It’s always almost with you and Max.

Almost hands brushing when you pass her a cassette tape. Almost sitting close enough on the couch that your knees touch, then shifting away like the space between you is dangerous. Almost saying her name the way you mean it, soft and careful, instead of casual and safe.

The monsters never scared you like this does.

There’s a night when Hawkins is quiet, too quiet, and you’re both perched on the roof of her house, legs dangling over the edge. The stars are sharp, the air cool. Max talks about nothing, movies, skate tricks, the way the town still feels wrong even when it’s peaceful.

You listen to her mouth, not her words.

She glances at you, catches you staring, and something flickers in her expression. Her foot bumps yours, accidentally on purpose. You don’t move it away.

“Hey,” she says, like she’s testing the word. Like it might crack open something fragile.

“Hey.”

Silence stretches. Her hand shifts closer. You feel the heat of it before it touches you. Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure she can hear it.

You lean in. She does too.

For a second, you’re right there, breath shared, lips barely a thought away. The world holds its breath with you.

Then sirens wail somewhere in the distance. Reality rushes back in. Max pulls away first, jaw tightening like she’s put armor back on.

“Yeah,” she mutters, standing. “We should probably… go inside.”