Ayla had kissed Max back. Max had walked her to her hotel room, left after an hour, then returned wearing pajamas, and didn't leave again.
Draven stared at the messages, unable to make sense of the words.
It felt like he'd stepped into an alternate universe, where nothing was familiar and everything was wrong.
He hadn't seen this coming.
He'd always kept tabs on Ayla, but never imagined she and Max could get so close—so suddenly.
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