The hallway suddenly feels impossibly narrow.

Not physically - it hasn’t changed - but the air between them seems compressed, charged, as though the walls have inched closer while neither of them are looking. The overhead lights cast a pale glow across the polished floors, and the faint hum of electricity filled the silence in a way that made everything feel exposed. There is nowhere to look that isn’t him.

Scarlett folds her arms across her chest without thinking, the movement instinctive - defensive. It is a habit she’s perfected over years: posture straight, chin lifted, emotions sealed neatly behind bone and discipline. But tonight the barrier feels thinner. Fragile. As if one wrong word might splinter it beyond repair.

"I’m fine," she says.

The words don’t carry their usual sharpness. They fall softly between them, lacking conviction. Even she can hear the strain threaded through them.

Max exhales slowly, the sound barely more than a breath, but it carries weight. His head tilts almost imperceptibly, a faint shake that tells her he doesn’t believe her - not for a second. He doesn’t challenge the lie outright. That somehow makes it worse.

"I didn’t mean what I said," he admits after a moment. His gaze drops briefly to the floor between them, as though the polished tile had suddenly become easier to face than her expression. When his eyes lift again, they are steadier. Stripped of pride. "About you being cold."

Her throat tightens painfully at that.

Because he hadn’t said it to wound her.

He’d said it because he’d believed it.

"You weren’t wrong," she replies, and the honesty in her voice startles even herself.

He flinches.

It is small - the slightest tightening of his jaw, the faint shift of his shoulders - but she sees it. Sees the way the words landed. The way they confirm something he hadn’t wanted to be true.

Silence unfurled between them then. Not the hostile kind from earlier in the arena. Not sharp. Not explosive. This silence is thinner. More delicate. It feels like standing on frozen water, aware that one misstep could send both of them plunging somewhere neither knows how to navigate.

"I shouldn’t have ridden like that," he says at last, voice lower now, the earlier anger dissolved into something closer to regret. "That wasn’t fair to Dakota."

At the mention of the mare’s name, something inside Scarlett cracks.

"She trusts you," she whispers.

The words carry more meaning than just horsemanship. Trust isn’t casual. It isn’t accidental. It is earned slowly and broken quickly.

"I know," he replies.

And he does. She can hear it in the quiet weight of his voice.

Another pause settles - thicker this time.

He steps forward.

Not enough to crowd her. Not enough to touch. Just close enough that the space between them grows warmer, charged by proximity rather than anger. She can feel the heat radiating from him in the cool corridor air, can see the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breaths.

"I don’t want to be the thing that costs you everything," he says finally.

There is no flirtation in it. No teasing grin. No easy charm to cushion the words.

Just truth.

Her chest constricts painfully.

"You’re not," she says immediately, the response almost desperate.

His gaze searches her face carefully.

"But you think I could be."

There it is.

Not jealousy. Not ego.

Fear.

And that realization hurts more than the accusation ever could have.

Scarlett’s fingers curl tighter into the sleeves of her sweater, fabric twisting beneath her grip.

"They’re reviewing my scholarship," she admits, her voice barely more than a breath. Saying it aloud makes it real in a way she hasn’t allowed before. "My conduct. My associations. My focus."

The words feel clinical. Administrative. Hollow.

Max doesn’t interrupt. He absorbs it quietly, his expression shifting from hurt to understanding in slow increments.

"And I complicate that," he says.

It isn’t self-pity. It is deduction.

"You matter," she corrects before she can stop herself. The words slip free, unguarded. "That’s the problem."

His eyes sharpen instantly.

For a second, the hallway seems to shrink even further, as if the world itself had leaned in to hear what came next.

He takes another careful step toward her.

"How is that a problem?" he asks softly.

Scarlett looks up at him fully now.

Not at his mouth. Not at the floor. Not at the space between them.

At him.

And whatever he sees in her expression makes his breath catch almost imperceptibly.

"Because if I lose this," she says, and despite her effort to steady it, her voice wavers, "I lose everything. I lose Walden. I lose the chance to compete at the level I’ve worked my entire life for. I lose. . . all of it."

Her throat works as she swallows.

"And I don’t know how to want something - or someone - more than I want to survive."

The confession hangs between them, fragile and unpolished. It isn’t eloquent. It isn’t calculated. It is simply true.

Max’s jaw tightens slightly.

Not in anger.

In recognition.

In understanding of what it means to grow up under expectation so heavy it feels like gravity.

"I’m not embarrassed of you," she adds quickly, the earlier fight pressing back into the present. "That wasn’t what this was. I was scared."

His expression shifts again - softer now, the sharp edges dulling.

"You could’ve said that," he murmurs.

"I don’t know how," she admits.

And this might have been the most vulnerable thing she had ever said in her life.

The silence that follows no longer feels brittle.

It feels weighted with things neither of them had been taught to handle - fear of failure, fear of wanting too much, fear of needing someone in a world that measures worth in wins and perfection.

Max lifts his hand slightly, almost without thinking. The movement stalls midway, hesitation flickering across his face. He lets it fall back to his side instead of closing the distance.

"I don’t need you to choose me over your future," he says quietly. "But don’t push me away like I’m disposable. I can handle pressure. I’ve lived with it my whole life."

His voice softens further.

"I can’t handle being managed."

Her breath hitches at this.

"I don’t think you’re disposable," she says, the words steadier now.

"Then stop acting like I am."

There is no accusation in it. No raised tone. Just a boundary drawn carefully but firmly.

The overhead lights hum faintly above them, casting long shadows along the corridor walls.

Scarlett steps back - not retreating, not closing off - but shifting the space between them in a different way. Opening rather than withdrawing.

Her hand brushes the edge of the door.

"Do you want to come in?" she asks softly.

It isn’t surrender.

It isn’t resolution.

It is something quieter.

An invitation.

A choice.

Max doesn’t answer immediately.

He looks at her - really looks at her - weighing the invitation not as temptation, but as consequence. The hallway is still. Quiet. Suspended.

Then, slowly, he steps forward.

Scarlett moves aside to let him pass.

The door closes with a soft click behind them.

The sound feels louder than it should have.

Her dorm room is small - narrow bed, wooden desk, riding boots neatly lined against the wall. Everything in its place. Everything controlled. The faint scent of leather conditioner and clean linen lingers in the air.

Max stands just inside the door, hands sliding out of his pockets as he takes in the space. He has never been in here before.

It feels… private.

Scarlett stays near the door for a moment, as if unsure whether she’s just made a mistake. The vulnerability from the hallway hasn’t faded - it has followed them inside.

"Say it again," he says quietly.

She blinks. "What?"

"That I matter."

The air shifts.

Scarlett swallows, crossing her arms again - weaker this time.

"You matter," she repeats, but softer. Less guarded.

He steps closer.

Not aggressive.

Intent.

"Then stop acting like I’m something you can cut off when it gets inconvenient."

Her chin lifts slightly, instinct bristling.

"It’s not inconvenience. It’s survival."

"And you think I’m trying to ruin that?"

"I think you make it harder."

The words slip out sharper than she means.

His jaw tightens.

"I make it harder," he repeats, disbelief threading through his tone. "Scarlett, I have done nothing but show up for you."

"You showed up angry today," she shoots back.

"Because you shoved me out without explanation."

Her breathing begins to shift - quicker now.

"You don’t understand what it’s like to have everything riding on one mistake."

His eyes flash.

"You don’t think I do?"

Silence snaps between them.

They are closer now - barely a foot apart. Close enough that she can see the tiny flecks of grey in his eyes. Close enough that the tension isn’t just emotional anymore.

"You hide," he says, voice lowering. "Behind perfection. Behind discipline. Behind that ice queen thing everyone thinks is real."

Her spine stiffens.

"It is real."

"No," he says, stepping closer again, forcing her to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "It’s armor."

Her breath hitches.

"Stop," she says quietly.

"Stop what?"

"Looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you can see through me."

His expression softens - but only slightly.

"Maybe I can."

Her throat tightens painfully.

"Max-"

"Stop pushing me away," he says, and this time there is no heat in it. No accusation. Just something raw and pleading beneath the surface. "Stop deciding for me what I can handle. Stop pretending you don’t feel this just because it scares you."

The word feel lands somewhere deep.

Her composure cracks.

It is subtle at first - the shine in her eyes, the way her next breaths falter halfway in. She turns her head slightly, as if she can physically avoid the weight of what he is saying.

"I can’t afford to fall apart," she whispers.

And that is it.

That is the truth beneath everything.

Max’s anger dissolves completely.

"You don’t have to fall apart," he says more gently now. "You just have to stop carrying it alone."

Something inside her gives way.

The tears come silently at first - one slipping free despite her effort to hold it back. She inhales sharply, turning away from him, embarrassed, furious at herself.

"I’m fine," she tries again, but the words break halfway through.

Max closes the distance without thinking.

Not forcefully.

Carefully.

He reaches for her, hesitating only a fraction of a second before his hands settle at her waist, steadying rather than restraining.

"Scarlett."

That is all he says.

Just her name.

And that undoes her completely.

The sob that escapes her isn’t loud - but it is real. Raw. Years of pressure fracturing all at once. Her shoulders shake as she tries to pull away out of habit, but he doesn’t let her disappear this time.

He pulls her against him instead.

Not possessive.

Protective.

She resists for half a second - pride, instinct, fear - and then she folds.

Her hands grip the front of his shirt as if she needs something solid to anchor herself to. Her forehead presses against his chest, breath uneven, tears soaking into the fabric between them.

"I can’t lose this," she whispers brokenly. "I can’t."

"You won’t," he murmurs, one hand sliding up into her hair, the other firm at her back. "You won’t."

"I’ve worked too hard."

“I know."

"They’re waiting for me to mess up.”

"Then don’t," he says softly. "But don’t pretend you don’t deserve something good just because you’re scared of losing it."

She clutches him tighter at this.

For someone who prides herself on independence, on control, on never needing -

this is the most vulnerable she has ever been.

And Max doesn’t try to fix it.

He just holds her.

Breathing slow. Steady. Warm.

And for the first time since arriving at Walden, Scarlett Warrens allows herself to be held without calculating the cost.