Max grins, planting his left shoe on a lemon-yellow jug. “Race you to the skylight.”
“It’s not a race if one of us has spider-monkey limbs,” I protest, but my hand is already reaching for the next purple hold.
Holds thin out near the top. I’m panting, forearms on fire, but Max’s voice drifts over—soft, coaxing: “One more blue to your right; then it’s just a mantle up.” I snag it, push, and suddenly my head crests the final ledge. Max hauls himself up beside me a heartbeat later, breathing hard.
We dangle our feet over the edge, Manhattan’s patchwork visible through the skylight. Chalk dust floats in beams of afternoon sun. Max raises his palm. “Equal finish.”
I slap his hand—meant to be a quick victory tap—but neither of us lets go. Our fingers interlace, sweaty and chalky, a handshake that turns into something else entirely. Close up, his eyes are the exact blue of the crash-pad foam eight meters below. His breathing slows; mine follows, matching rhythm until the thud in my chest is all I hear.
Gavin yells for a victory pose. Max folds an arm around my shoulders, foreheads touching, city skyline framed through the skylight behind us. I laugh—giddy adrenaline mixing with something softer.
When we are ready to descend, my fingers peel off the last hold, and I lean back into the auto-belay’s pull. The rope whirs, lowering me in gentle slack-and-tug pulses. I’m halfway down, when I push off the wall a touch too hard. I’m expecting a graceful pendulum back to center, but instead, the tether snaps tight, yanking me sideways like a failed carnival ride. Air whooshes past my ears. My stomach drops. Before I can squeak a warning, I barrel into Max’s lane—straight into Max.
“Whoa—Nora?” Max barks a startled laugh, trying to steady us. The rope twists once more, and I end up mashed sideways into him.
Chest, shoulder, then—oh, no—momentum keeps dragging me south. Until my face is planted squarely against the front of his climbing shorts. The coarse fabric of his shorts fills my field of vision, smelling faintly of chalk dust and fresh detergent. My helmet knocks the harness waistband, and my cheek is plastered against the firm plane of his… anatomy. Heat flares over every inch of my skin.
Time stalls.
I register everything with painful clarity: the ridged weave of nylon pressing into my jaw; the quick, startled inhale Max sucks through his teeth; the thump of his heartbeat, impossible to miss even through layers of spandex and fabric. My own pulse rockets, a drumline in my throat. For a microscopic beat I’m aware of how warm he is there, how solid, and humiliation burns hotter.
“Oh my god—sorry!” My voice is muffled in fabric as I scramble for a safer patch of anatomy. I try to twist away, but the tether coils around my thigh, pinning me closer. My harness slides, straps digging into hip bones while rope fibers rasp across my calf.
Max’s hand clamps around my waist—steady, sure, but gentle. “Got you,” he says, voice pitched low, half laugh, half shock. The warmth of his palm brands through my shirt, pulling me upright just enough that I’m no longer face-first but still pressed full-front against him. Our auto-belays creak, fighting the erratic loads, ropes tangling like drunken jump-ropes above.
My cheek is flaming. I shove at a loose lock of hair that’s stuck to my lip gloss, managing to angle my head up. Max’s face is a mix of crimson and mirth; his eyes sparkle, breath coming fast. “Unexpected air traffic, Librarian,” he manages, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“Next time,” I mutter, “mark your no-fly zone.”
Somehow the devices sort themselves, and we begin a slow, jerky glide to the floor: bodies still flush, thigh to thigh, rope scraping softly as it feeds. Every bump of fabric feels magnified, electric. Gavin’s shutter fires in rapid bursts below—evidence of my most intimate pratfall.
When our feet finally touch mat, I peel free as quickly as the tether allows, face blazing. Max steadies me, laughter rumbling in his chest. My own giggle escapes—an embarrassed bubble but genuine. The mat under my shoes wobbles with adrenaline.
“Well,” Max murmurs, unclipping me with exaggerated care, “next climb I’ll post aCaution: Hard Landingsign.”
I swipe a chalky hand down his arm, trying for dignity. “Just move the runway, Rockstar.”
His grin widens, full wattage now. “Anywhere you need it, Librarian.”
***
Gavin finishes his last burst of photos, pops the memory card from the camera, and disappears toward the locker hallway, humming about “golden social-media gold.” The climbing gym’s wall lights dim to their default glow, signaling the afternoon lull. My palms are raw, my forearms jelly, but energy still buzzes in my veins.
Max hands me a water bottle, his own cheeks still pink from the exertion. “Call that a successful second act?”
“If the metric is humiliation, definitely,” I say, half laughing. “But I think Gavin got what he needed.”
“Speaking of what we need—Melody’s flyers? Didn’t you say the library has the color printer of your dreams?”
I perk up. “And cardstock. And a paper-cutter that hasn’t tried to eat anyone’s finger in years.”
“High praise.” He shoulders the rope, then offers a hand to help me step over a stray crash pad. The touch lingers an extra beat—warm, grounding.
I grab my backpack from the rental cubby while he signs the gear return sheet. When he rejoins me, he’s peeled off the chalk-stained tee in favor of a thin long-sleeve that still manages to hug all the right planes. I swallow—hydrate, Nora—and zip my jacket.
“Library’s sixteen blocks,” I say. “Subway or walk?”
Max checks his watch—inky scrawl of lyrics peek under the wristband. “It’s dry out. We’ll walk. Fresh air might clear the chalk from our lungs.”
