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The dust had settled in Hawkins, or at least that’s what everyone kept saying. Two months after the final battle—the one where Eleven had vanished into the collapsing Upside Down, sacrificing everything to seal the rift for good—life was supposed to be normal again.
Vecna was gone, his twisted form hacked apart by Joyce in a frenzy that still haunted the dreams of anyone who’d been there. The Mind Flayer, that colossal shadow of nightmares, had crumbled into ash.
The party had won.
Hawkins was rebuilding: the cracked earth filled in, the military presence faded to rumors, and just like Hawkins in the pre-military days.
But normal? That was a joke.
For Max normal was a distant memory, like the California sun or the sound of her skateboard wheels on pavement. She had woken up during the chaos, her body broken but her mind sharp enough to join Eleven and Kali in Vecna’s twisted psyche. She’d fought, helped turn the tide. But the victory came at a cost.
Her legs were like lead, her arms weak from atrophy, and her eyes still rebelled against the light, turning the world into a blurry haze if she stared too long. The doctors called it a miracle she was alive at all, but miracles didn’t erase the months in coma, the bones that had mended wrong, the muscles that screamed in protest with every movement.
Therapy was her new battlefield. Three times a week at the Hawkins Hospital’s rehab center, a sterile room with rubber mats and parallel bars that mocked her every step. She gripped the bars, sweat beading on her forehead, willing her legs to remember how to walk.
“One more rep, Max,” the therapist, a kind-faced woman named Dr. Ellis, would say. “You’re stronger than you think.”
And Lucas Sinclair was always there. Every session, without fail. He’d sit on the bench by the wall, his long legs folded awkwardly, and his eyes on her. He’d cheer her on quietly, help her into her wheelchair when her body gave out, drive her back to her mom’s trailer with that same steady presence he’d had since they were kids.
Lucas, her stalker turned boyfriend turned... ex? Or whatever they were now. He was the constant in her fractured world.
But lately, something felt off. It started small: the way his smiles didn’t reach his eyes, the pauses in conversation that stretched too long, the distant look when he thought she wasn’t watching. Physically, he was there—holding her hand, adjusting her pillows, cracking weak jokes about how she’d be back to zooming on her skateboard in no time. But mentally? It was like he was a ghost, haunting the space beside her instead of filling it.
Today was no different. The therapy room smelled of sweat and antiseptic as Max hauled herself along the bars, her arms trembling. “Come on, Max,” she muttered to herself, gritting her teeth.
Lucas watched from the side, his expression neutral, almost blank. When she finally collapsed into the chair, panting, he was there in an instant, handing her a water bottle.
“Good job today,” he said, his voice even. “You’re killing it.”
Max forced a smile, squinting against the fluorescent lights that still made her vision swim.
“Yeah, well, if killing it means not face-planting, then sure.”
She waited for the banter, the teasing retort about how she’d always been a klutz. But it never came. He just nodded, his gaze drifting to the window.
The ride home was quiet. Too quiet. Max stared at the passing trees, their leaves a green blur.
“Lucas,” she started, her voice tentative. “You okay?”
He glanced at her, startled. “Me? Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
She shrugged, not wanting to push. “You seemed like you were a million miles away back there.”
A flicker crossed his face—guilt? Regret? But it was gone before she could pin it down. “Nah, just thinking about the upcoming match.”
She nodded, but the knot in her stomach tightened.
That night, as her mom helped her into bed, Max lay awake, staring at the ceiling. What had changed? Was it her? The broken girl who couldn’t even walk without help? Did Lucas finally see her as a burden, someone to pity instead of love? The thought clawed at her, sharp and unrelenting.
He’d stuck by her through the coma, through the fight. But maybe that was it. Maybe he’d moved on, found someone whole while she slept.
The next day, the party gathered at WSQK for one of their hangouts. Hawkins was safe, but old habits died hard. Dustin was animated as ever, waving his arms as he described some wild theory about lingering Upside Down particles. Will sketched quietly in the corner, Mike argued with him over plot holes in their latest comic obsession. And Lucas? He was right in the mix, laughing at Dustin’s impressions, tossing sarcastic barbs at Mike like old times.
“Dude, if you think that’s a plot hole, wait till you hear about your face,” he quipped, earning groans and chuckles.
Max watched from the couch, her wheelchair tucked beside her. He was the old Lucas with them—nerdy, goofy, alive. But when his eyes met hers, the light dimmed. He smiled, sure, but it was forced, like he was performing. By the time everyone left, the doubt had festered into fear. Did he get tired of her? Had he moved on?
El was gone. Missing. Presumed lost in the void. Max couldn’t talk to her best friend about this. Her mom was buried in work and worry.
So, two days later, during a quiet afternoon when Lucas was at basketball practice (he’d rejoined the team, another slice of normal), Max picked up the phone. Her fingers trembled as she dialed Dustin’s number.
“Hey, Max,” Dustin answered, his voice bright. “What’s up? Need me to smuggle you some contraband comics?”
Max swallowed. “Can you come over? Like, now? And bring Steve and Robin if they’re free. I need to talk.”
There was a pause, then concern laced his tone. “Everything okay?”
“Just get here, please.”
An hour later, they piled into her trailer: Dustin with his curly mop and eternal optimism, Robin with her signature ramble-ready energy, and Steve Harrington, king of bad hair and surprisingly good advice. Max’s mom let them in with a tired smile, retreating to give them space.
They settled in the living room. Dustin on the floor, Robin cross-legged on the couch, Steve leaning against the wall like he was guarding the place. Max wheeled closer, her heart pounding. The light from the window was soft, but she still wore her sunglasses, the world a shaded haze.
“Okay, spill,” Robin said, popping a piece of gum. “You look like you just fought a Demogorgon solo.”
Max took a deep breath, her voice shaky at first. “It’s Lucas. Something’s wrong. He’s different. With me, I mean. He’s there for every therapy session, every doctor’s appointment. He holds my hand, helps me around. But it’s like he’s not really there. His mind’s somewhere else. Distant. Like he’s going through the motions.”
Dustin frowned, exchanging glances with the others. “What do you mean, distant? Lucas? The guy’s been glued to your side since you woke up.”
“That’s just it,” Max pressed, her frustration bubbling over. “Physically, yeah. But mentally? It’s like talking to a wall. He zones out, stares off into space. And when we’re with you guys—the party—he’s fine. Laughing, joking, being his sarcastic self. But alone with me? It’s like he can’t wait to leave. I keep wondering, what changed? Does he.. does he regret sticking around? Am I too much now? Broken? Has he moved on?”
The words hung heavy, tears pricking at her eyes. She blinked them back, hating how vulnerable she felt.
Dustin shook his head vehemently, his curls bouncing. “Whoa, whoa, hold up. No! No, Max, No! Absolutely not. Lucas moving on? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard Mike try to explain quantum physics. That guy’s obsessed with you. Always has been.”
Max crossed her arms, skeptical. “Then why does it feel like he’s pulling away? Like he’s only here out of obligation?”
Robin leaned forward, her expression softening. “Okay, listen. You were out for a long time—eighteen months, give or take, right? While you were in that coma—Lucas, he didn’t just sit around. He was a mess at first, yeah. Blaming himself, replaying every moment from that night at the Creel house. But he turned it into action. Visited you every day. Read to you; comics, books, even those dumb basketball stats he knows you hate. He fought with the doctors when they wanted to pull the plug early on.”
Max’s breath caught. She’d heard bits and pieces, but not like this. “Are you sure?”
“Yep. A hundred. He visited you every day. Every. Damn. Day,” Robin emphasized, her voice firm but kind. “Rain, snow, Upside Down bullshit escalating, he was there. And I still remember before you woke up—when the Demogorgons chased us and we almost became their lunch—Lucas risked his life carrying you to the basement, and he even refused my idea to turn off Kate Bush when the Demogorgons found us down there. He kept insisting that you were coming back, that Max was coming back. He risked everything for you.”
Steve nodded, pushing off the wall. He ran a hand through his hair, that signature move. “Look, from a guy’s perspective—hell, from a man’s perspective, Lucas is all in. I’ve seen dudes chase girls, but what he’s got for you? That’s not chase; that’s commitment. Eyes only on you, Max. During those months I saw girls tried flirting at him after all his matches, new transfers, cheerleaders, whatever. He shut it down cold. And now? He’s probably just processing. We all are. But tired of you? Moved on? Nah. That’s fear talking, not facts.”
Max bit her lip, denial warring with hope. “But why the distance now? If he’s so in love, why does it feel like he’s slipping away?”
Dustin sighed, his face serious. “Because trauma’s a bitch, Max. We won, but we lost El. We lost pieces of ourselves. Lucas, he blames himself for what happened to you. That night Vecna got you? He thinks it was his fault. Failed to protect you, put you in danger, all that knight-in-shining-armor crap he pulls.”
Robin’s eyes widened. “Dustin’s right. He told me once, after a bad night. ‘If I’d been faster, stronger, Max wouldn’t be like this.’ He thinks he’s the curse in your life, that getting close again will just hurt you more.”
Steve clapped Dustin on the shoulder. “Exactly. Boys—men, we bottle that shit up. Think we’re protecting you by pulling back. But it’s dumb. You gotta talk to him, Max. Straight up. No games.”
Max wiped at her eyes, the sunglasses fogging. “What if he confirms it? What if he leaves?”
Robin reached out, squeezing her hand. “He won’t. But you deserve the truth. And he deserves to hear how you feel. Talk to him.”
They stayed a while longer, shifting to lighter topics—Dustin’s latest invention, Robin’s disastrous date stories, Steve’s complaints about his failed dates. But Max’s mind raced. By the time they left, hugging her awkwardly around the wheelchair, she had a plan.
Tomorrow, when Lucas comes over.
The next afternoon, Lucas knocked on the trailer door, right on time. Max’s heart hammered as her mom let him in. He carried a bag of takeout from the diner; burgers and fries, her favorite. “Hey,” he said, smiling that half-smile. “Thought we could eat before your next session.”
She nodded, wheeling to the table. They ate in silence at first, the kind that pressed down like a weight. Lucas picked at his fries, his eyes distant again. Max set her burger down, resolve hardening.
“Lucas,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor inside. “We need to talk.”
He froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “About what?”
“About us. About you.” She took off her sunglasses, wincing at the light but needing to see him clearly. “You’ve been off. For weeks. You’re here, but you’re not. With the others, you’re fine—joking, being you. But with me? It’s like you’re a stranger. Distant. And I can’t take it anymore. What happened? Did I do something? Are you tired of this? Of me?”
His face paled, eyes widening. “Max, no—”
“Then what?” she interrupted, tears spilling now. “Because it feels like you’re about to leave. Like you’ve moved on while I was stuck in that coma. I’m broken, Lucas. I get it. Legs that barely work, eyes that hate the light. If that’s too much, just say it. Don’t drag it out. I can’t handle the pity.”
Lucas looked stricken, dropping his fork. He pushed back from the table, kneeling in front of her wheelchair so they were eye-level. “Max.. God, no. I’m not tired of you. I could never be tired of you. And moved on? Are you kidding? You’re everything to me.”
“Then why?” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “Why do you zone out? Why does it feel like you’re not here?”
He bowed his head, hands trembling as he took hers. “Because.. because it’s my fault. All of this. What happened to you, that night at the Creel house, I should’ve protected you. I was right there, and I failed. You almost died because of me. Went into that coma, suffered all this pain. And now? Every time I look at you, I see what I did. What if I’m the curse? What if getting close again just brings more hurt? I love you so much it scares me, Max. I can’t lose you again. So I pull back. To keep you safe. From me.”
The confession hung between them, raw and aching. Max’s tears flowed freely, but relief mixed with the pain. She cupped his face, her hands trembling.
“You idiot,” she whispered. “It wasn’t your fault. Vecna did this. Not you. You saved me that night. Your voice, your words, your touch — they pulled me back. And during the coma? I heard you. Bits and pieces. You reading to me, holding me. That’s what kept me fighting.”
He looked up, eyes glistening. “I blamed myself every day. Still do. Seeing you in therapy, struggling, it kills me. I think, ‘If I’d been better....’”
“Stop,” she said firmly, thumbing away his tears. “You’re not a curse. You’re my anchor. The one who stayed. But pulling away? That hurts more than any broken bone. I need you. All of you. Not just the physical presence. The real Lucas. The old Lucas. The one who makes stupid jokes and argues about stupid things and holds me like I’m not fragile.”
Lucas let out a shaky laugh, leaning his forehead against hers. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I thought I was protecting you. But I was just being a coward.”
“You’re not a coward,” she murmured. “You’re human. We all are. After everything—Vecna, the Upside Down, losing El—it’s okay to be scared. But we face it together. Like always.”
He nodded, pulling her into a gentle hug, careful of her frailty but holding tight. “Together. I promise. No more distance. I love you, Max. More than anything.”
“I love you too,” she whispered, the words a balm.
They stayed like that, talking late into the evening. Heart to heart, unpacking the guilt, the fears, the what-ifs. Lucas shared nightmares of that night, the helplessness. Max confessed her insecurities, the fear of being left behind. They cried, laughed, healed.
By nightfall, as stars dotted the Hawkins sky, the distance was gone. Lucas wheeled her outside, and they sat under the porch light, his arm around her. “One day,” he said softly, “you’ll be walking again. Skating. And I’ll be right there, cheering like an idiot.”
She smiled, leaning into him. “You better be, stalker.”
He chuckled, kissing her temple. Hawkins wasn’t normal. Not yet. But for them, it was a start.