The Wheeler's basement light hummed low, casting a warm amber glow over the worn carpet and the haphazard circle of beanbags and mismatched chairs. Dice clattered across the coffee table as Dustin rolled for initiative while Lucas groaned about unfair modifiers and Will sketched something intricate in the margins of the campaign notebook.

And Eleven was curled next to you with a Spider-Man comic, bare feet tucked under her, her expression unreadable but peaceful.

Your fingers twist Max’s red scrunchie around your wrist, the elastic soft from months of wear, of secret tugs and shared silences, of her pulling it off and slipping it into your hand during late-night talks in the school parking lot.

You’ve been waiting for her.

Half an hour late. That’s not like Max. Max is punctual—if she says she’s coming, she’s there, skateboard under one arm, smirk already in place. But tonight? Nothing.

After almost forty minutes, the basement door creaked open and Max stood at the top of the stairs, one hand still on the doorknob, the other brushed self-consciously at her hair.

It’s shoulder-length, choppy, like she took a pair of scissors to it in the bathroom mirror after school and didn’t look back.

“Hey,” she said, voice low, trying to sound casual. “Sorry I’m late. Billy had the car.”

“Uh,” Dustin said, dice forgotten. “Did we miss something?”

“Max?” Lucas blinked. “What’d you do?”

She grimaced. “Spur of the moment. Don’t freak out.”

“It’s not bad,” Will offered gently. “It just… looks different.”

Eleven, still curled in the corner with her Spider-Man comic, peered over the edge with wide eyes. “You look… brave.”

Max exhaled, half laugh, half sigh and finally stepped forward, her gaze finding yours last.

And when it did, something shifted. The room blurred. The dice, the game, Mike’s half-finished monster stat block, it all faded beneath the quiet intensity in her eyes.

She walked straight to you.

“Hey,” she murmured, dropping onto the sofa beside you, close enough that her shoulder pressed against yours.

“Hey yourself.” You turned to look at her, eyebrow raising. “You didn’t have to do it.”

She didn't look at you, instead, she stared at the D&D board, at the little plastic dragon Mike’s been eyeing all night. “I wanted to,” she lied.

“You regret it.”

She stiffened. Then exhaled. “Okay. Maybe. It just… felt like too much. Like I was still holding on to something I don’t need anymore.” Her fingers twitched in her lap. “Or something I shouldn’t need. You know?”