Max turned his head, thinking surely the voice he heard was not only in his head. He had been working on a particularly difficult math problem and it must be making him loopy. "Max Evans, you are crazy. You're so crazy in love with Liz, you're making things up and thinking somebody else said them-" he paused. He didn't feel someone else had said those words. He felt almost like he remembered them. It was a weird sensation, but no weirder than waking up after dreaming about Liz. He wished he could have spoken to Liz earlier in the day. She'd clearly been ill in biology, and it was all he could do to not pick up the phone and call her. Liz hardly answered anymore, and when she did, she always made up some lame excuse about having homework or chores or work. Her mom must have orders not to let him talk to Liz, because he got the brush-off there too.

Frustrated, he turned back to his math. He attacked the paper with a vengeance, solving that problem, at least, unlike the one he couldn't with Liz. And it was a problem. He could still feel her kiss from the dream, so heated he felt a blush creep up his neck. He couldn't think straight without her. Could it ever happen? Could Liz ever be like him? Or could he ever be like her. . .

Angrily he hit his desk with the palm of his hand. He just wanted to be with her! He saved her life, dammit! They deserved to be together, to be bonded like he and Tess apparently were. He shuddered as the memory of their first, forced kiss washed over him. At the time, he believed it was pleasurable, but when he found out she had tricked him, he did not trust her. And he was supposed to be with her? She probably had duped him in his other life too. An eerie feeling of déjà vu left him shivering, and he decided he should leave off the math. It was late, after all, and it was the weekend. He could get all the sleep he wanted, and dream about Liz.

While he was undressing, he thought hard. How could he get her back? There was this empty place inside him that only she could fill, and she's out there, believing she has to leave him to his destiny. He didn't want it! He wanted her. She was his. . . life. There must be some reason why he connected with her, and if he dared hope, it had to be something like in the dream. Why else would it be so vivid, so lifelike, like it actually happened?

He pulled on boxers and a t-shirt, and threw himself into bed. He tried to think of things that had made Liz happy, to see if there was anything he could do, anything that he could give her, to make her let herself love him again. Soulmates weren't meant to be apart.

He put his hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. M'allia. He decided it meant dear one, or in quiet whispers, lover. At least, that's what it seemed like from the context. It almost sounded spanish. And that reminded him of the Mexican festival he and Liz had gone to last year. They'd had a wonderful time, sampling the spicy foods and dancing to the mariachi band. . . in fact, he had bought the cd, almost on impulse, because she liked dancing to the music so much. He got out of bed and went to his cd rack. Maybe he'd make her a copy of the cd, and they could dance to it together, he thought as he pulled the cd from the rack. He flipped it over, perusing the track list. That one, he noted mentally, and that one. . . those were the ones they'd liked the most. His eyes lingered on the contact information. "We'd like to spice up your life even more. Candlelit dinner or office party, call us for all your music needs." The number was in town. He had a great idea. . .

He put the cd on his desk. He would call in the morning. The florist, too. Liz liked roses. Satisfied with his plan, he walked back to his bed. He got in, pulled up the covers, and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.