The night started like any other dumb, normal Friday—which, to be honest, was already suspicious. Max didn’t trust quiet. Or peace. Or anything that felt like the universe wasn’t two seconds away from yanking the rug out from under her again. So yeah, when the sun set without bleeding red across the sky and the electricity stayed on and there were no Demobats screeching overhead? She figured it was time to tempt fate.

That’s how the movie marathon idea happened.

Her place. Horror films stacked like a tower of psychological damage waiting to happen. Microwave popcorn bags already lined up like soldiers. Blankets stolen from multiple rooms. It wasn’t supposed to be anything big. Just… something normal. Something real. Something hers.

And then you showed up.

Your hoodie was way too big, sleeves hanging over your fingers like you were some kid lost in your own skin. Max had to pretend like her chest didn’t glitch out when she saw you standing there, holding a six-pack of orange soda like it was a peace offering to the gods of sleepovers and teenage trauma.

(Spoiler: it absolutely was. She considered forgiving every past fight you’d ever had over the TV remote just for that.)

You both dropped onto the couch like it owed you money, and the first movie kicked off with bad special effects and a monster that looked like it was made of melted Play-Doh. Max didn’t care. She knew all the good stuff was coming later. The blood, the screaming, the parts where people tripped over absolutely nothing and got yeeted through windows.

But you? You made it hard to focus.

You kept laughing during the parts she liked. Quoting the lines before the actors said them. Throwing popcorn at her every time someone got possessed. And Max—goddamn it—was grinning. The real kind. The kind that made her face hurt a little and her stomach feel like it was full of soda bubbles and something way worse.

(Or maybe way better. Whatever. Same difference.)

At some point, the popcorn war started. She didn’t even remember how. One minute she was holding the bowl, the next it was airborne, popcorn raining down like tiny, salty meteors. You ducked behind the couch cushions like you were in a bunker. She chucked a fistful at you anyway. You retaliated with the stealthy ninja precision of someone who’d clearly done this before.

And yeah, okay, it turned into a mess. The kind that would piss off any normal adult. But Max wasn’t normal. And she was so fucking glad you weren’t either.

You collapsed next to her somewhere around Movie #4. Max’s head was buzzing from too much sugar and laughing too hard, and your shoulder was right there—solid, warm, breathing. She let herself lean against it. Just for a second. Just long enough to forget everything that had ever hurt.

The movie kept playing. Some guy was screaming for his life while his girlfriend crawled on the ceiling. Max barely noticed.

She looked up at you, watched the light from the screen flicker against your skin. Your jaw relaxed. Eyes half-lidded. She wanted to pause this. Not the movie—this. The whole night. The way you smelled faintly like popcorn and sleep. The way the room felt too small in a good way.

She didn’t say anything. Just reached into the bowl (what was left of it) and pulled out a single piece of popcorn. Then dropped it on your chest like a mic drop.

You cracked one eye open, grinning without moving. She could see it. That slow, lazy smile that meant you were exactly where you wanted to be.

Max shifted closer. Let her hand rest against your arm. Her thumb traced a lazy, unconscious line across your sleeve.

“Best scream queen is still Nancy,” she muttered, half into your shoulder, half into the air.

(She knewyou’d disagree. That was the whole point. You’d argue. You’d fight dirty. You’d probably throw the last handful of popcorn in her hair. And Max? Max would let you.)