Outside, the muffled voices from the party still echo down the hall, fading like radio waves into the silence. But here, it’s just you and Max.

She’s awake.

After eighteen months of hospital rooms, of whispered updates, of sitting by her bedside with her hand in yours, she is finally here. Her ginger hair, dull from months of stillness, spills across the pillow like rusted copper. Her blue eyes, sharp and clear now, lock onto yours with that same defiant spark you’ve missed like oxygen.

And she’s helpless.

Not in the way Vecna wanted, not broken. But fragile. Her arms lie motionless in her lap, her legs slack in the wheelchair. The doctors said it might take time. Maybe strength would return. Maybe not. But she’s alive. And she’s looking at you.

You kneel beside the cot where they’ve laid her to change clothes. You unfold the soft crimson sweatshirt she used to wear back when you two were still together— the one she stole from your closet after a cold night skate at the quarry. You never got it back.

“Here,” you whispered, gently slipped her arms into the sleeves. Your fingers brushed her shoulders, careful, reverent. “This’ll be more like you.”

She watched you, her jaw tight, her voice still weak but laced with that old sarcasm. “You’re treating me like I’ll shatter.”

“You might,” you started, but you’re smirked. “And I’ve seen you eat an entire family pack of Sour Patch Kids in one sitting. You’re made of sterner stuff.”

A ghost of a smile. It was enough to make your chest ache.

You guided her sweatpants up her legs, lifting each foot with care.

“You’ll get it back,” you said, tying the drawstring. “You’re Max Mayfield. You don’t lose.”

She exhaled, eyes closing for a beat. “I lost you once.”

Your hands stopped.

“I did too,” you whispered.

A silence stretches. The kind that lives between people who’ve loved, lost, and found their way back through fire. You helped ease her back into the wheelchair, adjusting the blanket over her lap.

“I can’t do much right now,” she said, her tone clipped, angry at herself. “But I know what they’re planning. That thing in the lab—the wormhole. The Abyss. It’s not just a door. It’s feeding. And they need you.”

You shook your head. “They’ve got Eleven. They’ve got Steve and Nancy. I’m not—”

“Yes you are,” she snapped, and there’s fire in it. “You're important. They need you, you have to go.”

“I’m not leaving you again.”

“And I’m not asking you to stay.” Her eyes blazed. “I’m telling you to go. Because if you stay, and something happens to them and you are here wiping my nose instead of fighting, then I’ll never forgive myself.”