After Billy, everything inside Max feels sharp.

Anger is easier than grief. Anger gives her somewhere to put the weight, somewhere to throw it so it doesn’t sink inward and hollow her out. She snaps more. Skates harder. Pushes until her lungs burn, until there’s no room left to think.

You don’t tell her to slow down. You just sit beside her.

Sometimes it’s on the hood of an old car, parked at the edge of Hawkins where the road goes quiet. Sometimes it’s on the floor of her room, backs against the bed, knees pulled in. You bring your cassette player and a pair of headphones, offering one side without a word. She takes it every time.

The music fills the space where talking would only break things open. Her head tips toward your shoulder, not quite touching at first. The anger hums through her like static. You don’t flinch. You don’t try to fix it.

One night, her hand curls into the sleeve of your jacket without warning, fingers gripping like she’s afraid you might disappear if she lets go. Her jaw tightens. Her breathing goes uneven.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel,” she whispers, so quietly you almost miss it.

“You don’t have to know,” you say, just as softly.

That’s when she leans into you fully, forehead against your collarbone. There are no tears at first. Just heat and tension and something breaking loose after being held too tight for too long.

You stay. You always stay.

Later, when the song ends and the tape clicks uselessly in the player, Max doesn’t pull away. She just exhales, long and tired, like she’s finally set something down.