Unbreakable - A Beautiful Lie · (Roswell Fanfiction) · √

FORTY-SIX

Max placed the bag of groceries he had retrieved from the back of the car on the kitchen counter, dropping the house keys unceremoniously next to it, as I stood awkwardly just inside the front door - uncertain what to do with myself.

The house was big (of course), but in comparison to the mansion Max normally lived in, this house was small and quaint. It was decorated in a modern and minimalistic style, with sleek black counter tops, white walls and flooring, and cleanly cut furniture.

It was like stepping straight into a decorating magazine. It lacked warmth. With its bare and minimalistic style and a distinct lack of any personal touches the house felt a lot more alien than their home in Roswell, which had a lot more softening wooden features and antique furniture.

"Are you just gonna hang there by the door?" Max interrupted my scanning of the interior.

I gave him a brief smile and walked up to the counter. Thrumming my fingers distractedly against the surface of the counter, I watched Max pull food items out of the paper bag.

"Are you here a lot?" I asked conversationally.

He glanced at me before he turned to the cupboard and retrieved two wine glasses. "Some periods I spend a lot of time here. We hold meetings here."

We. As in aliens.

I was still trying to get my head around this whole alien concept. For some reason, it was not difficult to accept that Max was alien - that he was different. But I had a harder time accepting that there were more like him - many more. And that they were having organized meetings, like a regular community.

"As in town meetings?"

He grinned and took a wine bottle off the wall. "Something like that."

I nodded thoughtfully before I focused on what he was doing. My brows knitted together. "What are you doing?"

"I'm making you dinner," Max said simply, loudly scrunching up the paper bag and making a show out of throwing it in the garbage can, imitating a basketball player. Of course, he scored.

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't stop my smile as I grumbled, "Show-off..."

He winked at me before commencing the task of opening the wine bottle. "You need to eat." He looked at me as the cork popped loose, admonished concern in his eyes. "Don't think I haven't noticed that you haven't exactly been eating lately."

I blushed and dropped my eyes in embarrassment. It was not like I had intentionally refrained from eating. My emotional nausea was making it really difficult. But I felt guilty when Max was looking at me like that.

"You're not worried about me, are you?" I asked lightly.

"Constantly," he mumbled and his tone was so serious that I had to look up, finding him looking at me closely.

My heart missed a beat and, on reflex, I crawled behind the facade of keeping the conversation light. "Do you even know how to cook?"

His face broke into a smile.

How could he be so relaxed? So calm and collected? So beautiful?

"I make some mean pancakes," he announced, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

I laughed, climbing onto one of the bar stools positioned at the back of the kitchen island, facing the kitchen, and replied doubtfully, "Uh-huh."

He narrowed his eyes at me before focusing on pouring us white wine. "You don't believe me?"

"No no," I objected quickly, happiness in my chest. "I believe you."

"Good," he said, grabbed the foot of one of the wine glasses, walked around the counter, leaned in and gave me such a sweet and innocent kiss on the forehead that my heart possibly melted, before he transferred the wine glass to my hand, our hands brushing with electricity.