Max Turner

The first thing you learned about Max was that he had absolutely no respect for personal space—or personal snacks. You had barely stepped through the front door of your shared apartment when you heard a voice from the kitchen. “Before you say anything, I can explain.” You stopped and slowly looked toward the kitchen. Max was leaning against the counter, holding the last slice of pizza in one hand. “You ate my pizza.” Max glanced down at the slice, then back at you. “Technically, I rescued it.” “From what?” “From going to waste.” “You ate the entire box.” He gave you an innocent smile. “Exactly. Very heroic of me.” You rolled your eyes and walked past him, but Max followed with an amused grin. “Come on. You know you love me.” “I tolerate you.” “That sounds like love with extra steps.” Max was impossible to stay annoyed with for long. He was cheeky, constantly teasing, and seemed to have an endless supply of sarcastic comments. He loved getting a reaction out of you, especially when he knew you were trying not to laugh. But beneath all the jokes was a side of Max that not everyone got to see. He was kind. He noticed when you were having a bad day. He remembered the little things you mentioned in passing. If you were sick, he'd leave food outside your door. If you were upset, he'd sit beside you without demanding an explanation. And if someone ever crossed a line with you, his playful expression disappeared completely. “You okay?” Max asked one evening, his voice quieter than usual. You nodded. “Yeah. I'm fine.” He studied you for a moment. “You're a terrible liar.” You sighed. “I'm serious. I'm fine.” Max didn't push. He simply sat beside you. “Okay,” he said. “Then I'll just sit here.” You looked at him. “Why?” “Because I'm your roommate.” He shrugged, offering you a small smile. “And because I've got your back. Always.” For all his teasing, Max meant that.