Sweet Tooth [HS]

THIRTY

Later.

It was 3:07 when Max heard a knock. Her red alarm clock lit up the dark room and she squinted at the numbers, her vision all blurred and out of focus from sleep.

"What the fuck?" She muttered to herself, confused as to whether she'd been dreaming about this awful sound at this goddamn awful hour. Was she dreaming? Was she going insane?

But there it was again.

Knock knock knock.

She groaned into the pillow, almost red with anger at getting woken up like this. Her head sort of ached after the few too many pints she'd swallowed earlier, and she'd been enjoying her lovely, comfortable slumber until this fucking noise woke her up.

It better not be fucking Lexie, she thought. And it better not be the fucking neighbours. She knew there was an old couple who lived across from her, but it probably wasn't them making this racket. Unless Bruce or Julie had broken a hip or something else - but Max couldn't really understand why anyone would be breaking a hip at this time of the night, because 75 year olds do not have sex. No way. Or down the hall there was Patrick, who loved computers and hated talking to anyone who wasn't the pizza delivery guy. So Max didn't think it could be him, either.

So it was either a murderer, Lexie, or, well. She didn't really know. What she did know, however, was that whoever it was was going to die. Tonight.

Max grunted as she hobbled out of bed and down the hall. There was more knocking - no, banging on the door as she grabbed a knife from the kitchen. She wasn't actually planning on killing anyone, but she didn't fancy being killed.

Looking down at herself briefly, she realised she was only in an old t-shirt and ridiculous Christmas themed granny-pants, but she didn't really care. It didn't make her particularly intimidating if there was a murderer on the other side of the door - but whatever. She had a knife. Rudolph was with her. Everything was good.

There was another harsh, agitated thrum of knocking as Max reached door, and she rolled her puffy eyes. Imagined torturing this intruder in her head as she reached forward and grabbed the handle, the knife gripped tight in her right hand in front of her.

"WHAT!" She screeched as she swung the door open. "WHAT DO YOU-"

But then Max's words got lost.

Because then she saw Harry.

Standing in front of her. Looking at her. Smiling.

And oh God, Max loved him.

"Harry?" She breathed, startled. Suddenly the tiredness and the string of cusses she had been repeating to herself in her head- everything dissolved. It didn't exist. All she saw was green eyes glowing out from the dark hallway; all she heard in her head was her own heartbeat and I care about you, Max. I care about you I care about you I care about you.

"Maxie," Harry sighed, sounding relieved. And then he stepped forwards towards her, eyes flicking downwards momentarily before he stopped sharp. The kitchen knife was still pointed at him. "Maxie!" He gasped, a smile already spreading on his lips. "What the fuck?" He wheezed as he started laughing, howling almost. He bent over, hands on his knees and Max felt so stupid, felt ridiculous.

"Stop it," she grumbled, attempting to hide her smile by frowning. It was no use, though. She looked down at the silly knife and listened to Harry's laugh like it was a song, a prayer, some sort of magic that infected her and suddenly made her laugh too. She couldn't help it.

"Oh, Max," Harry managed through his laughter. "That's fucking hilarious."

"Hey," she whined, but she was still smiling. "Don't laugh at me."