Running becomes a habit before it becomes a plan.

At first, it’s just survival, routes mapped in chalk, sneakers by the door, skateboards always within reach. Max teaches you how to move fast without panicking, how to let momentum carry you instead of fear. You teach her where to cut corners, where Hawkins hides its shortcuts.

You run until your lungs burn.

Bikes rattle down empty streets. Wheels skid over gravel. Sneakers slap pavement in perfect rhythm, your breaths syncing without either of you trying. When something howls too close for comfort, Max grins at you over her shoulder like it’s a challenge.

“Try to keep up,” she calls. You do. Always.

Between near-misses, you laugh, wild and breathless, adrenaline buzzing through your veins. It feels almost wrong to enjoy it, but the laughter is real. It keeps the fear from settling too deep.

You learn each other’s tells. The way Max’s shoulders tense right before she bolts. The way you hesitate just half a second longer than you should. She grabs your wrist once, yanking you forward, saving you without a word.

Later, you collapse on the grass behind the old middle school, chests heaving, the sky wide and blue above you. Max lies beside you, arms flung out, hair stuck to her forehead.

“We’re getting good at this,” she says, smiling like she doesn’t want to stop moving ever again. “Too good,” you reply, turning your head toward her.

She looks back at you and something softer slips through the cracks of her usual sharpness. Her fingers brush yours, tentative at first, then sure.