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“I am absolutely not high.”

“You've spent the last thirty seconds giggling because I asked whether you were nauseous.”

“I don't giggle.”

“You do now.”

That started me laughing again, although this time Max joined in, and something about sitting in my terrible apartment with Italian food spread across the scratched coffee table while Max Renaud accused me of giggling struck me as the funniest thing that had happened in years.

I looked at him properly and discovered another problem.

“You're really big in here.”

His laughter stopped abruptly. “I'm sorry?”

“You are.” I waved vaguely in his direction, trying to explain something that made perfect sense in my head. “You're much bigger here than you are at your apartment because your apartment has enough room for you. Mine doesn't, so you're taking up a ridiculous amount of it.”

Max's mouth twitched. “I think perhaps we should stop discussing my dimensions.”

It took my brain a few seconds to catch up with the implication, and when it did, another helpless laugh escaped. I pressed a hand to my ribs and glared at him through it.

“You said dimensions. That's your fault.”

“I deeply regret my choice of vocabulary, especially since you're apparently determined to reinjure yourself every time I say something remotely amusing.” The smile he gave me was different from the one he used with reporters or fans, and even through the strange fuzziness in my head I recognized it. This one was softer and completely unguarded, and for some reason, looking at it made warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with the painkillers.

I narrowed my eyes at him as realization struck. “You think I'm cute.”

Max's eyebrows climbed, but he didn't answer quickly enough.

“You do. You're sitting there looking at me like I'm adorable.”

“I think you're heavily medicated and considerably more entertained by me than you've ever been while sober.”

“That isn't a no.”

His expression softened even further. “No, it isn't.”

The answer pleased me far more than it should have, and apparently the medication had removed whatever mechanism normally stopped me from saying things simply because they occurred to me.

“You're cute too, except not really cute because that's the wrong word. You're too...” I frowned, searching for something that adequately described him before giving up. “You're too Max.”

“Thank you. I'm delighted we've cleared that up.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I genuinely don't, but I'm beginning to enjoy finding out.”

I tried to explain, but somewhere between annoying, bossy, and French-Canadian, I lost track of what I'd been saying. Max was still smiling when I finally gave up, and I found myself staring at his mouth instead.

“You don't smile enough.”

Something changed in his expression, the teasing fading into a warmth that made my chest feel unexpectedly tight.

“You make me smile.”

I looked away because that answer was harder to laugh at.

At some point our hands had ended up close together on the couch, and I couldn't remember whether Max had moved his or I had moved mine. His fingers were only a few inches away, and instead of touching them, I stared at the gap between us.