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Chapter Text

The ride to Steve's house took about twenty minutes and by the time they got there, Max could feel sweat trickling down her back, her shirt sticking to her skin. June in Hawkins was brutal—so unlike the warm hot dry summers she experienced living in San Diego.

But here? 

Here it was the kind of heat that made the air shimmer over the pavement and turned every breath into something thick and heavy that made her skin sticky and her hair frizzy. The sun beat down relentlessly, and even the wind from skating didn't do much to cool her off.

Lucas won the race—but only by a few seconds—and he was grinning like an idiot about it when Max kicked up her board at the end of Steve's driveway.

"Told you," he said.

"You had a head start," Max shot back, but she was smiling.

Mike was already trying the front door, jiggling the handle. "Locked."

"Obviously," she said. "Steve's not home yet."

"So what do we do?" Will asked, shading his eyes as he looked up at the house.

"Pool," Lucas said immediately. "Come on, it's like a thousand degrees out here."

They made their way around the side of the house, following the stone path that led to the backyard. The gate was unlocked—it had been all summer—and Max pushed through first, bringing her board with her while the boys abandoned their bikes in the driveway.

It was nice back here, really nice. The pool took up most of the space, the water a perfect, glittering blue. The concrete around it was warm under her feet even through her Converse—which admittedly were only a few weeks from falling apart—but still. She could smell the chemical tang of chlorine mixed with cut grass and something floral, probably something blooming in the bushes along the fence, but she wasn't sure.

Whatever it was, it was nice.

There were lounge chairs scattered around, a table with an umbrella, and a diving board at the deep end that Mike immediately started eyeing like he was planning something stupid.

"Don't even think about it," Max said.

"I wasn't."

"Yes, you were."

Lucas was already kicking off his shoes, and Mike followed suit. Will hesitated for a second, glancing back toward the house like he was checking to make sure it was okay even though Steve wasn’t even here yet, but then he sat down at the edge of the pool and started unlacing his sneakers.

Max dropped her board by one of the chairs and sat down, pulling off her own shoes and socks. The concrete was almost too hot to walk on barefoot, but the second she dipped her toes into the water, the relief was immediate. It was pleasantly cool—not cold, but definitely cool enough to make her sigh.

"Oh man, that's good," Lucas said, sitting down next to her and dunking both feet up to his ankles.

Mike dropped his feet in and splashed water everywhere. "God, finally."

"You're gonna get us in trouble," Will said, but he was already sitting down too, his feet disappearing into the water.

"We're not even swimming," Lucas pointed out. "We're just sitting here."

"Steve's still gonna be mad."

"He’s always weird about the pool," Mike said, shrugging as he kicked his feet back and forth in the water.

Max leaned back on her hands, closing her eyes and tilting her face up toward the sun.

Will wasn’t totally wrong—Steve was weirdly strict about the pool—like, really strict. He never let them be out here without him for even a second if they were actually swimming, always going on about how they ‘needed a certified lifeguard present’ and how ‘drowning could happen in seconds’ and a bunch of other stuff that Mike complained about constantly.

But Steve never budged. Not once.

And the weirdest thing was that Steve never actually got in the pool with them, even on days when it was unbearably humid and hot. 

It was really weird, considering the fact that she knew he used to be on varsity swim, and was co-captain of the swim team for nearly two seasons before he had to drop it back in November.

At first she thought maybe it was a precautionary thing, that he didn’t want to swim because of his head—but she quickly figured out that wasn’t it. For all his lifeguarding talk, Steve was a really good swimmer.

Whenever they had gone to the lake on weekends when it was warm, including El and Hopper since it was pretty secluded, Steve had no problem being in the water there. He definitely still didn’t participate in chicken fights or anything, and Max was pretty good at getting the boys to lay off when they tried to pester him, but it was clear he liked being in the water.

But not the pool. Ever.

He'd sit in one of the lounge chairs, or stand at the edge, or pace around with his arms crossed, watching them like a hawk—but he never swam. Max had noticed the way he looked at the water sometimes, his shoulders tense and drawn up towards his ears, almost like he was bracing himself for something.

She didn't know what it was, but based on his posture, she could assume it was probably something unpleasant, and something that had to do with this pool specifically, not actually the water.

She didn't ask.

It felt like the kind of thing you weren't supposed to ask about.

"How long do you think until he gets here?" Will asked, swishing his feet gently and watching the ripples spread across the surface.

Max shrugged. "Fifteen minutes, maybe? His shift should be over now I think, but it depends on traffic."

"Think he'll make us dinner?" Will asked.

"Yeah," Mike said. "He always makes dinner."

"Yeah, but he looked kind of tired earlier."

"He's fine," Lucas said, but he glanced at Max when he said it, like he was checking to see if she agreed.

She knew Lucas didn't know why exactly, he’d never asked her about it; but he seemed to know that Max worried about Steve.

She didn't answer right away; Steve had looked rough. The headache was definitely worse than he'd admit—but he'd also agreed to let them come over, which meant he thought he could handle it.

Or maybe he just didn't want to say no.

"He's fine," Max said finally, because what else was she supposed to say?

They sat there for a while, feet dangling in the water, talking about nothing in particular. The boys were chattering about things Max didn't really care about, Mike and Lucas arguing about whether The Empire Strikes Back or Return of the Jedi was better. Will was quiet, just listening, his toes still tracing lazy patterns in the water.

The sun was starting to dip a little lower in the sky and the heat was finally starting to ease up, just a little. The cicadas were buzzing in the trees, and somewhere in the distance Max could hear a lawnmower running. It was peaceful; the kind of peace that made her forget, just for a second, about everything else.

Then she heard the sliding glass door open.

Max turned, and there was Steve, standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips. He'd changed out of his Scoops uniform—thank God, because Max wouldn't be caught dead in that tacky getup and she didn't blame him for ditching it as soon as possible—and was wearing jeans and a plain t-shirt. His hair was still a little messy, like he'd run his hands through it a few too many times, and his expression was already sliding into that look he got when he was about to lecture them.

"What did I tell you guys about the pool?" Steve said, aaannd yep, there it was.

"We're not swimming!" Lucas said immediately, holding up his hands. "We're just sitting here. Look—feet only."

"You're supposed to wait out front," Steve said, stepping out onto the patio. "Not back here. Not by the pool. Not without me."

"Steve, come on—"

"I'm serious, Lucas. You know the rules."

Max felt a small pang of concern. Normally, Steve would have made this more of a thing—go on for at least a few minutes about water safety and drowning statistics and how they were all ‘idiots who didn't understand how dangerous pools could be.’

But this time, he just sighed, his shoulders sagging a little, and rubbed at his temple with two fingers.

Max started to wonder if they shouldn't have come over; if maybe he was feeling worse than she’d thought and they were just making it harder for him. But before she could say anything—before she could even figure out what to say that wouldn’t expose him—Steve was already moving on.

"Alright, what do you guys want for dinner?" he asked, his voice just a tad flatter than usual.

"Pizza!" Mike said immediately.

"Burgers," Lucas chimed in.

"—or tacos," Mike added again.

Steve just stared at them and Max knew he probably hadn’t really heard any of that.

She didn’t actually know for sure if Steve had any hearing damage—she’s talked about it before with El and she didn’t know either—or rather it’d never been confirmed. 

They’re both basically certain, though.

Her books had suggested there was a pretty big chance he did, if not absolute. She noticed the way he turned sometimes when someone talked, and he seemed to favor his right side more—which she guessed made sense based on where he got hit with the plate.

He also couldn’t ever seem to understand anything when everyone is talking at once, and asked them to repeat things pretty often—to the point where it was actually pretty noticeable—and Mike definitely never failed to point it out, asking Steve if he was “slow.” Steve would just laugh, say ‘I don’t know man, probably,’ and then change the subject. 

Max hated it every single time. 

"Um, maybe spaghetti?" Will said after a second, and Steve's gaze shifted to him, his expression softening just a little.

"Spaghetti sounds good," Steve said, and Will smiled up at him.

It was such a small thing, but Max filed it away anyway.

"Alright, come on inside," Steve said, stepping back toward the door. "But dry your feet first. I don't want water all over my floor."

He stood there, arms crossed, watching them as they pulled their feet out of the pool and grabbed their shoes. Max watched the way his eyes tracked each of them, making sure they were moving away from the water, and he didn't head toward the kitchen until all of them were at least a few feet away from the edge.

Only then did he turn and disappear inside.

"Why is he always so weird about the pool?" Mike muttered once Steve was out of earshot, shaking his head as he grabbed a towel. "It's just water."

Lucas snorted. "He's just uptight, man. Like, we're not gonna drown or something."

"He acts like we’re idiots," Mike added, rolling his eyes. “Or that he thinks we don't know how to swim or something. I mean dude, he acts more stressed than my parents do around water.”

Will didn't say anything, just dried his feet quietly, but Max caught the faint smile on his face as he headed through the sliding door.

The rest of them followed, trailing water droplets despite their best efforts, and headed straight for the living room. Mike flopped onto the couch immediately and Lucas claimed the recliner; Will sat down on the other end of the couch, pulling his knees up to his chest.

Max hesitated, glancing back toward the kitchen.

Steve was already moving around in there, pulling out a pot, filling it with water, setting it on the stove. His movements looked stable enough—slow, yeah, but stable.

She watched him for a second longer, and then turned back to the living room.

That was the other thing about Steve, she thought; he let them come over pretty much whenever they wanted, use his house, eat the food he made for them. But, he never really… joined in. He'd cook and then he'd hover in the kitchen or sit off to the side, sometimes he would watch a movie with them—but otherwise he acted like he wasn't allowed to be a part of it or something.

Even though it was his house.

It always made her sad. 

Steve was so good about helping them with stuff—he was really good at taking care of other people. But when it came to him it was almost like… he just didn’t care. Like he didn’t know how to be around them if he wasn’t doing something for them.

Max didn't get it really—but then again, there were a lot of things about Steve she didn't really get.

She sat down on the arm of the couch, pulling her knees up, and tried not to think about it too hard.

…

February 9, 1985

It was snowing.

Not just snowing—dumping. The kind of heavy, wet snow that piled up fast and turned everything outside into a white-out blur. It had been snowing on and off for weeks now, but today was worse than usual. Max could barely see Steve's driveway from the living room window, just a wall of white and the dark shape of his covered car.

Inside, though, it was warm… almost too warm.

Steve had the heater cranked up so high that Max had already peeled off her outer flannel and was down to just her t-shirt. The boys were scattered across the living room in various states of boredom—Dustin upside-down on the couch with his legs draped over the back, Mike lying on the floor staring at the ceiling, Lucas half-asleep in the recliner, and Will curled up in the other corner of the couch with a sketchbook he wasn't really drawing in.

They'd been watching movies for the past few hours. Raiders of the Lost Ark first, then Flash Gordon, and now they were halfway through the start of The Shining, but nobody was really paying attention anymore.

Max could hear the TV, but her focus kept drifting toward the kitchen as she tried to subtly lean back to look, even though she couldn’t see him.

She knew anyway that Steve was at the table, hunched over a textbook with a notebook open beside him; he'd been there since they arrived, studying. Or trying to. Every so often when Max would go into the kitchen, almost always for something she didn’t actually need, she would glance over and catch him rubbing his eyes or staring at the same page for way too long.

She wished she could tell him to take a break, that he still had time—but she knew he was stressed; about school, about graduating, about making up for all the stuff he missed from being out of school for two months. He never mentioned that of course, but… she had her sources.

"I'm borrred," Dustin announced suddenly, his voice loud and drawn-out in a way that made it clear he expected someone else to do something about it.

Nobody responded.

"I'm so borrred," he said again, louder this time, letting his head loll back dramatically. "This is the most bored I've ever been. I might actually die, and then you guys are gonna have to explain to my mom that I died of boredom at Steve's house because nobody would—"

"Dustin, shut up," Mike groaned, throwing an arm over his face.

"I'm just saying—"

"We know," Lucas muttered from the recliner, not even opening his eyes.

Dustin huffed, then suddenly sat up, his face lighting up like he'd just had the best idea in the world.

"We should go outside," he said.

Mike lifted his arm just enough to squint at him. "What?"

"We should go outside!" Dustin said again, already pushing himself up off the couch. "Come on, it's perfect out there. When are we gonna get snow like this again?"

"Uh, probably tomorrow," Lucas said. "It's been snowing for like three weeks straight man."

"Exactly! So that means it’s gonna end soon, and that we should take advantage of it now." Dustin was already on his feet, heading toward the kitchen. "I'm gonna tell Steve."

"Dustin—" Max started, but he was already gone.

She heard his footsteps, then his voice carrying from the kitchen.

"Steve! We wanna go outside."

There was a pause, and then Steve's voice, confused and a little distracted. "What?"

"We wanna go outside," Dustin repeated, a little faster this time. "It's perfect snow out there."

Another pause, and Max could picture Steve blinking at him, trying to process the request while his brain was still stuck on whatever he'd been reading.

"Dustin, I'm—" Steve started.

"Pleeease?" Dustin cut in, and Max could hear the wheedling tone in his voice, the one he used when he really wanted something. "Come on, you can study later. It's perfect, look at it out there!"

There was a longer pause this time, and then Steve sighed.

"Yeah, okay. Fine."

"Yes!" Dustin's voice was triumphant, and a second later he came charging back into the living room, heading straight for the front door. "Come on, let's go!"

"Dude, finally," Mike said, pushing himself up off the floor—as if he hadn’t just been questioning Dustin's plan.

But before anyone could actually make it to the door, Steve rounded the corner from the kitchen, hands on his hips.

"Not so fast," he said, and his voice had that tone—the one that meant he was about to be annoying about something. "If you guys wanna go outside, you're getting bundled up first."

Dustin stopped in his tracks, turning around with an exasperated look. "Steve, come on. We'll be fine."

"I don't care," Steve said, crossing his arms. "It's like… twenty degrees out there. Layers or-or nothing."

"Steve—"

"Layers. Or nothing."

Dustin let out a long, dramatic sigh, his whole body sagging like Steve had just asked him to do something utterly impossible. But he turned around and headed for the pile of coats by the door, muttering under his breath.

"This is so unnecessary."

"Yeah, I know Henderson. It’s annoying when people don’t want you to catch a cold and then… have to spend the next week listening to you whine about it," Steve said, but there was a hint of a smile on his face.

Dustin just rolled his eyes.

The other boys started moving too—Mike grabbing his coat, Lucas stretching as he got up from the recliner, Will carefully setting his sketchbook aside. Max stayed where she was for a moment, watching as they all pulled on their jackets and hats, Dustin still grumbling about how ‘they were going to be fine’ and ‘Steve was being ridiculous as usual.’

But Max wasn't paying attention to Dustin.

She was watching Steve.

He'd moved back toward the kitchen to grab his own coat from where it was draped over one of the chairs and now he was slowly pulling it on, fumbling a bit when he had to turn one of the sleeves inside out. He looked okay—steady on his feet, not swaying or anything—but the bags under his eyes were darker than they'd been the last time she'd seen him.

He’d been pushing himself too hard.

She knew he was. He was trying to keep up in school, trying to make up for all the time he'd lost, all the things his brain didn't do the same way anymore. And it was working, kind of—she knew he was still going to class, still doing his homework, and she knew Hopper was still driving him too and from school—but Max could still see what it was costing him.

Her chest flipped, that familiar guilty ache settling in.

She couldn't help with that; couldn't sit down and help with the homework, couldn't make his brain work faster or try and explain stuff to him so he didn’t have to read so much. She was still in middle school herself—she couldn’t help him understand things she hadn’t even learned yet.

And even if she could be, she's certain Steve would rather die than accept the help.

But she could do this.

She could take over bossing the boys around once they got outside. She could make sure Steve didn't have to worry about them for a little while, didn't have to keep track of where everyone was or whether they were being stupid. She could give him a break.

It felt so inadequate; he did so much for them and she could barely do anything back, not without drawing the attention to him he didn’t want or risk breaking her promise.

It wasn't enough, but it was something.

Max pushed herself up off the arm of the couch and headed for her own coat, pulling it on and wrapping her scarf around her neck. She pulled on her gloves and sat down on the floor to lace up her snow boots and as she did, she glanced over at Steve again.

He was doing the same thing—sitting now and leaning back against the wall, pulling on his boots. His hands were fumbling a little with the laces, his fingers not quite cooperating the way they should. It only took him a few extra seconds to get it, but Max noticed, she always did.

Something warm and tight curled in her chest—pride, maybe, that he'd managed it. Proud that despite everything, he always kept trying even when the simple things were so much harder than they used to be.

She'd never say that out loud, though.

He'd hate it if she did.

By the time she finished with her own boots, the boys had already wrenched the front door open, cold air rushing in, sharp and biting even with the heater going full blast. Dustin was already halfway out the door, Lucas and Mike right behind him, and Will was pulling his hat down over his ears as he followed.

Max stood up, but she didn't head for the door right away.

Steve was still on the floor, and even though his boots were on now, he hadn’t stood up. When he noticed her looking, he gave her a small smile and tilted his head toward the door and made a little ‘go on’ gesture, like he was shooing her outside.

Max hesitated. She wanted to go over and help him up, make it easier on him; but she knew that was off the table—knew that he was telling her to go outside because he didn’t want her to watch him struggle.

So she just stood there for a minute, twisting her gloved hands together.

She was always so scared now, about him falling or tripping or anything else. She knew from her conversations with El that this was at least his third head injury, and his second within a year. She wasn’t supposed to know any of that, but she did. 

Her and El told each other everything; and specifically everything about Steve.

She’d found out that Johnathan of all people had beat him up last year—she didn’t know the details but knew it wasn’t great—but the concussion he got from that wasn’t nearly as bad as last November.

She knew too, about his fall down the stairs as a baby and that it had been pretty bad—that was information El had weaseled out of Hopper. The Chief was still pretty tight-lipped when it came to Steve, but once El had proven that she would be persistent, Hopper had started telling her more of the specific stuff—simply because El knew there was more, and made it clear to Hopper that she needed to be in the know.

Which by extension, meant Max knew everything too.

She also knew from her own reading, that any potential new head injury was like, ten times more dangerous for him—knew that even a single hit if it was bad enough could be fatal.

She could feel the concerned pinch of her brows, knew it was obvious she was stalling, but Steve's smile didn't fade. He just tilted his head to the side a little again.

"Go on, Max. I’ll be right behind you," he actually said this time, his voice quiet.

She didn’t want to but she nodded, and then turned and headed out the door.

The air nipped at her face, sharp and cold even though she'd been expecting it. The snow was coming down in thick, heavy flakes. The boys were already further out in the yard, Dustin scooping up a handful of snow and packing it into a ball.

Max heard the door close behind her, and when she glanced back. Steve was there and she felt her anxiety simmer down a bit—but he wasn't coming down into the yard. He sat down on the top step of the porch instead, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them like he was trying to warm them up even through his gloves.

"Come on, Max!" Dustin called, his voice bright with excitement. "We're doing teams! You're on my team!"

"Like hell I am," Max called back, but she was already grinning.

"Steve!" Dustin shouted, turning toward the porch. "You playing?"

Steve shook his head, still rubbing his hands together. "Nah, I'm good."

"Come on—"

"I don't wanna mess up my hair," Steve said, and even from where she was standing, Max could hear the teasing edge in his voice. "Do you know how long this takes, Henderson?"

Dustin stared at him for a second, then rolled his eyes so hard his whole head moved.

"Fine," he said, throwing his hands up. "Be boring like that."

Steve just grinned.

Max knew better.

Steve probably did want to join in. She'd seen the way he looked at them a lot when they were messing around, like he wanted to be part of it but didn't know how. But she also knew his coordination wasn't what it used to be—his reflexes were slower, his balance was off—she'd read that in one of her books, and seen it for herself too.

The books were overdue, like really overdue by now. She’d eventually stopped going to re-check them out since she was getting tired of being told by the snippy librarian she was ‘defacing them’ with her notes. She was definitely racking up fines she couldn't pay—but she didn't care.

She needed them.

She needed them for Steve.

Even though Steve had no idea she even had them; or that she had an unlabeled notebook she kept in her drawer, something Billy wouldn’t think twice about if he ever found it, full of notes and copied passages about symptoms and what to do and—

"Max, heads up!"

She turned just in time to see Lucas winding up, and then a snowball was flying toward her. She dodged it easily, scooped up her own handful of snow, and packed it tight.

"Oh, you're dead, Sinclair," she said, and then she launched it.

It hit him square in the chest, and he let out a yelp.

"Okay, okay, it's on!" Mike shouted, and suddenly everyone was scrambling for snow, packing it into balls and hurling them at each other.

Max was good at this, definitely better than the boys. 

Her aim was perfect—she nailed Dustin in the shoulder, got Mike in the back, even hit Lucas again when he tried to duck behind a tree. Every time she landed a hit, she felt a little surge of satisfaction.

And then she heard a sound she loved, and it just made her want to pummel the boys with snow even harder, to see if she could keep it going.

Because Steve was laughing.

Not just a chuckle or a huff of air, but a real, full laugh, the kind that was loud enough to carry across the yard even over the sound of the boys shouting.

She didn't hear him laugh like that very often.

She turned to look at him, and he was grinning, his shoulders shaking a little, and when she followed his gaze she saw Dustin standing in the middle of the yard absolutely covered in snow. Someone—probably Lucas—had nailed him right in the face, and now he was sputtering and wiping at his eyes, snow clinging to his hair and his coat.

Max started laughing too, and—

SMACK.

A snowball hit her right in the side of the face.

She froze.

Slowly, she turned around, snow sliding down her cheek and saw Mike standing a few feet away. He looked simultaneously incredibly proud of himself and also like he'd just realized he'd made a terrible mistake.

"Oh, you're done, Wheeler." Max said, her voice low and dangerous.

Mike's eyes went wide. "Wait—"

But Max was already moving, scooping up snow and packing it as fast as she could and launching a full-scale assault. She hit him once, twice, three times, and he was scrambling backward, trying to shield himself, but she didn't let up.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" Mike shouted, but Max just kept going.

She barely even registered what she was doing, though.

All she could focus on was the sound of Steve still laughing, even harder now as she targeted Mike relentlessly.

It was loud; louder than she'd heard in a long time, maybe ever and it made something in her chest feel full and warm and right, like this was exactly what was supposed to be happening.

She wanted to hear him laugh like that more.

She wanted to make sure he could keep laughing like that.

They kept going for a while longer, the snowball fight devolving into chaos—everyone against everyone, no teams, just a free-for-all. Max's hands were freezing under her soaked through gloves and her face was numb and she was pretty sure she had snow down the back of her coat, but she didn't care.

And then finally, Dustin—who had been the one to suggest coming outside in the first place—let out a loud groan.

"Okay, I'm cold," he announced, dropping the snowball he'd been holding. "I wanna go inside."

Max let out a sharp laugh. "You're weak, Henderson."

"I'm not weak," Dustin protested, turning to look at Steve. "Steve, tell Max I'm not weak."

Steve, still sitting on the porch steps just shrugged, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

"I-I don't know, man," he said. "Max isn't really someone I wanna disagree with."

He shot Max a look—just a quick glance, but there was something warm in it, something that made her feel like they were on the same team.

Max tried not to smile too hard.

Dustin sighed, loud and dramatic as always as he rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

He started trudging toward the porch, snow crunching under his boots, and as he climbed past Steve up the steps, Steve called after him.

"Wipe off your boots! And take off all your wet clothes before you get too far inside!"

"Yes, mom," Dustin muttered, already disappearing through the door.

The other boys started following—Lucas first, then Mike and Will, all of them trooping up the steps and past Steve, who was still sitting there covered in a light dusting of snow.

And then it was just Max and Steve.

Steve shook the snow from his arms and brushed it off his pants and shoulders, and went to push himself up to stand and—

His foot slipped on the icy concrete—and Max didn't even think.

She just moved.

She lunged up the stairs, one hand shooting out to grab his arm, the other clutching onto the front of his coat to steady him before he could fall all the way back.

Steve let out a shaky, surprised laugh as his hands scrambled to grip onto her forearms.

She held on until she was sure he was stable, and she knew he was fine when he let go of her. 

But she didn't let go—not yet.

She couldn't even if she wanted too since her fingers were locked in place; she couldn't move them.

She didn't want to. 

"Thanks," he said and his voice was light and a little breathless, and Max could tell he was embarrassed.

She just shrugged, like it was nothing; like her heart wasn’t racing from where it had lurched into the back of her throat.

"No problem," she said.

She didn’t want to let go of him even though she knew he had his footing now. So she forced herself to but still didn't move, waiting for him to head inside first. He gave her a look—something between grateful and self-conscious—and then he turned and carefully made his way across the porch and through the door.

Max followed close behind, brushing snow off her coat as she went.

Inside, the warmth of the house enveloped her and she could already hear Steve's voice from somewhere deeper in the house—probably the hallway, based on the direction.

"Guys, I—I'm serious, take off the wet stuff before you sit down—Mike, that means you—"

"I know, Steve, oh my god," Mike's voice came back, annoyed but compliant.

Max smiled a little as she kicked off her boots by the door and unwrapped her scarf. By the time she made it into the living room, Steve was already in the kitchen pulling out mugs from the cabinet.

Hot cocoa, probably.

He always made them hot cocoa after they came in from the cold.

The boys were peeling off their damp outer layers and arguing about what movie to put on next—Dustin was lobbying hard for Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Mike wanted Airplane!, and Lucas was insisting they should just finish The Shining since they'd already started it.

Max sat down on the arm of the couch, her usual spot, and glanced toward the kitchen.

He was by the stove so she could see him from here, filling a pot with milk and setting it on the burner. His movements were slow still, but he seemed alright.

She settled in a little, pulling her knees up, but she didn't fully relax. She couldn’t, her heart still racing from what just happened on the stairs. So she kept herself perched in a way where she could still see into the kitchen and just watch him while the boys bickered around her.

The guilt was there too, like it always was. That heavy, sick feeling in her stomach that came every time she looked at him and saw the bags under his eyes, or she saw him struggling more with something that used to be easy.

And it was all her fault.

Her “brother” did this to him, because he had been looking for her.

Steve wasn't even eighteen yet, and he was already dealing with symptoms she knew would be chronic. Permanent. Even if they got a little better with time, he'd have them for the rest of his life.

Billy stole everything—his future, his normal, his life.

And there was nothing Max could do about it.

There was nothing anyone could do.

But then Steve laughed at something Dustin said—she was too lost in her own head to even register what it was or that Dustin had even gotten up from the couch and headed to the kitchen—but the sound made Max feel that warmth in her chest again.

He was alive at least; and he was still Steve.

Maybe that was enough.

Maybe that had to be enough.

She pulled her knees up tighter and kept watching, her eyes flicking between the boys arguing in the living room and Steve in the kitchen with Dustin, and she promised herself—again, like she did every time—that she'd keep watching.

She'd keep making sure he was okay.

Because if she couldn't fix what Billy had done, at least she could do that.

…

Steve let them eat in the living room.

He always let them eat in the living room which was something Max had noticed pretty early on. Once upon a time her mom probably would've had a fit if she tried to bring food anywhere near the couch, but Steve just handed out bowls and said something like ‘don't spill’ in a way that made it clear he didn't actually care that much if they did.

Max took another bite of her spaghetti, eyes on the Clue board spread out on the coffee table where the four of them were seated around it.

She was Ms. Scarlet. Will had just shown her the card for the rope under the table, so that's out. She was pretty sure it was the candlestick—Mike had asked about it twice now and nobody had shown him a card. The room was harder to pin down though… maybe the library or the conservatory?

The spaghetti was good—really good—but then again anything Steve made was always good.

Steve was a good cook, they all had learned that pretty quick. Not in the way that he knew how to make a million different things or cared about how it looked, but he was a good cook in the way that what he did make was really, really good.

The spaghetti had the right amount of garlic, the sauce wasn't too sweet and the noodles weren't mushy.

Even Mike didn't ever complain anymore, and Mike complained about everything Steve did.

"Alright, I’m gonna say…," Mike said, leaning forward with his pencil poised over his little detective notepad. "Miss Scarlet—"

"That's me, dipshit," Max said.

"—in the study with the revolver."

Max was sitting next to him, and flipped over the study card with a smirk.

Mike groaned and crossed something out in his notes.

"You're so bad at this," she said.

"I’m not bad at it. I’m just—gathering information."

"You've made four wrong accusations."

"Three."

"Four," Will said quietly, apologetic but firm.

Mike pointed his pencil at Will. "Process of elimination—that’s literally the strategy!"

Lucas rolled the dice, moved his piece—Mr. Green—into the billiard room, and made his suggestion. "Mr. Green, billiard room, lead pipe."

Mike flashed him a card immediately under the table before Lucas could even duck, looking smug as hell about it.

"Wait wait, which one was that?" Lucas asked.

"Not telling. I showed you and you weren't paying attention."

"That's not how the game works, Mike!"

"You only get to see one card once, Lucas. I’m just not telling you which one."

"That's—" Lucas looked at Max. "That's not a real rule, right?"

Max shrugged. She was studying the board, trying to figure out her next move. She needed to get to the conservatory, or the lounge maybe… somewhere Mike hadn't been yet.

"It's strategy!" Mike said.

"It's cheating," Lucas muttered.

Mike scoffed, and rolled his eyes, but eventually showed Lucas the card again under the table, and Lucas scribbled something off.

She should probably be paying attention to who was marking off what, see if she could figure it out based on what she already knew but… she honestly didn’t feel like trying that hard today.

And she was running out of spaghetti.

She scraped the last bit out of her bowl with her fork then stood, heading toward the kitchen.

Lucas looked up as she passed, and she could tell he was trying on his best puppy-dog eyes. "Can you get me more?"

"No," Max said.

"Pleeease?" he said, his face pulling into an exaggerated pout.

"No." But she had to wrinkle her nose to keep herself from smiling as she sighed dramatically and held out her hand. Lucas grinned up at her and handed over his bowl.

"Get me some too." Mike said, already holding out his bowl.

She turned to him deadpan. "Absolutely not."

Mike's face twisted into an annoyed grimace and he pushed himself off the floor with a huff and followed her into the kitchen, muttering something under his breath about favoritism.

Well duh? Of course Lucas was her favorite.

Max just rolled her eyes.

The pot was still on the stove, lid slightly askew and steam was curling up lazily from the gap. She opened the pot and grabbed the serving spoon, scooping spaghetti into Lucas's bowl first, then hers.

Mike elbowed past her to get his own, and she rolled her eyes again but stepped aside.

She looked over at the kitchen table where Steve was sitting. He had one elbow propped up on the table, leaning his face on his hand. His eyes were closed and there was a bowl in front of him, still half-full.

"What are you doing?" Mike asked, glancing over.

Steve didn't respond.

Mike frowned. "Steve."

Still nothing.

"Steve," Mike said again, sharper.

Steve startled, his eyes snapping open, his hand dropping from his face, "Wait—what?"

Mike scoffed, rolling his eyes as he turned back to the stove. "Whatever."

He scooped more spaghetti into his bowl and headed back toward the living room without another word.

Max stayed where she was, holding both bowls, her eyes still on Steve.

God she kinda wished that she could slap Mike sometimes, or at least flick his forehead or something. She wished she could tell Mike that that sometimes he just needed to shut the fuck up.

She had clearly learned he didn’t like Steve when he was dating Nancy, and didn’t even like him much afterwards either. But it totally pissed Max off the way she treated him now, especially when Steve was nothing but nice to him—and Mike just tried to rile him up on purpose.

She tried to stop it when she could but… she couldn’t make it obvious or make it seem like Steve needed her to defend him—because that would only make things worse.

Mike was already was the one to point out when Steve stuttered or tripped up on his words, the one who made snide little comments about his intelligence that were just a little more malicious than everyone else’s relatively light-hearted teasing. Steve always laughed it off, or tried to make the joke himself before Mike even could. 

Mike could be a total dick sometimes sure, but he wasn’t a bad person—not at all; and he said the things he said to Steve because it was routine and familiar, and predated even her move to Hawkins. 

Deep down she knows it’s because Mike doesn’t know, that he doesn’t really mean it, that he would stop immediately if he knew what the real cause was. 

But… that wasn’t her story to tell.

Steve looked at her, and she must've looked concerned—she could feel it on her face, the tightness in her expression—because he gave her a small nod. Then he gestured with his head toward the living room, ‘go on.’

Max nodded back.

"Thanks again for cooking," she said.

Steve's mouth twitched into a lopsided smile. "Of course. Anytime."

It was such a Steve thing to say, easy and casual; like nothing he ever did for them was a big deal.

Max gave him a small smile in return, and headed back to the living room.

…

February 18th, 1985

The rain had been coming down all day—steady, relentless, the kind of gray drizzle that made everything outside look washed out mushy and miserable. It drummed against the windows, turning the world beyond the glass into a blur of muted colors and running water. The sky had been the same flat, colorless gray since morning, and it didn't look like it was going to let up anytime soon.

It was a Monday but they were given the day off from school, Washington’s birthday or something, she didn't really care. 

All Max cared about, that she had been stuck at Steve's dining room table for what felt like forever.

The boys were deep into their D&D campaign, hunched over the table with their character sheets and dice scattered everywhere. Mike was in full Dungeon Master mode, his voice rising and falling dramatically as he described some dungeon corridor or monster or whatever. Dustin kept interrupting with questions about loot, Lucas was arguing about attack rolls and Will was sketching something in the margins of his character sheet, probably some creature Mike had just described.

And Max was bored out of her mind.

She'd tried to get into it at first—she really had. But after the first hour her attention had started to wander. After the second hour she'd started fidgeting. Now, three hours in, she was pretty sure she was going to lose it if she had to sit through one more lengthy debate about whether a certain spell could be used in a certain way.

She sighed. Loudly.

Nobody even looked up.

She sighed again, even louder this time, and slumped back in her chair with her arms crossed.

Still nothing.

Mike was too busy talking about some trap the party had just triggered, and the others were either flipping through the player's handbook, or had their eyes glued on Mike.

Max rolled her eyes and let out another exaggerated sigh, this one practically a groan.

Mike's eyes flicked toward her for half a second this time, and she saw the tiniest flash of irritation cross his face, but he didn't say anything. He just kept talking, his voice maybe a little bit louder than before, like he was trying to drown her out.

Fine. Whatever.

She pushed her chair back slightly and glanced around the dining room, looking for literally anything else to focus on. The rain continued to streak down the windows, distorting the view of the backyard. The light above the table cast a warm, steady glow that felt too cozy for how incredibly annoyed she was feeling. The house was quiet except for the boys' loud voices and the sound of dice clattering against the table.

That was when she realized something.

Steve.

She frowned, sitting up a little straighter and looking toward the kitchen. The doorway was empty. She craned back to glance into the living room; no sign of him there either.

That was weird.

Not that Steve ever actually played D&D with them—because he never really did anything with them instead of just for them—but Max had figured out after a while that it wasn't because he thought it was ‘nerdy’ or whatever, no matter how much Mike insisted that was the case.

The noise bothered him—all the shouting and constant talking. It gave him headaches.

Migraines, actually. Bad ones.

But even though Steve didn't play, he usually stuck around. He'd hover in the kitchen, or sit in the living room with the TV on low, or even just sit there with his head tilted back and his eyes closed. He'd intervene occasionally to make snacks, bring them drinks, check in every so often to make sure they didn’t need anything.

He was always around somewhere.

Except right now he wasn't.

Max glanced toward the kitchen again, then toward the living room. She couldn't see him in either place. And now that she was thinking about it, she couldn't actually remember the last time she'd seen him at all.

An hour ago, maybe? He'd brought them sodas and some chips at Dustin's request, and she remembered him looking a little tired, but not bad. Not worse than usual.

But that had been a while ago.

Too long.

A faint prickle of unease started to creep up the back of her neck.

She pushed her chair back and stood up, and this time Mike did look at her, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his tone just annoyed enough to make it clear he thought she was being disruptive on purpose.

Which honestly… was kinda fair. Not that she would ever say that outloud.

"Bathroom," Max said flatly. “Or do I need your permission, Dungeon Master.”

Mike's expression soured a little more, but he didn't argue; just turned back to the game, already launching into his next description.

Max was pretty sure he was glad she was leaving, probably thought he wouldn't have to listen to her sighing anymore.

Whatever. She didn't care.

She had something far more important to do now.

She left the dining room and headed down the hall, her socked-feet quiet against the hardwood floor. The sound of the boys' voices faded slightly behind her, muffled by distance and the continuous patter of rain against the windows.

The house felt too quiet away from the dining room, too still.

She double-checked the living room first, poking her head through the doorway. Empty, but then again she knew it would be; the TV was off, the couch untouched.

No sign of Steve.

She moved on to the kitchen—still also empty. The sink was clean, the counters clear except for the bag of chips he'd left out earlier. The light above the stove was on, but there was no one there.

Max frowned, the unease in her chest growing a little stronger.

Where the hell was he?

She walked further down the hall, past the stairs, toward the far end of the house. There was a bathroom down here, and a couple of other rooms Steve mostly kept closed. She didn't come down this way very often—none of them did. It was too far from where they usually hung out.

The bathroom door, she noticed then, was just barely closed. Not all the way, just pulled mostly shut, like someone had tried to close it but hadn't quite managed or they hadn't had the energy.

Max slowed down, her heart starting to beat a little faster.

She took a few more steps and that was when she actually heard it.

Retching.

The sound was muffled but unmistakable; wet and harsh and awful, followed by a shaky gasping inhale and the sound of the toilet flushing.

Max froze.

Her first instinct was to back away, to pretend she hadn't heard anything, to go back to the dining room and let Steve deal with whatever was happening on his own.

But she couldn't move.

So she just stood there, staring at the bathroom door, her mind racing.

She knew migraines could make people throw up. She'd read about it.

But he'd never been this bad around them before. He'd always managed to hold it together, or at least hide it well enough that the boy’s didn't notice.

This was different.

This was bad.

And it was probably their fault.

They'd been here for hours: many loud, long, chaotic, obnoxious hours, and Steve hadn't said anything. He hadn't told them to leave, hadn't asked them to quiet it down. He'd just let them stay, like he always did, even though it was clearly making him sick.

Because he wouldn't ever tell them to leave. Max knew that. Steve was too—she didn't even know what the word was. 

Too nice? Too much of a pushover? Too worried about being a bad babysitter or a bad friend or whatever?

He'd just choose to suffer through it, and he was suffering now. She could hear it.

Max's hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.

She needed to get the boys out of here. Now.

But she couldn't just tell them Steve was sick. They'd ask questions; want to know what was wrong, if he was okay, if they should call someone. And she knew Steve didn't want them to know, and she’d promised not to tell.

So she needed an excuse.

Something that would get them to leave without making it seem like a big deal.

She could say she was bored, that she couldn't take another second of D&D, that she was going to lose her mind if she had to sit there any longer.

That could work. The boys already thought she was being annoying and if she made a big enough stink about it, they'd pack up the game just to shut her up.

Yeah. Okay. She could do that.

Max took a breath, trying to steady herself, trying to figure out exactly what she was going to say—

And then the bathroom door opened.

Steve leaned out, one hand gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright, and Max nearly gasped out loud.

He looked awful.

Worse than he had an hour ago. Worse than she'd ever seen him, aside from the one fateful day in November.

His face was pale, almost gray, and there was a sheen of sweat across his forehead and upper lip. His hair was a mess, damp and sticking to his skin. His eyes were half-closed, like even the light in the hallway was too much, and there were dark circles under them that hadn't been there before.

He was trying to look casual—she could tell. He was trying to act like everything was fine, like he hadn't just been throwing up, like he wasn't two seconds away from keeling over.

It wasn't working.

"Hey," he said, and his voice was rough and strained, barely above a whisper. He tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. "You… you need the bathroom?"

Max stared at him, her throat tight.

She thought suddenly then about the Byers’ house and about Billy; about the books on brain damage and head trauma and how this was just Steve’s life now.

And she thought the same thought she always did: how it was all her fault.

"Are you okay?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

"Yeah," Steve said immediately, and it was such an obvious lie that Max almost wanted to laugh. "Yeah, m’fine. Just… just—uh—"

He trailed off, like he couldn't even come up with an excuse, and his grip on the doorframe tightened. His knuckles were white.

"Sit down," she said, her voice coming out sharper than she meant it to.

Steve blinked at her, confused. "Wh… what?"

"Sit down," Max repeated, softer this time but still firm, stepping closer. "You look like you're about to fall over."

"I'm… fine," Steve said again, but his voice wavered and his head dropped to rest against the doorframe too, and he looked like he was about to pass out.

"Steve—"

"I—I'm fine, Max," he said, and this time there was an edge to his voice—not angry just—just tired. So, so tired. "Just… go back to the game, okay? I'll…I'll be out in… inna minute."

Max opened her mouth to argue, but then she saw the look in his eyes.

He didn't want her here. He didn't want her to see him like this.

And she got it, really. She did.

But that didn't mean she was just going to leave him like this.

"Okay," she said slowly, nodding. "Okay. Just—sit down. Please."

Steve hesitated and for a second she thought he was going to argue—but he was leaning so heavily against the doorframe and she knew he couldn't stand for much longer.

So Max stepped forward and gently placed her hand on his arm. His skin was too warm through his sleeve and she could feel the tension in his muscles.

"Come on," she said quietly as she started pushing him gently backwards. "Steve, please."

Steve didn't resist. He let her move him, and when the back of his legs hit the closed lid he sank down onto it, his head immediately dropping into his hands.

Max let go and watched him for another second, her heart pounding, and then she turned and walked back down the hall.

She didn't go straight back to the dining room right away. She stopped just outside the doorway, her hands still clenched into fists, and took a breath.

And then she walked in.

Showtime.

"Alright," she said loudly, cutting off whatever Mike was saying mid-sentence. "I'm done. I can't do this anymore."

Mike looked up, his expression already annoyed. "Max—"

"No, seriously," Max said, crossing her arms. "I've been sitting here for three hours listening to you guys argue about imaginary dungeons or whatever and I'm losing my mind. We need to wrap this up."

"We're in the middle of a campaign!" Mike protested.

"Then pause it," Max shot back. "I'm suffering here, Wheeler. I've suffered enough."

Dustin groaned. "Come on, Max, we're almost done with this part—"

"You've been saying that for an hour," Max said. "Pack it up. Let's go."

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "You want to bike home in the rain?"

"I want to leave," Max said firmly. "So yeah. We're biking home in the rain."

Mike's face twisted into a scowl. "This is so stupid—"

"Then you should've made the campaign shorter," Max said. "Come on, let's go."

She could see Mike gearing up to argue more, his mouth opening, but then Will started quietly gathering his dice, and Dustin sighed and started packing up his stuff, and Lucas shrugged and followed suit.

Mike glared at her, but he started packing up too, muttering under his breath about how ‘this was bullshit and they were never going to finish at this rate.’

Max ignored him.

She glanced toward the hallway, her stomach twisting.

Steve was coming down the hall, moving slowly, one hand trailing along the wall since he needed the support. He'd clearly tried to pull himself together—his hair was a little less messy, his face a little less gray—but it wasn't enough. Max could still see how much effort it was taking him just to stay upright. The way his shoulders were tense, the way his jaw was clenched, the way his eyes were still half-closed against the light.

He was trying so hard to seem normal.

It was breaking her heart.

The boys didn't notice thankfully, too busy shoving their character sheets into folders and talking about where they were going to pick up next time. 

Steve made it to the edge of the living room and leaned against the wall, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. Relaxed.

Max could see right through it.

"Heading out?" Steve asked, and his voice sounded almost normal…almost.

"Yeah," Dustin said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "Max is being a pain."

"I'm being realistic," Max corrected. "It's not totally pouring out there right now. We should get home before it gets worse again."

“Well why can’t Steve just drive us?” Mike asked her, still glaring.

“Because you all have your bikes, stupid. They won’t fit in the car. And do you really want to be stranded at home without your bike?” she asked.

Mike rolled his eyes but didn't argue. I stead he grabbed his stuff and headed for the door, the others following suit.

“Yeah,” Max said. “That’s what I thought Wheeler.”

Mike just scoffed.

"Thanks for letting us come over, Steve," Will said quietly, giving him a small smile.

"Yeah, no problem," Steve said, and he even managed a smile back. It didn't reach his eyes. "See you… guys later."

"Later, Steve!" Dustin called, already halfway out the door.

Lucas waved, and Mike muttered something that might've been a goodbye.

And then they were gone, the door swinging shut behind them, leaving just Max and Steve standing in the hallway.

The house felt blessedly quiet without the boys' voices filling it, just the sound of the rain against the windows and the faint hiss of the heater.

Max looked at Steve.

He was still leaning against the doorframe, but now that the boys were gone he wasn't trying as hard to hold himself together. His shoulders sagged and his head rested against the wall as he closed his eyes and let out a slow, shaky breath.

And then he opened them and looked at her. It was just for a second—just a quick glance, his eyes meeting hers—but it was enough.

He knew.

He knew that she knew.

And she knew that he knew that she knew.

Steve gave her the tiniest nod, barely there, just a small dip of his chin, his expression unreadable.

But Max didn't grab her skateboard yet.

Instead, she stepped forward and reached out, her fingers closing around the sleeve of Steve's sweater. She tugged gently, pulling him away from the doorframe.

"Come on," she said quietly.

Steve didn't argue. He just let her guide him, and when he lifted his hand to rest it on her shoulder for support, she could feel how badly he was shaking.

She was honestly surprised he didn't put up more of a fight, which meant he must really be feeling like shit.

They made their way slowly to the couch, and Max waited until Steve sank down onto it, leaning back heavily into the cushions. He pinched his eyes shut and she could see him grinding his teeth. 

"What do you need?" Max asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Steve cracked one eye open to look at her—and Max wanted to cry.

He looked so ashamed.

"Please," she said, her throat tight and she could hear her own voice wavering. "Just let me help. I know this isn’t what you want but-but I can't—Steve I can’t just leave you like this."

Steve was quiet for a long moment, and finally he nodded, just barely.

"Bathroom cabinet," he said, and his words were slow and slightly slurred together, much worse than they had been when he was talking to the boys. "There's uhh… s’medication. Orange bottle… s'called Cafergot."

Max nodded and turned, heading down the hall to the bathroom, and when she flicked the light back on and opened the cabinet above the sink—her heart dropped into her stomach, and she felt the familiar burn of pressure starting behind her eyes.

There were so many medications.

Bottles and bottles lined up neatly on the shelves, some half-empty, some full. She didn't mean to snoop—she really didn't—but she had to read the labels to find the right one.

There were medications for vertigo, anti-nausea, anti-seizure, multiple different medications for migraines, stuff for sleeping, different kinds of painkillers—some over the counter kind she recognized but most of them were in the same orange prescription bottles—and there were older bottles of antibiotics too.

She finally saw one with Cafergot printed on it, but Max had to take a second. She squeezed her eyes shut and bowed her head, her hands gripping the edge of the sink; because suddenly it felt like there was an elephant sitting on her chest and she needed to stop the tears that had spilled over her lids and tracked down her cheeks.

She wiped her face quickly and grabbed the right bottle, then hesitated for a second before grabbing the bottle of anti-nausea medication too.

On her walk to the kitchen she tried to focus on the fact that she somehow didn't know that his name was actually Steven or that his middle name was Joseph or literally anything else other than what she just saw.

In the kitchen she filled a glass with water—not all the way, just halfway—and headed back to the living room.

Steve was still leaning back against the couch, his eyes closed.

Max walked over and held out the glass. "Here."

Steve opened his eyes and reached for it. His hands were shaking, and she could see the water sloshing around… which was exactly why she only filled it halfway.

"How many?" she asked, the bottles gripped tightly in her hands.

"Uhh... two."

Max shook two pills out into her palm and handed them to him. Steve held them for a second before knocking them back.

“I… I saw one for nausea too and I brought it out—I don’t know if you can take it but, I don’t know I thought—maybe it might help?” 

“Yeah… sorry I… I forgot t’ask for that too,” he paused for a second and took a breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re… you’re’a smart kid Max… thanks.” 

“Yeah, of course” Max said as she nodded, and she could feel her lip wobbling as she twisted the cap off. “How many?”

“Jus… just one.” 

She shook one out and handed it to him. She watched him take that one too, then took the glass from him and set it on the coffee table, leaving the medications within reach too. She doesn’t know if he would need any more or if he could even take anymore, but she leaves them there just in case. 

Steve was already leaning his head back again, his eyes closing.

"Thanks," he said, his voice barely audible.

"Of course," Max said. She doubled back to the kitchen and opened the cabinet she was pretty sure he kept the mixing bowls in, and then headed back to the living room, carefully putting it next to him. 

She doesn’t know if he’s gonna get sick again—but just in case. But before she could even ask what else he needed, Steve spoke again.

"Fuck, Max… I… m’sorry."

"Stop," Max said immediately, because if Steve kept talking she was going to start crying again. "Please, please don't say that. You have nothing to be sorry for Steve, okay? Nothing."

But Steve just slowly shook his head. "You shouldn—" Steve's voice cracked slightly, but he didn't open his eyes. "You shouldn't need t'help."

Max didn't even know how to respond to that.

"I don't—Steve, I don't need to do anything. I want to make sure you're okay because I—I can't just not do anything, okay? I can't."

Steve was quiet for a minute, his jaw working like he was trying to find words, or maybe trying not to say them. She couldn't tell. 

"Thanks," he said after another second, even softer this time "S'okay Max. M'good...really you can head... out."

Max wanted to stay, she wanted to stay here more than anything. She wanted to stay here and call Hopper, wait until he got here. She wanted to tell Steve that he didn't have to pretend, that she knew he wasn't okay, that she knew so much about this now, that she couldn't stop reading about it. 

She wanted to tell him she had mountains of books about what happened to him, what happened to his fucking brain—wanted to tell him she had a notebook dedicated to this and it was already half full.

But she could tell Steve wanted her to leave, and she knew he didn't want someone to witness this, and especially not her.

"Steve didn’t want you guys to know," Hopper had said, that day she showed up at Steve’s house in November, only to find Hopper at the door and to see Steve asleep and looking like shit with thick white bandages wrapped around his head. "He made me promise not to tell you. Any of you. He doesn't want you to know what happened. And not pressing charges—that's part of keeping it quiet."

"That's insane. We have a right to know. He saved our lives, and now he's—"

"I know," Hopper had interrupted her. "But it's his choice, Max. It's his life, and he gets to decide how to handle it."

"I know you want to help. I know you want to make this right. But the best thing you can do for Steve right now is respect his wishes. Let him have control over this. Let him decide how to handle it."

"It's not fair."

"No," Hopper had agreed. "It's not."

And maybe that was worse—knowing he'd rather be alone than let her see him like this.

She needs to leave—and she needs to call Hopper because she can’t do it here. She knows that Steve will let Hopper stay, that he’ll let Hopper actually help him. She knows he will come over as soon as she hangs up, and Steve won’t have to know she'd told anyone.

But what if something happened between now and then?

"Do you need anything else?" she asked, one more time.

"M’okay," Steve said. 

Max nodded. "Okay."

She hesitated for a moment longer, and she needed to stop talking before she started just sobbing. "See you, Steve," she said quietly.

"Yeah," Steve said, his voice rough. "See ya, Max. Thanks ‘gain… and, get… get’ome safe, ‘kay?"

“Yeah I will, thanks.” 

She grabbed her board from where she'd left it against the wall and opened the front door carefully. Her eyes were watering again by the time she stepped out onto the porch and gently pulled the door shut behind her. She pulled her hood up as she hustled down the stairs and dropped her skateboard onto the wet pavement by the end of Steve's driveway. 

She left, the rain soaking through her hair and jacket almost immediately. Her wheels hissed against the slick pavement, and she could feel the spray kicking up against her ankles with every push.

She was glad it was raining; it made it easier to ignore the fact that she cried the whole way home.

…

By the time she got to her house her hair was plastered to her face, her clothes heavy with water, her sneakers squelching with every step and she didn't fucking care.

She dropped her skateboard by the door and headed straight for the phone in the kitchen, ignoring her mom's voice calling from the living room about getting water all over the floor.

She dialed the number she'd memorized months ago, her frigid wet fingers fumbling slightly on the rotary dial.

It rang twice before someone picked up.

"Hopper," came the gruff voice on the other end.

"Hey," Max said, keeping her voice low. "It's Max."

There was a pause. "Max? Everything okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." She swallowed, gripping the phone tighter and had to pinch her eyes shut again. "Please go check on Steve."

“What happened?” and she could hear him moving already, keys jingling. “Is he okay?”

“It was so bad, Hopper,” and she was nearly sobbing again. “He was throwing up and he could barely talk. I—" she had to pause to take a breath. "I made sure he got the medication he needed before I left but he—he shouldn't be alone right now."

"Alright. I'm heading over now."

She opened her mouth, but nothing else came out. Her breath hitched loudly—once, then again—"Hopper he's..."

"I know, kid, I've got him," his voice softer now. "You helped him, okay? You did good, Max."

She nodded even though he couldn't see her, wiping at her face with her wet sleeve. 

"Okay," she responded, her voice warbling. 

"Bye, Max."

"Bye."

The line clicked.

Max hung up the phone.

…

By the time they finished the game—Will won—Mike was already pushing himself up from the floor, stretching his arms over his head.

"Steve!" he called toward the kitchen. "You should bake something."

Max looked up from where she'd been helping Will pack away the game pieces. Steve was leaning against the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, his arms crossed. 

"Bake something?" Steve said, raising an eyebrow. "You guys already weaseled free ice cream out of me like two hours ago."

"Yeah, and that was hours ago," Mike said, like that settled it. "Come on."

Steve let out a long, exaggerated sigh, but Max could see the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"Fine," he said, pushing off the doorframe and standing up straighter, and she could see him subtly turn so his right side was facing them more. "What do you guys want?"

Immediately, chaos erupted as the boys started shouting stuff all at once.

"Cookies!"

"Brownies!"

"No, wait—"

"Cookies are better—"

"You guys are idiots, brownies are obviously—"

"Okay, okay, okay," Steve said, holding both hands up in a gesture of surrender. The boys kept arguing, their voices overlapping, and Steve just stood there for a second looking vaguely overwhelmed.

Then his gaze shifted, landing on Max.

"How about," he said, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the arguing, "We let Max pick?"

The room went quiet and Mike's head whipped around. "What? Why does she get to pick?"

Steve just raised an eyebrow at him again, his expression flat and unimpressed.

Mike deflated slightly. "I mean—fine."

His eyes flicked back to her. "Max gets to pick," he said again, his tone leaving no room for argument. "What do you want?"

The boys immediately started talking at her—which she ignored—because Steve didn't look away from her. She could feel the weight of his attention, the way he was waiting for her answer, and she tried to think.

She didn't want to pick something complicated; nothing that would make him stand in the kitchen for an hour mixing and measuring and dealing with the oven. He was already tired—she could see it in the way he was holding himself, the slight slump to his shoulders, the faint shadows under his eyes.

Something easy. Something that wouldn't take too long.

"Banana bread?" she asked finally.

That was a good choice; it was easy to make and only used one bowl, one pan and it took a long time to cook, which meant that he could sit down for a while after putting it in the oven. 

Steve's expression softened, and he nodded. "You got it,” he said and turned back toward the kitchen.

Behind her, the boys were already scrambling toward the sofa, their protests forgotten as they started fighting over the remote.

"I'm picking!" Mike said.

"No way, you picked last time!" Lucas shot back, grabbing for it at the same time.

Max just sighed, shaking her head. "You guys are absolute children, it’s exhausting."

To prove her point, Lucas turned towards her and stuck out his tongue, and she had to fight very fucking hard to keep the blank look on her face and not to smile. She knows she kinda failed when he gives her a satisfied little smirk anyway. 

Will settled in next to Mike on the couch, just looking relieved to be out of the fray.

Max stayed where she was for a moment longer, her gaze still on Steve in the kitchen. He was pulling out a mixing bowl from one of the lower cabinets and she felt that familiar feeling in her stomach—the one that always came with watching him, knowing what he'd been through, and wanting so badly to just make sure he was okay and that there wasn’t something she was missing.

He glanced over, catching her eye, and gave her a small smile.

She smiled back.

Then she pushed off the floor and headed for the couch, squeezing in next to Lucas as Mike and Will continued to deliberate on what to watch.  

“You okay?” Lucas asked her quietly, and when she turned she could see the concern on his face, and Max felt her heart swoop a little. 

He didn’t know about Steve, and no matter how much she wanted to tell him, to be able to talk about it with him, she knew that she couldn’t. 

Because Steve trusted her not to say anything and she couldn’t break that promise—not even for Lucas. 

But she couldn’t hide from him, not fully. She never could, she didn’t want to, and he always seemed to know when something was up. 

She just nodded, and he gave her a look that clearly said, ‘Yeah, no, I don’t think so,’ but he didn’t push it. He just reached across his lap and grabbed her hand, giving it a little squeeze. 

“Just let me know, okay?” he said, still quiet. 

She nodded again. “Okay.” 

He moved his arm then, the one squished between them and moved it to rest around her shoulders, and she leaned further into him. He was still holding her hand, and she let her head drop down to his shoulder. 

She knew he would understand why she couldn’t tell him—he seemed to know that there was something going on already, even if he didn’t know what. 

But he was here, and that was enough. 

She closed her eyes for a second and let herself breathe, a quiet, small inhale, focusing on the warmth of him against her side.

And when she squeezed his hand, he squeezed back.