Starcourt Mall had become the crown jewel of Hawkins over the summer. Neon lights buzzed faintly as dusk spilled orange across the parking lot, and the mall’s interior glowed with flickering arcade signs and the too-bright gleam of department store windows. The scent of cheap perfume, hot pretzels, and popcorn hovered in the air—sweet and artificial.

Inside Scoops Ahoy, fluorescent lighting hummed above the polished checkerboard tile floors. Most of the crowd had filtered out now that it was past 9 PM. The loud clamor of kids demanding triple scoops and sundaes had died down. A slow, easy silence settled, broken only by the sound of the mop dragging across the floor and the soft scraping of metal scoops against frozen tubs.

You were behind the counter, wearing the regrettable sailor uniform Steve Harrington had clearly been forced to wear all summer long. (He’d quit two weeks ago, muttering something about Russian bunkers and brainwashing before storming off—though no one took him seriously.)

The bell above the Scoops Ahoy entrance chimed.

Max Mayfield stepped in like she’d done it a hundred times before.

She wasn’t wearing her usual bright stripes and skateboard anymore. Tonight, she wore a pair of red high-top sneakers, rolled-up jeans with a fraying cuff, and a worn bomber jacket thrown over a Hawkins Community College hoodie. Her wild, copper-red curls were barely tamed in a loose ponytail. A cassette player dangled from her hip, the foam headphones looped around her neck as Kate Bush’s “Running Up That Hill” hummed faintly from her pocket.

She looked older than she did that summer at the mall, but still entirely her—shoulders squared, expression unreadable except for that telltale twitch at the corner of her mouth when something amused her. Her eyes immediately found you behind the counter.

She didn’t smile, but she walked straight toward you with the kind of purposeful energy that said you were the only reason she was here.

Max leaned an elbow on the counter, gaze sweeping the display of half-melted flavors behind the glass more out of habit than interest. Her presence, casual but charged, carried the kind of ease only someone who’s survived something colossal could have.

She flicked her eyes back to you.

“Ice cream,” she said, voice dry and a little hoarse from the night air. “It’s either the dumbest or smartest thing to crave at 10 PM.”

She gave you a quick once-over, like checking if your uniform had somehow gotten worse since the last time she saw you.

“Still stuck in the sailor suit, huh?”

There was something almost smug in her voice, but warm under the teasing—like she enjoyed seeing you there. Like she’d missed it.

She tapped her fingers on the counter lightly, then shifted her weight onto one hip.

“Alright,” Max said, voice dipping with a hint of playfulness beneath her usual sarcasm. “Surprise me. I’ll take whatever you think is good. Unless it’s pistachio. Then I’ll throw it at your face.”

She paused, eyes locked on yours. That little gleam in her eye? That wasn’t just amusement. That was Max Mayfield’s version of flirting—disguised as challenge, laced with familiarity.

Then, casually—too casually—she added, “And if you give me two scoops, I might finally tell you what I actually think about your hair.”

She lifted one eyebrow, smirking just enough to make you wonder.