A/N: Wow, it's been a really long time. I'm not really that into the fandom anymore, but this chapter was sitting in my laptop and I thought it'd be a shame to just leave it there. But anyway, this is [probably] the last chap (or not, irdk). Since we're getting more Selection books (I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE MAXERICA AS PARENTS), who knows? My Maxerica feels might go through the roof and I'll write another chap.

Oh, and this chapter actually fits really well with the song "Possibilities" by Freddie Stroma, who'd make a PERFECT Maxon, btw. (Come on, someone agree with me haha) I encourage you guys to listen to the song, or even just check out the lyrics. I'm telling you, it just screams Maxerica xD

And guys. Those sweet reviews! Thank you SO MUCH! Seriously, they made me really really happy. I'm also freaking out that you guys actually like my writing, so I hope you'll like this chap as well! This one's all Maxerica :)

I do not own the Selection series.

There was no other way to find out her intentions during the interview than to ask her. I chewed nervously on the inside of my cheek (something that drove Silvia crazy when she was trying to teach me proper etiquette) for a few seconds, trying to pull myself together. Then delicately, I let the question slip out.

"So . . ." Pull yourself together, Maxon. ". . . about what you said . . ."

"Which part? The part about me calling you names or fighting with my mom or saying food was my motivation?" she said, rolling her eyes.

I let out a short, breathy laugh. For someone who'd had a boyfriend before, she was pretty dense. Her tone only reinforced my theory that I was the only one unstable whenever we talked. "The part about me being good . . ." I trailed off awkwardly.

"Oh." She sounded surprised. "What about it?" She ducked her head and started tugging on her dress. Once again, she was frustratingly unreadable.

Or maybe it was just me and my lack of experience at understanding women. I wondered if her ex-boyfriend was able to read her like an open book.

A flare of anger rushed within me as I remembered that dog, but I reminded myself of the current issue at hand.

"I appreciate you making it look authentic, but you didn't need to go that far," I told her as nonchalantly as possible. She needn't know how desperately I wanted her to have meant what she said.

Her head snapped up and she gave me a slightly disbelieving expression. Now what was that supposed to mean?

"Maxon, that wasn't for the sake of the show." My heart skipped a beat and I could feel myself hoping. "If you had asked me a month ago what my honest opinion of you was, it would have been very different. But now I know you, and I know the truth, and you were everything I said you were. And more," she added.

America had this habit of striking me speechless. And she was doing it again.

And more. Those two words echoed over and over in my mind. Was that . . . did that mean . . . she liked me? I knew I had risen up to a respectable position in her eyes (and from what lowly bottom, I didn't even want to know) but was it possible that she thought highly enough of me to actually have feelings for me?

I considered asking her exactly what she meant, but like the coward I was, I backed out. Instead, I gave her a small smile. "Thank you." I tried to put all my emotion into that one sentence so she would know how much her words meant to me.

"Anytime."

Her tone sounded so friendly, so casual, and with that, my hopes crashed down once again. I held back a sigh—this girl was driving me out of my mind. Yet I was still drawn to her—a mystery I couldn't solve. I wondered if she knew the feeling.

In the quiet that followed, I realized that she probably did. I remembered the dog, and how, even with his crimes, I envied him. She had loved him, and probably still did. Against all logic, he still owned her heart even if he had let her go—something I couldn't fathom the reason for.

I jumped off the rail and walked over to her. "He'll be lucky, too," I remarked offhandedly. Or at least I hoped it sounded that way.

She looked at me in confusion.

"Your boyfriend. When he comes to his senses and begs you to take him back." Keep it casual, Maxon.

She laughed, reminding me that they weren't together anymore. But I could hear the longing in her voice, how much she wished my words were true.

I deflated, but tried to keep up my cool demeanor. I told her what she wanted to hear, and it was almost worth it to see her eyes light up with hope even for a short while. "Though, in my opinion, you're still too much good for that dog." I could only help myself so much.

She gave me an amused, grateful smile. God, she was beautiful.

I caught myself staring, and quickly looked away. Forget a bundle of nerves—I was a complete wreck.

"Speaking of which," I said, before she could notice my weird behavior. I mentally cursed myself—apparently, I didn't squeak when I was nervous; I yelled. "If you don't want me to be in love with you, you're going to have to stop looking so lovely. First thing tomorrow I'm having your maids sew some potato sacks for you." As if that would help. I was willing to bet her a lifetime supply of pants that she would look stunning even in that.

She hit my arm lightly. "Shut up, Maxon." I could hear the smile in her voice.

I continued teasing her, telling her she was too beautiful for her own good with mock pity. Still, I didn't know if she could see through it, that my joking tone was but a mask to hide exactly how much I meant and wanted to say those words.

"I can't help it." She sighed. "One can never help being born into perfection." She fanned her face playfully.

I felt my heart skip a beat. That smile of mock arrogance, the glint in her eyes—she really was just so damn perfect. "No, I don't suppose you can." My voice had lost all its teasing. But she giggled, obviously not noticing it.

Joking or not, she was right. She couldn't help it if the moonlight made her face glow or if her hair looked like fire. She didn't ask for icy blue eyes that made my heart pound, or beauty that no amount of make-up or jewelry could equal. She didn't even want to be here; it wasn't her decision that led her to where she was: standing right in front of me.

But most of all, it wasn't her fault that she captivated me, that her feistiness and bluntness drew me in. I couldn't blame her for the fact that all I wanted to do was kiss her right there and then.

I leaned in close, her face inches from mine. She turned, a smile still on her face.

She stopped when she realized how close we were. Her eyes widened, and I decided to take a chance, take the risk. There was no turning back now.

I closed the distance between us and kissed her.

Or at least I think I did. I pressed my mouth to hers for a few seconds, and then she pulled away, taking a step back.

I did the same, heat rushing into my cheeks. "Sorry," I mumbled, averting my eyes.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, obviously shocked.

"Sorry," I repeated, feeling stupid. What had I done? Being friends with her was better than any awkwardness I had just created.

Maxon Schreave, you're an idiot. Daphne's voice rang loud and clear in my mind, but she was right.

"Why did you do that?" She didn't sound mad. I stole a quick glance at her. She was holding a hand to her mouth.

I returned to staring at the view on her balcony. It was easier to talk that way, without her eyes searching me for answers.

Looking at the Angeles lights, I stammered out some hardly intelligible explanation about thinking her feelings had changed after everything that had happened. "And I like you, I thought you could tell," I admitted.

At that moment, I realized exactly how it was to gamble, to put your heart out on the line. It made you feel extremely vulnerable—I had put myself completely at her mercy. I had taken the risk, and I had to face the consequences of my decision.

I turned. "And . . ." One look at her face cut me off.

I didn't know what I was expecting. Maybe a shocked face to match her voice, or if I was pushing my luck, maybe even a look of wonder. But definitely not something like what was in front of me—an expression that seemed like appalled confusion.

So many emotions ran through me at once, but the strongest was mortification. She didn't like the kiss one bit, and it seemed that it wasn't from the mere fact that it was from me.

"Oh, was it terrible?" I spoke the next sentence quickly, not wanting to hear her answer. "You don't seem happy at all."

Surely, she had kissed her ex-boyfriend. She had experience; she knew how a real kiss felt like. I was clueless, stumbling through the dark, winging everything, and she obviously knew that.

I watched as she tried to rearrange her features into something else, which only embarrassed me further.

I apologized, feeling like I had only succeeded in pulling down whatever respect she still had for me. There was no more point in trying to redeem myself, so I came clean and admitted that I had no idea what I was doing and that at age nineteen, she had been my very first kiss.

"I'm just . . . I'm sorry, America." I sighed, running a hand through my hair a couple of times and leaning against the railing for support. I was pretty sure I was redefining pathetic at that very moment.

My first kiss. A complete disaster.

Crushing disappointment washed over me. I had raised my hopes too high; I had bet all I had and lost everything.

But somehow I knew it was more than that. This feeling didn't sink in and frustrate me. It throbbed; it made my chest feel hollow. It was numbing, but for some reason that only made it worse.

Then I realized exactly what it was. This was what heartbreak felt like.

It was stronger than I expected. I had read about it in countless novels, but no author ever quite captured the feeling. And now I finally knew why—such a thing was impossible. There was no word for the emptiness that made you feel like you had just lost a part of yourself.

So this was how it would all end. Looking back, though, I was doomed from the start. She had warned me, and I didn't listen. I had clung on to that silly conception of her ever liking me, of me ever having a chance with her, and I got what I deserved.

I was trying to figure out an excuse to leave without risking further humiliation when I felt something rubbing my forehead.

"What are you doing?" I looked up.

She didn't seem confused anymore. On the contrary, she smiled, saying that she was erasing a memory. "I think we can do better."

A newfound warmth quickly spread throughout me, replacing everything else. How gullible I was, how foolish of me to get my hopes up once again. But I didn't care.

I tried to tell her that changing history was impossible, but she didn't want to hear it. "Besides, who'd ever know about it but you and me?"

There she was again, with that beaming face I could never let down. She was willing to try again, to give to give me a second chance—to give us a second chance.

A second chance at a first kiss. It was more than I could ever hope for.

And this time, she wanted me to kiss her.

With that knowledge, confidence crept into me, and I didn't worry if I was going to mess up, because I was pretty sure I couldn't.

"One can never help being born into perfection," she whispered, her sweet breath blowing into my face.

Instinctively, I wrapped an arm around her waist and brought her close. I touched my fingers gently to her smooth cheek, tracing down the bridge of her nose.

"No, I don't suppose you can," I murmured. My heart was pounding, and with our proximity, I could hear that hers was, too.

I became nervous again, and I was hesitant, but I wasn't clueless like last time. I leaned in and gave her the faintest whisper of a kiss.

And in that moment, everything was perfect.

I pulled away a few seconds later. "Was that any better?"

She seemed stunned, but managed a small nod. I was grinning from ear to ear, and if I hadn't been in front of America, I would possibly have whooped in excitement—it was taking all my self-control not to let the adrenaline pumping through me take over.

Looking back at her, however, I noticed that she had remained quiet. I saw that she had some kind of panicked, torn expression on her face, as if she were unsure of something. This time, though, it didn't take me long to read her—and I felt a pang when I realized exactly what brought about that look on her face.

I won't lie—it pained me to know that even now, she still wanted him. But I had to be considerate—she'd had her heart broken by someone she truly loved, and she initially didn't think about even considering having feelings me. She was going to need time, and she was probably going to be harder to win over than the other candidates. But simply being around her made me happy, and to put it frankly, I was completely smitten by her. She was the only one who had this unexplainable effect on me, the only one I would consider falling in love with as of the moment. Maybe it was too early to tell, but I had willingly gambled my feelings for her—and according to Mom, that was the indication of truly loving someone.

However, none of this mattered if she didn't feel the same. But I wasn't going to rush her into jumping to a decision—I was willing to pursue her, to try and win her over completely, but I needed to know that I actually had a chance. I needed to know that she wasn't leading me on for nothing, and while I had a feeling that there was something between us (exactly what, I wasn't sure), I had to know that she was willing to consider the possibility of being with me, having a life with me as the princess of Illea, and one day even the queen. I had to be sure that she was willing to consider the possibility of us.

"May I say something?" I said, and she locked her blue eyes with mine, nodding.

I took a deep breath before speaking. "I'm not so stupid as to believe that you've completely forgotten about your former boyfriend. I know what you've gone through and that you're not exactly here under normal circumstances. I know you think there are others here more suited for me and this life, and I wouldn't want you to rush into trying to be happy with any of this. I just . . ." My voice started to shake, and I realized exactly how much I wanted her to say yes. I gulped and continued. "I just want to know if it's possible . . ."

She was quiet for what seemed like ages, thoroughly thinking my question through. I could see from the faraway look in her eyes that she was imagining all I had laid out for her to consider, and I held my breath, anxious for her answer.

Finally, she turned her striking blue gaze back to me, and I felt my heart stop. "Yes, Maxon," she whispered, and it was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. "It's possible."

And that was all I needed to hear.

As usual, I was up late that night, but it wasn't out of fear or dread this time. My mind was consumed with something very different.

Her intoxicating breath, the glow of her skin under the moonlight, the sharp contrast of her sapphire eyes and flame-like hair against the dark of the night—they were all spinning in my head. And that second time our lips touched—it was just so painfully beautiful. Maybe it was the so-called magic of a "first kiss" that made it seem like that, but I was sure that it was more than that. What made it so special was that I got to have it with her, same as my first date. I wasn't quite sure how to describe it—it felt like everything had become right in the world, like everything had fallen into place. And yet at the same time, it was like there was no world—just America and I.

So this is what it was like when you fell.

I sighed in frustration, looking over at my camera, which was sitting on top of my table. When words failed, I could always count on pictures to capture what I felt, and yet I couldn't imagine any photograph that could compare to those few seconds of my lips brushing against hers.

Yes, Maxon. It's possible.

I held on to those words like a lifeline, and in a way, that was actually the case. I was willing to hedge all my bets on America, on only the mere possibility of winning her over. It was rash, it was irrational, and it was probably stupid, but she really was the only girl out of all the candidates that I could even think about spending the rest of my life with. If only she were surer of her feelings, it was actually quite possible for the Selection to be over much earlier than normal.

I smiled to myself. It was my Selection, and yet I was the one hoping she would pick me. But well, nothing was ever conventional with America. Like she said, true love was often the most inconvenient kind, and if I really was falling in love with her, then any inconvenience would be worth it if I had her at the end of it.

I leaned back into my pillow, feeling relaxed and actually happy for the first time in quite a while. And for once, I was able to sleep soundly, my dreams filled with all the possibilities of a life with America.

Soo what did you guys think? I hope I wrote this okay. I referred to Maxon's letters in The One to describe how he felt about the kiss :)

And I don't want to get your hopes up, but I actually have [very] rough drafts for maybe one or two more chapters. So I might post them sometime (can't say when).

Also, just so I know, would any of you guys want me to keep posting chapters of this? Like would anyone still be interested?

But anyway, thanks for all the support, and thank you so much for reading my little fanfic! :D