Max Mayfield leans against the railing of the upper level, sunglasses perched dramatically on her head even though they’re indoors. She’s holding a bright orange Orange Julius, one leg hooked casually over the other. Lucas Sinclair stands beside her, trying to look cool but mostly just trying not to spill his Coke.

“You know,” Max says, smirking at him, “if you keep staring at me like that, people are gonna think you’re obsessed.”

Lucas straightens immediately. “I am not obsessed.”

“You tripped over that trash can five minutes ago.”

“I was distracted.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you were.”

He bumps her shoulder lightly with his. She grins back, and the teasing fades into something softer—comfortable.

Across from them, Eleven and Mike Wheeler sit at a little plastic table outside the food court. El is carefully examining a pretzel like it’s a scientific experiment.

“It’s twisted,” she says seriously.

Mike leans closer. “Yeah. That’s… kinda the point.”

She tears off a piece and tastes it thoughtfully. Her eyes widen. “Salty.”

Mike beams like he invented pretzels himself. “You like it?”

She nods emphatically and then pushes a piece toward him. “You too.”

He flushes red but accepts it. Their knees bump under the table, and neither of them moves away.

A few feet away, Dustin Henderson is gesturing wildly while Steve Harrington pretends not to be embarrassed.

“I’m telling you,” Dustin insists, holding up a folded piece of paper like it’s classified government intel, “the Russians are definitely hiding something. You saw the elevator, right? The secret code?”

Steve sighs. “Dustin, we’re off duty. We are not decoding Russian conspiracies right now.”

Robin Buckley, arms crossed and leaning against the Scoops Ahoy counter, snorts. “Speak for yourself. I’m always on duty. Mostly because this sailor outfit is a prison.”

She tugs at the collar dramatically. Steve rolls his eyes.

“You volunteered for this job.”

“No, I needed money. There’s a difference.”

Dustin grins. “I still think you both look heroic.”

Steve points at him. “You’re not helping.”

Downstairs, Nancy Wheeler flips through a rack of brightly colored blouses at JCPenney while Jonathan Byers stands close behind her, hands in his pockets.

“This one?” Nancy holds up a teal blouse with puffed sleeves.

Jonathan tilts his head thoughtfully. “You’d look amazing in a paper bag.”

Nancy laughs, swatting his arm. “That is not helpful feedback.”

“It’s honest.”

She studies him for a second, then lowers the blouse and steps closer. “You know, you don’t have to hover. I can shop by myself.”

“I know.” He shrugs. “I just like being near you.”

Her expression softens. She reaches for his hand briefly before turning back to the rack.

Near the escalators, Hopper stands with his arms crossed, scanning the entire mall like it’s a battlefield.

Joyce Byers stands beside him holding a shopping bag from Melvald’s, looking far more relaxed.

“They’re fine, Hop,” she says gently.

“I know they’re fine,” Hopper mutters. “I just don’t trust places with this many mirrors.”

Joyce smirks. “It’s a mall.”

“Exactly.”

He spots Mike and Eleven laughing and immediately narrows his eyes. “He’s sitting too close.”

Joyce hides a smile. “You’re impossible.”

At the far end of the food court, Billy Hargrove leans casually against a pillar, lifeguard sunglasses still hooked into the collar of his shirt. A few girls whisper nearby, stealing glances. He pretends not to notice—but absolutely notices.

Karen Wheeler walks past with Holly’s hand in hers and Ted trailing behind, holding multiple shopping bags and looking deeply inconvenienced by life.

“Mom!” Mike calls suddenly, nearly knocking over his chair as he stands.

Karen smiles warmly. “Having fun?”