A Criminal Kiss [Max Verstappen]

chapter two

Max P.O.V

I have never hit a kid before; but I am starting to think I am about to.

You see, I'm a schoolteacher—well, the schoolteacher—in this very small town. It's not exactly the most glamorous job, but it's honest work; unlike other things I do to scrape by. Most days, I can handle the chaos, the noise, and the sticky fingers smudging my desk, but today? Today, these kids are driving me straight to madness.

Take Jonathan, for instance. For the past five minutes, he's been trying—and failing miserably—to get Jessica to acknowledge his existence. It's painfully obvious that he's harboring a rather dramatic little crush on her, but his strategy of persistent whispering and chalk taps isn't exactly winning her over.

Jessica, on the other hand, hasn't even looked up from her test. Her brow is furrowed in concentration as she bites her nails. Jonathan might as well be a fly buzzing around her ear for all the notice she's taking.

Now, normally, I wouldn't mind a little harmless chatter between students, but we're in the middle of an exam. An exam. And Jonathan, bless his lovesick heart, just can't seem to take a hint.

I glance up from my own desk, pinching the bridge of my nose as I take a deep breath. "Jonathan," I finally say, my voice laced with that thin veneer of calm teachers adopt when they're seconds away from snapping, "can I see you up here, please?"

The entire class erupts into a chorus of "Oooooh," their heads whipping toward him like he's just been sentenced to the gallows. Jonathan, cheeks flushing a deep crimson, drags himself to the front of the room with all the enthusiasm of someone walking to their doom. A fine dusting of chalk clings to his small hands, which he nervously wipes on his trousers.

"Jonathan," I whisper, crouching slightly so we're eye level. "We are in the middle of a test. You cannot be talking." I pause, glancing over his shoulder at Jessica, who is still blissfully unaware of his existence. "And for your sake—and mine—Jessica doesn't like you. Please stop. Talk to Michael, or—actually, no, don't talk to anyone. Just... take your test in silence like everyone else. Please."

His face crumples in slow motion, like a little boy watching his sandcastle get washed away by the tide. My heart sinks immediately. Oh, shit. That was too much.

Before I can even attempt to backtrack, apologise, anything, his lower lip starts to quiver. And then it happens.

A wail—high-pitched and ear-splitting—rips through the classroom, cutting through the stillness like a knife. Every single head snaps toward the front of the room.

My stomach drops. The silence that follows is somehow worse than the scream.

"Miss Jessica doesn't like me!" Jonathan sobs, his voice cracking as tears spill down his cheeks.

Fuck this.

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My brother, Thomas—he's only eleven—and already, he's coming to me with tears streaming down his face, asking why we don't have food on the table or new clothes to wear. I've lost count of how many times I've seen him like this, and every time, it feels like a knife twisting deeper in my chest.

As the only schoolteacher in Canterbury, you'd think I'd earn enough to care for myself and my family. But no. I barely scrape by. Teaching isn't exactly a profession brimming with riches, and the little I earn doesn't stretch far enough to feed two mouths, let alone clothe or shelter us properly.

We live in probably the smallest little room that is on top of the school — probably the only upside to working there, they give me a place to sleep.

And Thomas—well, he isn't really my brother. Not by blood, at least.

I found him six years ago, he was no older than five, huddled in a thin blanket on the cold, unforgiving streets of Canterbury. His little body was trembling, and his cries were hoarse from begging. Passersby ignored him like he was invisible, a shadow on the cobblestones. But I couldn't walk past.

He looked up at me with hollow, desperate eyes, and that was it. I couldn't leave him there. I scooped him up, took him home, and promised I'd take care of him.

And I do love him. Truly, I do.

Neither of us has any parents, any family to turn to. We're all we've got, and we do our best to make it work. But sometimes, my best isn't enough. And when teaching doesn't pay the bills—and it never does—I find myself turning to less savory means to provide for us.

Thievery.

Stealing what I can—bread, clothes, anything that will keep us afloat. It's not something I'm proud of, but when the alternative is watching Thomas starve, pride becomes a luxury I can't afford.

After calming Thomas down, feeding him a piece of bread I'd managed to snag earlier, and tucking him into bed, I decide I need a reprieve. Something to take the edge off.

The bar.

I shrug on my worn coat, push open the door, and let the warm, familiar din of laughter and clinking glasses wrap around me like an old friend.

"Max! Hey, man!"

Daniel's booming voice cuts through the noise, drawing a few heads as he waves me over. He's always like this—loud, cheerful, and impossible to ignore.

"Hey, Daniel," I reply, far more subdued and every bit as exhausted as I feel. I slide onto a stool at the bar. "You wouldn't happen to have any leftovers lying around, would you? And maybe a beer to go with it?" I muster a small smile.

Daniel laughs, the kind of laugh that makes you feel like the world isn't all bad, and disappears into the back. A moment later, he reemerges with a plate of food and sets it in front of me with a flourish.

"Always taking care of you, aren't I?" he teases, grabbing his own drink before nodding toward a nearby table.

I glance over and spot three familiar faces already seated: Carlos, Charles, and Pierre. Without hesitation, I grab my plate and join them.

"Carlos, Charles, Pierre," I greet as I slide into an empty chair, a little of the day's weight easing off my shoulders.

They return my greeting with smiles and nods, each raising their glasses in a lazy salute.

Carlos, still wearing his work apron, clearly just clocked out. He helps Daniel run the bar, and though he's always grumbling about something, his heart's in the right place.

Charles, my colleague at the school, works as the nurse. Most days, he doesn't have much to do—it's a small town, after all—but he's a steady presence, someone you can count on.

And then there's Pierre. He's the odd one out in our little group, working as a chauffeur for the Cook family—the wealthiest, most insufferable people in town. He's paid well enough but never stops complaining about their haughty airs and endless demands.

As Daniel joins us with his own drink, the conversation flows easily. We talk about nothing in particular—work, the townsfolk, the absurdities of life. For a little while, I let myself forget about the weight of my responsibilities, about the constant gnawing worry of how I'll get through tomorrow.

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