Chapter Text
June 12th, 1985
The afternoon sun beat down on Hawkins, turning the new asphalt into something shiny and sticky and that pulled on Max's wheels as she skated off toward Starcourt. Behind her, she could hear the familiar sound of bike chains and Lucas's voice calling out something she pretended not to hear—something dorky about beating Mike to the bike racks. She pushed harder on her skateboard, hair whipping behind her, and let the wind drown out whatever stupid competition the boys had going.
Wednesday afternoon. Middle of the week.
Dustin was still at camp nerd-alert, and El was stuck at the cabin because Hopper was paranoid about her being seen in public. Which left the rest of them—Max, Lucas, Mike, and Will—free to hit up the mall and take advantage of the one good thing about Steve Harrington working a minimum wage job:
Free movie tickets.
Well… not exactly free. More like… not even purchased rather just completely ignored as they smuggled themselves back through the maintenance corridors behind the shops but… whatever.
The mall rose up ahead of them, huge glass windows and a flickering neon sign, and Max knew it still had that weird new-building smell that hadn't quite worn off even though it had been open for weeks now.
Max ollied over a crack in the sidewalk and landed smoothly, grinning to herself. The boys were still pedaling up behind her, Lucas in the lead because of course he was—he got weirdly competitive about keeping up with her skateboard.
She had to admit, she loved it.
"Show off," he said when he pulled up beside her, slightly out of breath, but he was smiling that smile that made her stomach do weird things.
"Jealous," she shot back, and bumped her shoulder against his arm before pushing ahead toward the bike racks.
"I'm not jealous," Lucas protested, dismounting and jogging to catch up. "I'm just saying, some of us can't afford to break our necks doing tricks!"
"That's because you're boring," Max said, popping her board up into her hand. “And unskilled.”
"I'm not boring, I'm careful. There's a difference."
"Sounds boring to me," Mike chimed in, pulling up on his other side, his bike making a concerning squeaking noise as he braked. "Also, I totally beat you here, Sinclair."
"You did not—"
"I was here first. Max saw. Right, Max?"
Max pushed her sunglasses up into her hair and raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't paying attention to either of you losers."
Will coasted up last, quieter than the others, and gave her a small smile as he locked his bike to the rack. "Nice ollie back there."
"Thanks, Will," Max said pointedly, shooting a look at the other two as he spun on her heels and headed towards the front. "At least someone appreciates talent."
The blissfully frigid chill of air-conditioning hit Max's face the moment she pushed through the glass doors of the mall, a welcome rush of cold air replacing the sticky June humidity outside.
Inside, Starcourt was doing its usual thing: packed with people who apparently had nothing better to do on a summer afternoon than wander around an air-conditioned building and spend money they probably didn't have.
Max had to admit, though—the AC was pretty great. Outside it was pushing ninety degrees, which was pretty hot for Indiana. In here it was almost cold, raising goosebumps on her bare arms.
Behind her, she could hear the clatter of bike chains and the boys' muffled voices echoing off the concrete as they finished locking up at the racks just outside the door.
"Finally," Mike's voice carried through the entrance as he pushed through the doors. "I thought Lucas was going to pass out."
"Shut up, Mike. You were the one complaining the whole way."
Max rolled her eyes and didn't wait for them, weaving through the Wednesday afternoon crowd with her board tucked under her arm.
The mall was still new and everything gleamed—the white tile floors reflected the neon-lights overhead, the storefronts looked fresh and inviting, and everywhere she looked, people carried shopping bags with the Starcourt logo.
It was weird, having something this big and modern in Hawkins. It felt like a piece of California had been dropped into the middle of Indiana, all shiny floors and glass and glittering plastic.
She'd been skeptical when it opened in May. Malls weren't new to her—she'd spent plenty of time at Mission Valley back in California, usually trying to avoid going home.
But the people here treated Starcourt like it was Disneyland or something, like it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to this town.
Maybe it was.
Well, for them at least.
The boys caught up to her near the fountain in the center of the mall, their sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. Will was flushed from the bike ride, his god-awful bowl cut sticking to his forehead, and Lucas was already eyeing the Orange Julius stand with obvious longing. Mike looked annoyed—but then again, Mike always looked annoyed lately.
"Scoops first?" Lucas asked, though it wasn't really a question. They always went to Scoops first.
"Obviously," Max said, already heading toward the nautical-themed ice cream parlor on the lower level. She could see the blue and white striped awning from here, the ridiculous sailor theme that someone had thought was a good idea. It was tacky as hell, but the ice cream was decent.
And most importantly, Steve worked there.
They made their way through the crowd, weaving between moms with strollers and groups of girls from school who Max recognized but didn't really know.
"Oh man, he looks miserable," Mike said with way too much glee in his voice, practically bouncing on his toes.
He wasn't wrong. She could see Steve behind the counter now, in that ridiculous sailor uniform scooping ice cream for what looked like a family of five, and his expression was somewhere between customer-service smile and barely concealed irritation.
The girl working with him—Robin, Max had learned her name was—was at the register, and from the way she was smirking at Steve, Max got the impression she was enjoying his suffering too.
"Think he'll let us through?" Will asked quietly, hanging back slightly. He always asked quietly, like he was worried about being a bother. Max wanted to tell him to speak up more—but that felt a little hypocritical coming from her.
"He will if we annoy him enough," Lucas said confidently, already heading toward the counter.
"That's your strategy for everything," Max said.
"It works, doesn't it?"
They joined the line, and Max watched as Steve handed a cone to a mom with two small kids, his customer service smile firmly in place.
He looked tired—but then again, he always looked kind of tired now. She studied his face carefully, cataloging the details the way she'd gotten used to doing. He was squinting at the bright lights but there was no obvious tension in his jaw. His movements were mostly smooth and coordinated as he scooped ice cream, not much fumbling or hesitation.
Good day. Today was a good day.
And even though good days were more and more frequent, she still was thankful for every single one.
The knot in her chest loosened slightly, the one that had been there since last November, since that night at the Byers' house when everything had gone to hell. Since Billy had—
She cut off that thought before it could fully form; she was good at that now.
They approached the counter and waited while Steve finished up with the family, handing over cones to three kids who immediately started dripping vanilla all over the floor. Steve's smile cracked the second they turned away, and he looked over at the four of them with an expression that clearly said not you guys again.
"There he is!" Lucas said, grinning. "Our favorite babysitter."
"Not our babysitter," Mike said automatically under his breath as he looked over the flavors through the glass, but there was no heat in it. It was just a reflex at this point.
Steve's customer service smile shifted into something more genuine, though his eyes held a familiar wariness. "Let me guess," he said. "You're not here to actually buy anything."
"Steve!" Lucas put a hand over his heart in mock offense. "We're loyal customers."
"You're loyal pains in my ass," Steve corrected. "We're busy."
"You're always busy," Mike countered, leaning against the glass display case until Steve shot him a look that made him straighten up. "It's an ice cream shop. In summer. At a mall."
"Exactly. So maybe come back when—"
"When what? When you're less busy?" Lucas crossed his arms. "That's never gonna happen."
Steve pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, and Max caught the slight wince that accompanied the gesture. "What do you want?"
"The Goonies," Max interrupted, leaning against the counter in the spot Mike had just vacated. "Previews started like five minutes ago. You gonna make us miss it?"
Steve's jaw tightened, and for a second Max thought he might actually say no this time. His eyes flicked between the four of them, lingering on Will's hopeful expression, and she could practically see him calculating whether it was worth the argument.
"You know I can get fired for this, right?" he said finally.
"You're not gonna get fired," Mike said dismissively, flapping his hand. “We’ve done this a thousand times. I don't know why you always have to make such a big deal about it.”
Steve went to say something else but then Robin leaned over from the register, eyebrows raised, clearly having been listening to the entire conversation. "The Goonies? That's the pirate treasure one, right?"
"Yeah," Will said, perking up a little. "It's supposed to be really good."
"You should let them go," Robin said to Steve, and there was something in her tone that suggested she was thoroughly enjoying this. "They're kids. Kids should see movies about pirate treasure. It's like, educational."
"How is it educational?" Steve asked, turning to her with an expression of genuine confusion.
"Well it’s got history, geography, the importance of friendship, probably some other stuff." Robin ticked off on her fingers then shrugged, flashing Steve a mischievous smile. “I don’t know, I haven't seen it."
"Exactly,” Steve said slowly. “You haven’t seen it. And it's a movie about kids finding treasure in caves. That's not educational, that's—"
"Adventure! Which is also educational." Robin grinned at him. "Come on, Steve. Don't be a buzzkill."
"They're ungrateful," Steve said, pointing at the four of them with his ice cream scoop. "And if they get caught—"
"We won't get caught Steve—we've done this like, twenty times now" Lucas said quickly.
"You’ve done this like three times, and you better not get caught," Steve shot back, his voice dropping into that tone that meant he was serious. "Because if you do, I don't know you. Any of you. You're just random kids who broke into the theater, and I will personally call the cops."
"You're not gonna call the cops," Max said, because she knew he wouldn't. Steve talked a big game, but he was a pushover when it came down to it—especially with them.
"I will absolutely call the cops," Steve insisted, but there was no heat behind it.
"No, you won't," Mike said.
"You guys are the worst," Steve said, but Max could see his resolve crumbling. "The absolute worst. I want you to know that."
"Does that mean we can go?" Will asked, and there was something about the way he said it—hopeful and polite and completely genuine—that seemed to be the final straw.
Will was their not-so-secret weapon after all.
Steve stared at them for a long moment, his gaze moving from Will to Mike to Lucas and finally landing on Max. She stared back, unflinching, and raised an eyebrow in challenge. She could see the exact second he gave in—his shoulders dropped, and he let out this long, exasperated sigh that sounded like it came from somewhere deep in his soul.
"You're all gonna get me fired," Steve muttered, but he was already opening the gate for them.
"You love us," Lucas said, grinning.
"I tolerate you. There's a difference."
Robin was definitely laughing now, not even trying to hide it, and Max caught her eye for just a second. The girl gave her this little conspiratorial smile, like they were in on the same joke, and Max found herself grinning back. She liked Robin.
Anyone who gave Steve shit was okay in her book.
"You’re such a pushover," Robin said to Steve as they filed past.
"I’m not," Steve said after a second, like he had to think about it. "They're... just I don't know what they are. A plague, maybe."
"We're your friends," Will said quietly and gave Steve a small genuine smile, and Steve's expression softened as he reached out to ruffle Will's bowl cut.
"Yeah, yeah. Get in here before I change my mind."
Steve led them through the breakroom—which was exactly as depressing as it was last time, all flickering lights and the overly sweet smell of sugar and posters lining the walls about proper hand-washing techniques—but it was also as clean as it normally was, because it was always clean.
He reached for Max's skateboard without asking, and she let him take it. He always kept it in the breakroom for her whenever they came to the mall—safer than leaving it outside where someone might swipe it, and it was much nicer not having to carry it around all the time.
As he took it from her, she noticed his hands were trembling a little bit, just barely, but he seemed okay otherwise. He set the board carefully against the wall near the lockers.
He opened a door that led to a maintenance corridor, and the atmosphere changed immediately. The overhead lights here were even worse, buzzing faintly and casting everything in a too-bright light, and Max saw Steve flinch slightly. The walls were concrete blocks, and the air here smelled like cleaning chemicals and something vaguely mechanical, mixed with the smell of old coffee and something too sweet that was definitely melted ice cream.
"If you get caught—"
"We don't know you, yeah, we got it," Mike said, already heading down the corridor, his footsteps echoing off the concrete.
"I'm serious, Wheeler. If you get caught, I'm denying everything."
"Sure you are," Mike called back without turning around.
Steve huffed, running a hand through his hair—which was getting longer again, Max noticed, long since covering the spot where they'd shaved it last year—and turned to head back to the shop. But Max lingered for just an extra second, watching him.
He looked okay today. Tired, but that was pretty much Steve's default setting these days. His eyes still squinted against the lights, but his movements were smooth and coordinated as he pulled the door open, and he shot her a quick smile before disappearing back into the break room.
Good days were good. Max had learned to appreciate them.
"You coming, Max?" Lucas called from down the corridor, his voice bouncing off the walls.
"Yeah, yeah, hold on," she called back, and followed the boys into the maze of Starcourt's guts.
…
The theater was a little more than half full, which made sense for a Wednesday afternoon showing, even though it was the summer. They slipped in through the back door and found seats in the middle section. The previews were still playing, loud and bright, and Max slouched down in her chair, propping her feet up on the seat in front of her.
Lucas sat next to her, close enough that their shoulders touched, and she pressed into him a little more. Mike and Will took the seats on Lucas's other side, already arguing in whispers about something Max didn't care enough to follow. Something about whether the movie would be better than Temple of Doom. Mike was insisting it would be, whereas Will was being diplomatic about it.
"It's a different kind of movie," Will was saying. "You can't really compare them."
"You can compare anything," Mike argued. "That's the whole point of opinions."
"Shh," someone hissed from a few rows back, and Mike slumped down in his seat, muttering.
The movie started, and Max had to admit—it was pretty good, funny, adventurous. The kind of thing that would've seemed like the biggest deal in the world a couple years ago; before she'd moved to Hawkins and found out that actual monsters were real—not just human ones—and sometimes they came from alternate worlds and tried to kill you.
Compared to the Upside Down and everything that came with it, a bunch of kids looking for pirate treasure felt almost quaint—low stakes, peaceful, safe.
She caught herself smiling a couple times, and Lucas noticed, nudging her with his elbow. She nudged him back, harder, and he grinned at her in the flickering light of the screen.
"Good movie, right?" he whispered.
"It's okay," she whispered back, but she was still smiling.
"Just okay?"
"Don't push it, Sinclair," she said as she gave a quick kiss on the cheek, and laced their fingers together.
Yeah, this was good.
This was normal.
This was the kind of thing kids were supposed to do—sneak into movies and hold hands and not think about interdimensional horror shows.
Just kids, watching a movie about other kids, having an adventure.
…
When the credits finally rolled, they filed out with the cluster of other people who'd been in the theater, blinking against the bright lights of the mall. Max checked her watch—they'd been in there for almost two hours. Even so, Steve's shift definitely wasn't over yet, and he was of course going to make a huff about them coming back—but that had never stopped them before.
"Ice cream?" Mike suggested, like it was a question and not a foregone conclusion.
"Steve's gonna kill us," Will said, but he was already heading toward the food court.
"Steve's not gonna kill us," Lucas said confidently. "He's gonna threaten to kill us, and then he's gonna give us ice cream anyway."
"He's such a softie," Max agreed, swinging their hands together where they were still joined.
"He’s a total pushover," Mike said. "Remember that time he said we couldn't come over and then we just showed up anyway and he let us in?"
"That's because you're annoying and he wanted you to stop knocking," Max pointed out.
Mike shrugged. "Still let us in though."
They made their way back to Scoops, which was somehow even more crowded than before. There was actually a line now, snaking out from the counter, and Steve looked like he was about three customers away from a complete breakdown. His smile was strained, and there was a tightness around his eyes that Max recognized immediately.
She hung back a little, watching him while the boys got in line. He was moving slower than he had been earlier—not by much, but enough that she noticed, since she knew what to look for. His scooping hand was a little less steady and a little more slow, and when he turned to grab a cone from the stack, it took him a second longer than it should have. His movements were still functional, but there was a carefulness to them that hadn't been there before.
Headache, maybe. Or just exhaustion. Probably overcompensating.
It was hard to tell sometimes.
Robin was handling the register with the kind of bored efficiency that suggested she was way too competent for this job, and every so often she'd glance over at Steve with this expression that was half amusement, half concern…maybe? Max wondered if Robin knew.
Probably not.
Steve was scary good at hiding it when he wanted to.
Most people didn't notice anything wrong, just saw the former King of Hawkins High, now scooping ice cream in a sailor suit and making self-deprecating jokes about his fall from grace.
They didn't see the way he sometimes lost his train of thought mid-sentence, or how he'd squint against bright lights, or how his hands would shake just slightly.
But Max noticed.
She'd made it her business to notice.
It had started back in November, after that night when everything went down at the Byers house. She'd tried calling Steve's house. Just to check, just to make sure he was okay, because she'd seen the state of his face—hell she'd been there when Billy almost killed him—but no one had answered. So she'd tried again the next day.
And the day after that.
Nothing.
And then Billy made an off-hand comment that Steve wasn’t in school—which in hindsight—should have been incredibly obvious.
So she'd done what any reasonable person would do: she'd waited until Billy had basketball practice, looked up Steve's address in the phone book, grabbed her skateboard, and rode to his house.
She hadn't expected Hopper to answer the door.
The chief had been wearing what looked like pajama pants and an old t-shirt, and his expression when he'd seen her had been somewhere between surprised and wary and bone-tired. He had shifted, trying to block her view but it didn’t matter, because behind him, Max caught a glimpse of Steve passed out on the couch, bandages wrapped around his head, with a good chunk of his hair shaved off.
She’d weaseled her way into the house, immediately abandoning her board on the porch, only to be turned around by Hopper and steered away from Steve.
And then her and Hopper had a very sad, and very shitty conversation in Steve's kitchen.
She'd kept her promise to Hopper though, because it was a promise to Steve too. So she hadn't told anyone. She had learned later that El knew too, but even so she hadn’t said anything to the boys—and not even Lucas.
She had gone straight from Steve's house to the library on that day back in November, and checked out every book they had on head trauma and brain injuries.
Max wasn't a reader. She wasn’t bad at it—quite the contrary actually—but it was more that she'd honestly rather be outside, skating or exploring or doing literally anything other than sitting still with a book; and because sitting still with a book normally required a quiet space and a quiet house, neither of which she really had.
But none of that mattered anymore because she'd read those books cover to cover, highlighting passages and taking notes in the margins that she later translated to her “Steve Notebook,” until the librarian had given her dirty looks about defacing library property everytime she returned to re-checkout one of the books.
She'd learned about subdural hematomas and skull fractures and intracranial pressure and cerebrospinal fluid. She'd learned about the long-term effects of traumatic brain injury: chronic headaches, difficulty concentrating, memory problems, sensitivity to light and sound. She’d learned about migraines and auditory nerve damage, about balance issues and potential seizures.
She'd learned that "recovery" didn't mean "back to normal."
She'd figured then, with a cold certainty that had settled in her gut like a stone, that Billy had done more than just beat Steve up—
He'd given him permanent brain damage.
And she'd been right.
No one saw him for the rest of November. And then December, he had driven Dustin to the Snowball and that was it. When the boys had asked him about it, he said he had a family emergency on his moms side, and had to leave the country for a few weeks.
Max, of course, knew that was a lie.
But after the new year and the months since then, since his hair had grown back enough to hide the scar and he started letting them come to his house, she'd watched Steve carefully, since she’d learned what to look for.
She'd noticed the headaches and the migraines—the way he'd squint and clench his jaw and move a little more carefully, like sudden movements hurt.
She'd noticed how it took him longer to answer questions sometimes. She'd noticed how he'd forget words mid-sentence and have to pause, frustrated, until he couldn’t even remember what he'd been trying to say.
Everyone called him slow. And stupid. They joked about it, teased him about getting dumber, and Steve always laughed it off or agreed with them, like it was a choice and not a consequence.
But Max could tell it bothered him. She could see it in the way his smile would tighten, just for a second, before he'd shrug and change the subject.
And it bothered her too.
So she started running interference.
…
January 19th, 1985
Max was sprawled on the couch next to Lucas, half-watching Mike and Dustin argue about some crap from D&D—dorks—when she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs that led up from the Wheelers basement.
Mr. Wheeler appeared halfway down, still in his weekend flannel and looking thoroughly annoyed. "Alright, that's enough. Time to pack it up."
Mike's head snapped up from where he'd been gesturing wildly across the coffee table. "What? Dad, we're not even—"
"I don't care what you're 'not even,'" Mr. Wheeler interrupted, crossing his arms. "You've been down here since nine this morning. It's almost three. Go home."
"But it's snowing," Dustin protested, pointing toward the small basement window where fat flakes were indeed falling steadily, so much the view outside was almost covered. "What are we supposed to do, freeze to death?"
"I don't care what you do," Mr. Wheeler said flatly, "as long as you don't do it in my house."
"Dad!" Mike stood up, his voice pitching into that whiny register that made Max want to roll her eyes. "That's not fair! Where are we supposed to go?"
"Not my problem." Mr. Wheeler was already turning back toward the stairs. "Ten minutes. Then I'm coming back down here with a broom."
The basement fell silent as his footsteps retreated. Then Mike exploded.
"Are you kidding me? It's Saturday! What are we supposed to do, just—just wander around in a blizzard?"
"It's not a blizzard," Lucas said reasonably, but Mike ignored him.
"We can't go to my place," Dustin said, already ticking off on his fingers. "Mom's hosting her book club and she said if I interrupted one more time she'd make me read the book and participate in the next meeting as punishment."
"Can't go to mine either," Lucas added. "Erica's got like, six friends over for some sleepover thing. The living room is a madhouse."
Will shook his head before anyone could ask. "Jonathan's got photos everywhere, he’s working on some kind of application thing I think. He said if anyone touched anything—" He made a vague threatening gesture.
"And my mom's working a double," Max said, even though no one had asked. Her place was always a last resort anyway. Too small, too cold, and Billy was a constant looming possibility even if he'd been spending most of his time away from the house or wherever the hell he went.
Mike groaned and dropped back onto the floor. "This is so stupid. It's snowing. What does he expect us to do?"
They sat in miserable silence for a moment, the snow falling steadily outside, and Max could practically feel the clock ticking down on Mr. Wheeler's ten-minute ultimatum.
Then Dustin's face lit up. "Wait! Wait, I have an idea!"
He scrambled to his feet and practically lunged for the wall phone near the stairs, already dialing before anyone could ask what he was doing. The rotary dial clicked and whirred as he spun it, then he pressed the receiver to his ear, bouncing slightly on his toes.
It rang. And rang. And rang.
Max felt something tighten in her chest, though she couldn't have said why.
Then: "Hello? Hey, it's Dustin. Yeah, I know, I was just there Thursday, but—listen, we have kind of a situation. We're at Mike's and his dad's kicking us out and it's snowing and we don't have anywhere to go and I was wondering if maybe—yeah? Really? Are you sure? Because we can—no, yeah, that's—okay. Okay! Thanks, dude, you're the best. Yeah. Okay, we’ll be there soon! Bye!"
He slammed the receiver back into the cradle and spun around with a grin so wide it looked like it might split his face in half.
"We're going to Steve's."
Mike's nose wrinkled immediately. "Steve? Steve Harrington? Why?"
"Because, Steve is awesome," Dustin said, like it should be obvious. "He's been letting me come over all the time since he got back and he always makes food and keeps his house warm and you're just wrong about him, Mike. He's super cool."
"He's a jock," Mike said, like that explained everything.
"He's our ally," Dustin shot back. "He assisted The Party and literally saved our asses, like, multiple times. And he has movies. And popcorn. And he won’t kick us out after six hours."
Mike rolled his eyes but didn't argue further. "Fine. Whatever. When's he coming to pick us up?"
Dustin's face fell. "Oh. Uh. I forgot about that."
He reached for the phone again, but Max was already on her feet.
"Nuh uh," she said firmly.
Dustin paused, hand hovering over the receiver. "What? Why not?"
"Because we're not calling him again," Max said. "If he's nice enough to let us come over, the least we can do is find our own ride."
"It's Steve," Mike said, like that was supposed to mean something.
"Yeah," Max said, meeting his eyes. "It is Steve. And Steve's the one hosting us. Which means we go to him. We don't make him come get us like we're a bunch of little kids."
"We are kids," Mike pointed out.
"Then we get Mike's dad to drive us," Max said. "Come on. Steve's already doing us a favor. We don't need to make him do two."
What she didn't say—what she couldn't say, not without explaining things she had no right to explain, that she promised she wouldn’t—was that Steve probably would have come to pick them up. He'd probably have said yes immediately.
But he medically couldn't, even if he wanted to. Not yet.
Probably not for months.
And Max wasn't about to put him in a position where he'd have to either admit that or do it anyway and risk crashing and killing himself.
Lucas was watching her with that look he got sometimes, the one that said he knew she wasn't telling them everything but he trusted her anyway.
She loved that look.
"She's right," Lucas said, standing up and brushing off his jeans. "We should get our own ride if Steve's already letting us crash his Saturday."
Dustin looked like he wanted to argue, but Will was already nodding, and even Mike just sighed and muttered, "Fine. Whatever. Let's go beg my dad for a ride, I guess."
They trooped upstairs, leaving the basement behind, and Max tried to ignore the anxious flutter in her stomach.
She hadn't seen Steve since November.
…
Mr. Wheeler's station wagon only had four passenger seats, so Max was wedged onto Lucas's lap in the back, his arms wrapped loosely around her waist. Normally she'd be annoyed about the lack of a seat—due to respect—but right now she was grateful for the distraction, and Lucas was always comforting.
But even still, her mind wouldn't stop spinning.
Dustin had been going over to Steve’s place regularly—she knew that much. Which had to mean Steve was doing better, right? Well enough to host a hyperactive thirteen-year-old who probably talked nonstop and ate him out of house and home.
And Dustin hadn't said anything about Steve's head, hadn't mentioned scars or bandages or his hair looking weird or anything that would suggest he knew about the surgery.
So Steve was hiding it.
Successfully.
Max didn't know if that made her feel better or worse.
The Harrington house looked the same—big, expensive and lonely, set back from the road with its perfect lawn now covered in a good layer of snow. Mr. Wheeler pulled into the driveway and barely waited for them to pile out before he was reversing back out, clearly eager to get home to his recliner and his newspaper.
They clustered on the front porch, all of them bundled in winter coats and scarves, their breath fogging in the cold air. Dustin rang the doorbell, bouncing on his toes again, and Max shoved her hands deeper into her pockets.
The door opened.
Steve stood there in a dark blue sweater and jeans, his hair slightly mussed like he'd been lying down, and for a second Max forgot how to breathe because he looked—
Not… that bad actually. Not good, but not… not bad.
"Jesus, get in here," Steve said immediately, ushering them inside with quick, hurried gestures. "It's freezing. Come on, in, in. Shoes off, coats on-on the hooks. Dustin, I swear to God, if you track snow all-all over my floor again—"
"I know, I know," Dustin said, already toeing off his sneakers and leaving them in a heap by the door.
Max was the last one in. She pulled the door shut quietly behind her and started unwinding her scarf, and she was trying not to make it super obvious—but her eyes were on Steve.
His hair was different.
It was shorter on the sides—not by a lot, but enough that she could tell. The top was still long, still dark and thick, but the sides were trimmed closer than they used to be.
And it was parted differently, too. He used to sweep it all back, but now it fell more to the side, like he'd had to change the way he styled it to accommodate—
To accommodate the scar.
Max's throat tightened.
"Coats," Steve said again, and she realized she'd been staring.
She quickly shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on one of the hooks by the door, then bent to unlace her boots. The house was warm—even for the middle of winter, honestly. The lights were low, too; no harsh overheads, just the soft glow of a lamp in the living room and maybe another one in the kitchen.
Dustin was already sprawling across the couch like he owned the place, and Max's stomach twisted again.
It was the same couch.
The same couch where she'd seen Steve that day in November.
She forced herself to look away and focused on Steve instead.
He looked… okay. Tired, maybe, but okay. Surprisingly okay. His face wasn't as pale as it had been almost three months ago, and she couldn't see any of the bruising anymore. He moved around them, gesturing for them to get comfortable.
Max cataloged it all, her mind flipping through the pages of information she'd absorbed over the past two and a half months.
Walking normal distances—check.
Tremors minor at rest—she couldn't tell yet.
Fatigue moderate—probably.
Migraines moderate and frequent—possibly, given the low lights.
Light sensitivity and nausea—likely.
Cognitive slowing. Word-finding difficulty. Short-term memory lapses.
She'd know soon enough.
"Steve!" Dustin's voice cut through her thoughts. "Can you make us hot chocolate? Please?"
Steve paused in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand braced against the frame, and for just a second Max saw the exhaustion flicker across his face. Then he smiled, easy and warm, and said, "Yeah, sure. Give me uhh… give me a few minutes."
He disappeared into the kitchen, and the others started shedding more of their layers and piling into the living room. Max finished with her boots and followed slowly, her eyes still tracking Steve's movements through the open doorway.
"So what are we doing?" Mike asked, flopping onto the floor near the coffee table. "Please tell me you have something better than Monopoly."
"I have cable, and um… some movies too," Steve called from the kitchen. There was the sound of a cabinet opening, the clink of mugs. "There's a stack by-by the TV. Pick whatever."
The boys descended on the movie collection like locusts, and Max drifted closer to look.
It was bigger than she'd expected; a few rows of VHS tapes stacked neatly on the shelf under the TV, everything from action movies to comedies to a few she didn't recognize that weren’t labeled in English, so probably Italian movies his mom had.
Then again, what else was there to do when you were recovering from brain surgery?
You couldn't go out, couldn't drive, couldn't do much of anything except sit at home and watch TV and try not to go insane from boredom.
Max's chest ached.
"Gremlins," Mike said immediately, holding up a tape. "We're watching Gremlins."
"No way," Lucas said, shaking his head. "We watched that last month. Let's do The Karate Kid."
"WarGames," Will said quietly, holding up another tape.
"Ghostbusters," Dustin said, not even looking up from where he was sprawled on the couch. "Obviously, we haven’t watched it since Halloween!"
Their voices overlapped, rising in volume as they started to argue, and all Max could think was how loud they were.
Too loud.
She glanced toward the kitchen again. Steve had his back to them, his shoulders slightly hunched as he worked at the stove. The lights in there were low, too—no overhead, just the dim glow of the range hood light.
"We're watching The NeverEnding Story," Max said, cutting through the argument.
Everyone turned to stare at her.
"What?" Mike said. "Why?"
"Because I'm the only girl here," Max said, crossing her arms. "And El's not here to back me up, so I get to pick."
"That's not fair," Mike protested.
"Life's not fair," Max shot back. "We're watching The NeverEnding Story. Deal with it."
Dustin groaned. "But we've all seen that a million times!"
"Then you can quote it while we watch," Max said. She pulled the tape off the shelf and held it up. "And we’ve seen all those other movies a million times too, probably more—so this is what we're watching. End of discussion."
Lucas was giving her that look again, the one that said he knew she had a reason but he wasn't going to push.
She loved him for that, too.
The truth was, she didn't even like The NeverEnding Story that much. It was fine. A little slow, a little weird, kinda sad, but fine.
But it was also quiet. Quieter than Gremlins or Ghostbusters, at least, and the boys liked to watch movies loud, with the volume cranked up so they could hear every explosion and every line of dialogue—and Max didn't think Steve needed that right now.
She didn't think he could handle that right now.
So The NeverEnding Story it was.
She popped the tape into the VCR and hit rewind, then turned back toward the kitchen. Steve was still at the stove, stirring something in a pot, and Max drifted closer, leaning against the doorway.
"Need help?" she asked.
Steve glanced over his shoulder and smiled. "Nah, I-I got it. Thanks, though."
He moved carefully, she noticed, like he was lagging, like he was thinking about each motion before he made it. He pulled mugs down from the cabinet one at a time, setting them on the counter in a neat row. Then he reached for the pot on the stove with two hands and poured the hot chocolate slowly, and she could see his hands shaking—but he didn’t spill any. But when he turned to grab the bag of marshmallows from the counter, he paused for just a second, his eyes unfocused, like he'd forgotten what he was reaching for.
Then he blinked, grabbed the marshmallows, and kept going.
Max wanted to cry a little.
"Why's it so dark in here?" Dustin called from the living room.
"Well you guys wanted to watch movies right?" Steve said without missing a beat. "It’s uh… it’s for atmosphere."
She didn't believe that for a second.
The house was warm, too, warmer than any house had a right to be even in the middle of January in a snowstorm. She'd noticed it the second she walked in.
"Steve always keeps it like this," Dustin said to one of the boys then, almost like he could read her thoughts and wanted to brag. "It's awesome. Way better than my house."
Max filed that away under: probably for comfort. Warmth helped with pain, she remembered reading about that. And the cold could make headaches worse.
Steve finished with the hot chocolate and left them on the counter, telling the kids to each come and grab one.
"I'll make popcorn. You guys get the movie started."
He stayed in the kitchen while they disappeared back into the living room, and Max hit play on the VCR. The boys sipped at their mugs and settled in—Mike and Will on the floor, Lucas and herself leaning back against the coffee table, and Dustin was sprawled back out on the sofa.
Steve came back a few minutes later with a big bowl of popcorn, a smaller bowl of pretzels, and a bag of M&Ms tucked under his arm. He set them all on the coffee table, and Dustin immediately started mixing the popcorn and M&Ms together.
"Dude, that's genius," Lucas said.
"I know," Dustin said, grinning.
"Let me know if… you need anything else," Steve said, and then turned and started heading back towards the kitchen.
"Wait, you're not gonna watch with us?" Dustin asked, twisting around on the couch to look at him.
Steve turned to look at him and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "Nah, I've uhh... I've got a test."
Mike's head snapped up, his expression somewhere between disbelief and amusement. "You're doing homework?"
Steve shrugged, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "Yeah. Maybe Nance got in my head... a little bit."
Mike scoffed, and Steve laughed—short and easy—before heading back into the kitchen.
The movie started, and within minutes the boys were already yelling at the screen.
"Atreyu's horse is gonna die," Mike said flatly.
"Don't talk about that part!" Will hissed, flicking a hand out to smack Mike's shoulder lightly.
"It's not a spoiler if we've all seen it!"
Max tuned out the boys and watched the opening scene, but her mind was somewhere else.
Steve had missed a lot of school after November.
She didn't know exactly how much, but it had to be at least a couple of weeks. Maybe more.
And now he was probably trying to catch up—sitting at the kitchen table with a textbook and studying while they watched movies in his living room. She felt bad about it—about sitting here, warm and comfortable, while he worked.
But she couldn't make a scene, couldn't just go check on him for no reason.
So after a few minutes, she stood up and headed for the kitchen, her excuse already forming in her mind:
Water. She needed water.
She walked to the kitchen and stopped.
Four glasses were already lined up there. Clean. Waiting. Like Steve had known they'd get thirsty, had thought ahead, had put them out for them before they could even ask.
Max felt something tight twist in her stomach, and she had to blink hard.
He thought about everything. Even now, when he was drowning in homework and probably felt like shit.
She looked over at him where he was seated. His elbows were on the table and he was leaning on his hand, the other holding a pen, hovering over a notebook. He didn't look up, didn't even seem to realize that she was standing there, watching him.
Max grabbed one of the glasses and filled it slowly at the sink, her throat tight.
Steve still didn't seem to notice her. His head was down, his eyes fixed on the textbook in front of him. She could see the pen in his hand, poised over the notebook, and it was shaking. Just slightly. He paused, his brow furrowing, and then he wrote something down. Then he paused again.
Max didn't say anything.
She didn't know what to say.
So she just took her glass and went back to the living room.
But she kept coming back.
Every twenty or thirty minutes or so, she'd get up and head to the kitchen, refilling her glass only about a quarter or half-way at the sink. The boys didn't notice, they were too busy shouting at the screen, arguing about nonsense and acting as if they've never even seen the movie before.
Each time, Max looked at Steve from the sink.
And each time, he looked just a little bit worse.
His shoulders were tighter, hunched over the table. His hand moved slower, the pen shaking more noticeably now. He rubbed his temple with two fingers, his eyes squeezing shut for just a second before he forced them open again and went back to the textbook.
And he still didn't look up, still didn't notice her.
Each time she looked, she looked a little bit longer; and each time she saw, she felt the guilt that had been looming over her since November, press down just a little bit more.
She should say something. She should do something.
But she couldn't make a scene, couldn't let the boys know something was wrong, so she just kept refilling her glass in tiny increments and stealing glances at him from across the room, guilt pooling heavier in her chest with every look.
By the time the movie ended, Steve was still at the table. The textbook was still open, the notebook page half-filled with notes, but his pen had stopped moving. He was just staring at it now, his jaw tight, his face pale in the overhead light.
So Max kept getting water, and kept pretending she wasn't watching.
...
Two movies in and the boys had already started arguing about what to watch next—Mike still wanted Gremlins, Lucas kept lobbying for The Karate Kid, and Dustin was further insisting they watch Ghostbusters because "it's a classic, guys, come on."
Max let them argue for a minute, then cut in.
"We should probably head out," she said.
Everyone turned to stare at her.
"What?" Mike said. "Why?"
"Because the roads are gonna get bad if it keeps snowing," Max said. She nodded toward the window, where the snow was still falling steadily, visible in the darkness outside as the flecks were illuminated by the porch lights. "And I don't want to get stuck here."
"It's barely snowing," Mike said. "And Steve's lazy. He's not doing anything anyway."
Lazy is not what this is, she thought, her jaw tightening as she scowled at Mike.
"Plus, my dad's gonna be pissed if I call him," Mike continued. "Why can't Steve just drive us?"
Max's temper flared. "Because Steve already let us come over and made us food and put up with us for four hours. The least you can do is call your dad for a ride home."
Mike muttered something under his breath, but he got up and headed for the phone in the kitchen.
The others started gathering their things, and Max moved close enough to see into the kitchen, her eyes on Steve.
He was leaning against the counter now, his posture looser, the careful control he'd been holding onto all afternoon starting to wither. He was tired. She could see it clearer now in the way his shoulders sagged, in the way he kept rubbing the corner of his left brow with two fingers. His facade was slipping.
He needed to lie down—probably the second they left.
Steve pushed off the counter as Mike hung up the phone and moved back into the living room, following him to lean against the doorframe and watching as the others were pulling on their jackets.
"You guys... heading out?" Steve asked.
"Yeah," Mike said, zipping up his coat.
Steve nodded. It was a simple gesture, but Max caught the way it seemed to take just a beat too long. He blinked, his eyes unfocused for half a second before he seemed to pull himself back.
"I uhh... I hope you guys had fun," Steve said, and his voice was warm, genuine.
"Thanks for letting us come over," Will said quietly—he always did have good manners.
Steve's smile was soft. "Of course. Whenever you want."
Mike paused in the middle of pulling on his gloves, then glared at Steve with one eyebrow raised—a look Max recognized as his I'm-about-to-test-you expression.
"Would you be okay with hosting D&D?" Mike asked, his tone almost challenging.
Steve just stared at him.
The silence stretched a moment too long. Max watched Steve's face, saw the slight furrow between his brows, the way his eyes seemed to lose focus again before sharpening—like he was trying to catch up to the question.
"What's that?" Steve finally asked.
Mike scoffed. "Dungeons and Dragons? The game we play literally all the time?"
"Right, yeah. That's the—" He paused, and Max saw him squint slightly, like he was trying to pull the information from somewhere.
"So it's… it’s like a board game?" he said after a few more seconds.
"Yes, Steve," Mike said, exasperated. "It's like a board game."
Steve shrugged, but Max caught the tiny wince that flickered across his face and was gone just as quickly. "Sure. Of course. Just umm... just let me know when."
Mike blinked, looking genuinely surprised. "Oh. Uh... thanks."
Steve nodded again—or maybe it was more of a wince, Max thought, watching the way his jaw tightened and his eyes squeezed shut for just a fraction of a second.
They really, really needed to leave.
Everyone started pulling on their coats and jackets, but when Dustin moved toward his boots, Mike shook his head. "We should wait inside. It's freezing out there."
They settled back into the living room, bundled up in their winter layers but still in their socks. Will sat on the arm of the couch, Lucas dropped back onto the floor near the coffee table, and Mike hovered by the window, watching for his dad to pull into the driveway.
Steve stood in the doorway for a moment, his hand drifting to his temple again—just briefly, like he was checking something. Then he cleared his throat softly.
"I'm gonna—" He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. "Keep studying. Just... let yourselves out when he gets here, okay?"
"Yeah, sure," Dustin said without looking over.
Steve nodded, his shoulders sagging just slightly as he turned and headed back toward the kitchen, his footsteps careful and slow.
Max watched him go, watched the way he braced one hand against the doorframe as he passed through it, and felt that tight knot in her stomach twist a little harder.
...
Headlights swept across the front windows, and everyone scrambled for their boots.
Dustin shouted, "Thanks, Steve!" over his shoulder as he bolted for the door, yanking it open and dashing out into the cold, with Mike and Will moving to follow.
Steve emerged from the kitchen then, and leaned back against the doorframe, watching them go, and Max lingered, Lucas waiting for her by the door.
"Thanks," she said quietly. "For letting us come over."
Steve's smile was gentle, tired, but real. "Of course," he said, like it cost him nothing. “Anytime.
But Max could already picture it as soon as she closed the door gently behind her—Steve dragging himself to the couch or up the stairs, collapsing into bed and not moving for hours.
She followed the others out into the cold, the snow crunching under her boots, and climbed into Mr. Wheeler's station wagon. Lucas pulled her onto his lap again, his arms wrapping around her waist, and she leaned back against him as the car pulled out of the driveway.
Guilt settled low in her stomach, heavy and uncomfortable.
Steve had hosted them, made them food, kept them warm, put up with their noise and their mess and their chaos.
And all Max could think about now was how much those few hours had probably cost him.
She stared out the window as they drove, watching the snow fall, and promised herself she'd do better next time.
She'd make sure the others did better, too.
…
Mr. Wheeler's station wagon pulled up to the curb outside Max's house, the headlights cutting through the early evening darkness. The snow had stopped falling for the moment, but everything was still covered in a thick white blanket, the street lights reflecting off it in a way that made the whole neighborhood look almost peaceful.
Almost—if she hadn't known exactly who was waiting for her in her house.
Max could already see the lights on inside, could see the flicker of the TV through the living room window.
Billy was home.
Of course he was.
"Thanks for the ride, Mr. Wheeler," she said, already shifting in Lucas's lap, getting ready to climb out.
"Anytime, Max," Mr. Wheeler said from the front seat, his voice distracted. He was probably already thinking about getting home, getting back to whatever he'd been doing before Mike had roped him into chauffeur duty for the second time today.
Max turned to Lucas, and he was already looking at her, his arms still wrapped around her waist. His expression was soft, warm, and for a second she just wanted to stay right there, in the car, in his arms, where everything felt safe.
But she couldn't.
She leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, feeling him smile against her.
"See you tomorrow?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah," she said. "Tomorrow."
She pulled away, climbed over him and out of the car, her boots crunching in the snow as she landed on the sidewalk. She gave him one last look—he was still smiling at her through the window—and then she waved and turned and headed up the walkway to her front door.
Behind her, she heard the station wagon pull away, the sound of the engine fading as Mr. Wheeler drove off down the street.
Max pushed open the front door and stepped inside.
She noticed the warmth of the house immediately as soon as she opened the door, but it wasn't the comfortable kind of warmth like at Steve's. It was stifling, oppressive, the kind that made her want to turn around and walk right back out into the cold.
She saw him then.
Billy was lazily draped across the sofa in the living room, one arm hung over the back, his legs stretched out in front of him. The TV was on—some action movie, explosions and gunfire blaring from the speakers—but he wasn't really watching it.
He was watching her.
His eyes tracked her as she stepped inside, and then his mouth curled into a sneer, slow and menacing.
"Well, well," he drawled. "Look who finally decided to come home."
Max didn't respond.
She just glared at him, her jaw tight, and kept walking.
She didn't have time for this, didn't have the energy for whatever game he was trying to play.
She moved past the living room, past Billy and his sneer and the blaring TV, and headed straight for the kitchen. Her boots left wet tracks on the floor, melting snow dripping off the soles, but she didn't care.
She had to make a call.
The kitchen was empty, the overhead light dull and warming everything in a familiar yellow glow. Max went straight for the phone on the wall, pulling the phonebook off the counter and flipping through it quickly.
She didn't actually need the phonebook, she'd probably already memorized the number—but it gave her something to do with her hands, something to focus on while her heart pounded in her chest.
She found the page, ran her finger down the list of numbers, and then picked up the receiver and dialed.
The phone rang once.
Just once.
And then—
"Chief Hopper."
His voice was gruff and tired, like he'd been in the middle of something and didn't particularly want to be interrupted.
Max felt a small rush of relief.
"Hi," she said, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. "It's me. Max."
There was a pause, and then Hopper's tone shifted immediately, the tiredness replaced by something sharper and much more alert.
"Max? You okay?"
"Yeah," she said quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's—it's Steve—"
She didn't even get to finish the sentence.
There was a sudden scrambling sound on the other end of the line, like Hopper had just knocked something over or dropped the phone, and then his voice came back, louder and more urgent.
"Is Steve okay? What's wrong? What happened?"
"No, no, everything's okay," Max said hurriedly, her words tumbling over each other. "He's fine. I just—sorry I probably shouldn't have started the call like that."
There was a beat of silence, and then Hopper let out a long, slow breath.
"Jesus, kid," he muttered. "You trying to give me a heart attack?"
"Sorry," Max said again, and she meant it. "I just—we were over at his house today. Me and the boys. And he seemed… tired. Like, really tired. We were there for a while, and I just—I'd feel better if you went over and checked on him."
Another pause.
And then Hopper's voice came back, softer this time. Steadier.
"Of course," he said. "Thanks for calling me Max."
"Of course," Max echoed.
She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the receiver, and then she said, quieter, "Take care of him, okay?"
Hopper grunted, a low sound of affirmation.
"I will," he said, and Max believed him.
She could hear the sound of his chair scraping across the floor, the creak of it as he stood up from his desk. He was already getting ready to leave, already heading out the door to go check on Steve.
"Thanks for calling, kid," Hopper said again, and there was something almost gentle in his voice now. "You did good."
Max felt her throat tighten.
"Of course," she said again.
"Call me again if you think he needs it," Hopper added. "Even if he seems okay or if you’re unsure okay? Just call me please. I want to know."
"Okay," Max said. "I will."
"Alright. Take care, Max."
"You too."
The line clicked, and then there was just the dial tone, buzzing in her ear.
Max hung up the phone, her hand lingering on the receiver for a second longer than necessary.
She felt it then, that prickling sensation on the back of her neck, the one that told her she wasn't alone.
She turned around slowly, and there he was.
Leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, that same sneer still plastered across his face.
"Calling your boyfriend?" Billy asked, his voice dripping with mockery.
Max's stomach twisted, but she didn't let it show.
"No I'm not calling Lucas, and it's none of your business anyway, asshole," she said flatly.
Billy pushed off the doorframe, taking a step into the kitchen, and his sneer widened.
"Oh, I think it is my business," he said. "Especially when you're calling about Harrington."
He said Steve's name like it was something dirty, something disgusting, and Max felt a hot surge of anger bubble up in her chest.
"Seriously, Max," Billy continued, his tone mocking. "What's the deal with that guy? He doesn't have anybody anymore, so all he can do is hang out with a bunch of kids? That's just sad. Pathetic and sad."
Max's hands curled into fists at her sides.
"Shut the fuck up," she said, her voice low and sharp.
Billy stopped.
For a second, he just stared at her, his expression shifting from mocking to something else—surprise, maybe—like he hadn't expected her to actually say that.
And then his face darkened.
He moved forward, closing the distance between them in two long strides, and suddenly he was looming over her, his height and his presence filling the space, making the kitchen feel smaller, more suffocating.
"You wanna say that again?" he asked, his voice quiet and dangerous.
Max's heart was pounding, her pulse loud in her ears, but she didn't back down.
She stepped forward even, and looked up at him; met his eyes, and held his gaze.
"You should be very careful," Billy said slowly, "how you talk to me."
Max's jaw tightened.
"You should be careful," she shot back, her voice steady even though her hands were shaking, "how you talk about Steve."
Billy's eyes narrowed, and for a second Max thought he was going to do something—grab her, shove her, something—but she didn't wait to find out.
She shouldered past him, hard, making sure to firmly drive her elbow into his ribs as she went.
Billy let out a sharp grunt, stumbling back half a step, and Max didn't look back.
She just kept moving, her boots pounding against the floor as she headed down the hallway toward her room.
"Max you fucking bitch—" Billy started, his voice sharp, but she was already there.
She shoved open her bedroom door, stepped inside, and slammed it shut behind her so hard the walls rattled.
Her heart was still racing, adrenaline flooding her system, and she stood there for a second with her back pressed against the door, breathing hard.
She could hear Billy out in the hallway, could hear him muttering something under his breath, and then the sound of his footsteps retreating back toward the living room.
Max let out a shaky breath and pushed off the door.
Her room was a mess—clothes on the floor, her skateboard propped up in the corner, her bed unmade—but she didn't care.
She went straight for her desk, where her stack of library books sat in a precarious pile.
The books she'd checked out months ago that were definitely overdue by now.
The books about traumatic brain injuries.
Max grabbed her notebook from her desk drawer and went to the most recent page, then pulled the top one off the stack—Head Injury Rehabilitation: Children and Adolescents—and sat down on her bed with a pen, flipping it open to the page she'd dog-eared.
She had more reading and re-reading to do, more notes to take, things to write down. She had to keep learning, keep figuring out how to help Steve, how to make sure he was okay, how to know what to look for.
Because nobody else was going to do it.
And Steve needed someone.
He needed her, even though he would never admit it, never ask for it.
So Max settled back against her pillows, the book open in her lap, her notebook at her side, and started reading.
…
The line moved forward, and Max refocused on the present. Steve was serving the customer in front of them now—some middle-aged guy who was taking way too long to decide between butterscotch and strawberry—and Max could see the tension in Steve's shoulders, the way he was holding himself just a little too carefully.
He looked worse than he had before the movie. Not by a lot, but enough. The tightness around his eyes was more pronounced, and there was a faint crease between his eyebrows that suggested he was fighting off a headache.
But he was still upright—still putting on the customer service smile and scooping ice cream like everything was fine.
Finally, it was their turn. Steve looked over, saw them, and his expression shifted into something that was half exasperation, half resignation.
"You've gotta be kidding me."
"We want ice cream," Mike announced, like this was a revelation.
"Of course you do." Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, and Max saw him wince slightly at the pressure. Definitely a headache. "What do you want?"
They rattled off their orders—Mike wanted chocolate, Will wanted vanilla, Lucas wanted cookies and cream, and Max asked for cherry. Steve scooped in silence, movements a little slower than before, and handed over their cones without comment.
"That'll be—"
"We don't have any money," Mike said cheerfully, already licking his cone.
Steve stared at him. "Of course you don't."
"You said we could come back for ice cream," Lucas pointed out.
"I said don't come back for ice cream," Steve corrected, but he was already waving them off. "Whatever. Just go. And don't get ice cream on the floor, Robin will kill me."
"Woooah way to throw me under the bus dingus. I'm not gonna kill you," Robin called from the register. "I'm just gonna make you clean it up. You’re the neat freak anyway!"
"Same thing," Steve muttered, ignoring her other comment completely.
They'd drifted over to one of the small tables, the four of them clustered around like they actually belonged there as paying customers. Max licked her cherry cone slowly, watching the others demolish theirs with varying degrees of mess. Will was the neatest, of course. Mike was already getting chocolate on his shirt.
Behind the counter, Steve and Robin had fallen into some kind of rhythm—Robin saying something that made Steve's mouth twitch, and then Steve trying to fire back with something cutting.
Except he stumbled on it. His stuttered for just a second, like he was reaching for the words and they weren't quite there, and then he blinked and tried again, slower this time. Robin didn't seem to notice, just laughed and threw a napkin at him.
Steve caught it one-handed, and there was that familiar smirk, but it took him a beat longer than it should have, like his brain was running just slightly behind his reflexes.
He said something back to Robin—something about her aim being terrible—and it landed okay, got a laugh, but Max could see the slight tension in his shoulders. The way he was holding himself like he was concentrating on standing still.
She noticed all of it.
She turned back to her ice cream, but her eyes kept drifting back to him.
They finished their cones and meandered back up to the counter and Lucas opened his mouth—probably to say something annoying—but Mike cut him off.
"When does your shift end?"
Steve glanced at the clock on the wall behind the counter. "Like in about an hour. Why?"
"Can we come over?" Mike asked, and Max wanted to kick him for his complete lack of subtlety.
"You want to come to my house." Steve's tone was flat, unimpressed.
"Yeah. We're bored."
"You're bored," Steve repeated. "So you want to come to my house and be bored there instead."
"Your house has a pool," Lucas said reasonably. "And air conditioning. And food."
"And you," Will added quietly, and Max saw something in Steve's expression fracture.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. "Fine. But you're biking there. I'm not putting your—your dirty junky bikes in my car."
"My bike is not junky!" Mike protested, genuinely offended.
"Your bike is the junkiest, Wheeler. I'm not risking scratching the beamer." Steve pointed at him with the ice cream scoop, which would've been more threatening if it hadn't had cookie dough stuck to it. "You want to come over, you bike there."
"Fine," Mike grumbled. "We'll bike."
"Good," he said, and he was already turning towards the break-room.
He disappeared into the back for a moment, and Max heard the sound of something being moved around. When he emerged, he was holding her skateboard, and walked over to her and held it out without a word, just a small nod. She took it, their fingers brushing briefly, and he gave her that same look he always did, the one that said ‘don't worry about it.’
"Now get out of here before you scare away the customers," he said. Then he was back behind the counter, already reaching for the next customer's order.
The others retreated from the counter, heading towards the exit, and Max lingered for just a second longer. She watched Steve, watched the way he squared his shoulders and put the smile back on, and did a final mental summary.
He looked a little worse than he had before the movie. The headache was definitely there, probably sitting behind his eyes and making everything just a little bit harder.
But he was managing; and if he was letting them come over, he must be feeling up to it.
At least that way she could keep an eye on him too.
"Max, come on!" Lucas called, already heading toward the exit.
"I'm coming!" she called back.
She took one last look at Steve—still serving customers, still looking tired but okay, still managing—and then turned to follow the boys out of the mall.
The heat hit them as soon as they stepped outside, and Max had to squint against the sudden early evening brightness, pulling her sunglasses down from her head. The boys were already heading toward the bike racks, arguing about something stupid as usual. Max dropped her board to the ground, stopping it from rolling with her foot.
Lucas looked back at her, grinning. "Race you to Steve's?"
"You're gonna lose," Max said, but she was grinning too.
"We'll see about that."
So the boys mounted their bikes and Max kicked off, and they started off toward the Harrington house.