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It didn’t start snowing immediately.
The air just got a little bit colder.
Max noticed it unconsciously. The wind shifting, sharp and sudden like somebody yanked a curtain. The sky going flat and pale, color draining out of it until it looked like a blank page someone was about to ruin.
She’d been lingering outside Family Video with her board tucked under her arm like she had a reason to be there. Like she was waiting for someone. Like she hadn’t been standing in the same spot for two hours, watching the headlights smear across the wet road and pretending she didn’t know exactly why she hadn’t gone home yet.
Steve had smoked behind the building earlier, shoulders hunched against the cold, and Max had watched him from the corner of her eye like she was above it. Like she didn’t think about what it would feel like to have a habit you could blame your nerves on. Like she didn’t want something to do with her hands besides clench them.
Now the first flakes started falling, small and cautious, like the storm was trying to see what it could get away with.
Max stared up at them, mouth tight.
“Of course,” she muttered.
The parking lot was mostly empty. The neon FAMILY VIDEO sign buzzed faintly above the door. The streetlights along the road were flickering on, hazy through the mist. She could see her reflection faintly in the glass—hood up, hair stuffed underneath, face pinched like she’d bitten down on a lemon.
She shifted her weight, board grip tape cold through her sleeve.
She could skate home. She’d skated home in worse than this. It wasn’t far. It would be annoying, and her feet would go numb, and her hair would freeze into that stiff, awful helmet, but—
The wind picked up.
The flakes turned into a sheet, suddenly thick and eager, blowing sideways. The air slapped her cheeks raw in one breath.
Max’s stomach dropped, involuntary, the same way it did when a door slammed too hard.
Not fear. Not exactly.
She’d call it annoyance if anyone asked.
She glanced down the road toward the trailer park, a long stretch of nothing that always looked meaner at night. The pavement was already getting that slick shine, thin ice forming like a decision.
Her jaw clenched.
She didn’t want to wipe out. She didn’t want to show up soaked and shaking, have Susan’s tired eyes take her in and go wide with that helpless worry. She didn’t want Neil to be there, looming, quiet as a threat.
She didn’t want to see Billy’s car in the driveway and feel her spine lock up when she realized he wasn’t there to drive it.
She didn’t want to go home while the world was turning sharp.
Max tightened her grip on the board.
There was another option.
Not a good one. Not one she wanted to admit she needed.
But it was close. And warm. And normal.
Mike Wheeler’s house was three streets over.
Max exhaled hard, like she could blow away the feeling that came with deciding that. Then she dropped her board to the ground, planted one foot, and pushed off.
The wheels hissed over wet asphalt. Snow started sticking to her hoodie immediately, collecting in the creases. Her fingers went numb inside her pockets. The cold worked fast, greedy.
She kept her head down and skated hard, muscles burning, breath fogging in front of her face.
She tried not to think about how she was doing this without calling first.
Normal people called first.
Normal people didn’t just show up like a stray animal and expect to be let in.
Max swallowed, throat tight, and pushed harder.
By the time she hit the Wheelers’ street, the snow was coming down thick enough that the houses looked softened, blurred at the edges, like someone had smeared the world with a thumb. Her eyelashes were wet. Her hair was damp and cold against her forehead. Her socks were already starting to cling inside her shoes.
The Wheelers’ porch light cut a warm yellow halo through the white.
Max rolled to a stop at the bottom of the steps and scooped her board up under her arm. Her lungs ached. The cold had gotten under her ribs, humming.
She stared at the front door.
She wasn’t supposed to just—
She heard herself inhale, sharp.
Fine.
Whatever.
She went up the steps, boots slipping a little on the wet wood, and knocked.
Not timid. Not desperate. A knock that sounded like she belonged there. Like she’d always been coming and it was inconvenient that the door wasn’t already open.
It opened almost immediately.
Karen Wheeler filled the doorway, wrapped in a sweater that looked too soft to exist in Hawkins winter. Her hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands escaping. Her face did that mom thing—surprise, then concern, then a quick, smooth slide into composure.
“Oh,” Karen said, blinking at Max like she’d appeared out of the storm itself. “Max.”
Max lifted her chin, willing her teeth not to chatter. “Hi.”
Snow clung to her lashes. Her cheeks were burning from the wind. Her fingers were so numb they felt like they didn’t belong to her.
Karen’s gaze dropped to the skateboard tucked under Max’s arm, then flicked back up to her face. “Honey, are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Max said automatically.
Karen didn’t look convinced. She didn’t look offended by the lie either. She just softened, a fraction, like she was used to teenagers trying to pretend they weren’t made of glass.
Behind her, somewhere inside, the TV was on. Ted Wheeler’s voice drifted out, muffled and annoyed, complaining about something as if the universe had asked him personally to suffer.
Karen stepped back, holding the door wider. “Come in.”
Max hesitated for half a beat—long enough for the cold to creep deeper.
Karen raised her brows gently. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m not,” Max lied, because lying was easier than admitting she’d been one wrong gust away from wiping out in the middle of the road.
Karen’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Come in,” she repeated, not unkind. Firm in that adult way Max couldn’t argue with without looking like a jerk.
Max stepped inside.
Warm air hit her face and made her eyes sting, not because it hurt, but because her body was thawing and didn’t know what to do with it.
Her shoes left little wet half-moons on the tile immediately. Max saw them and her stomach clenched with embarrassment.
“Oh—” she blurted, and it came out too earnest. Too… apologetic. She hated it. “Sorry.”
Karen waved a hand like it wasn’t a problem. “Shoes off,” she said calmly. “We’ll deal with the floor.”
Max kicked her boots off fast, cheeks hot, and lined them up neatly against the wall like she’d been taught manners once and they were still buried somewhere under all the anger.
Her socks hit the tile and she winced at the cold.
Karen glanced toward the hallway leading down to the basement. “Mike!” she called.
“What?” Mike’s voice answered from downstairs.
Karen didn’t bother responding to that. She looked back at Max. “Were you on your way home?”
Max’s throat tightened. “Yeah,” she said, which was true enough.
Karen’s gaze flicked to the window where the snow was already starting to smear the view. “Not now,” she said quietly, decisive. “You can warm up here.”
Max swallowed. “My mom’s gonna—”
“I’ll call her when the line’s working,” Karen said, matter-of-fact.
Max blinked. “The line—”
Karen tilted her head slightly, listening. Max listened too, without realizing she hadn’t been. In the background, faint through the walls, there was that low crackle. A struggling landline. Not quite dead, not quite alive.
Karen nodded like she’d confirmed it. “It’s already getting noisy,” she said. “It happens in storms.”
Max’s fingers tightened in her hoodie pocket.
Her chest did that stupid ache again—envy, sharp and humiliating. Karen just knew things. Karen had lived in a house long enough that she had routines for weather. Like the world didn’t constantly surprise her with new ways to hurt.
The lights overhead flickered.
Max’s stomach dropped. Reflexive. Fast.
The light steadied.
Max swallowed hard, annoyed at herself for reacting. Annoyed at her body for being a snitch.
Karen sighed through her nose and called toward the living room, “Ted! The power’s flickering.”
Ted’s voice floated back, irritated. “Then tell it to stop.”
Karen closed her eyes for a beat like she was counting to ten.
Max stared at her, something twisting in her chest. Karen didn’t yell. Karen didn’t slam cabinets. Karen didn’t make the whole house tense with her mood.
Karen just… handled it.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Mike appeared in the hallway, socks on, hair sticking up in the back like he’d been attacked by a pillow.
He looked at Max and blinked, surprise shifting quickly into something else—a smile, maybe—before he smoothed his face into something neutral like he didn’t want her to know he didn’t totally hate her.
“Uh,” Mike said. “Hey.”
Max hugged her board tighter, as if it could hide her. “Hey.”
Mike’s eyes flicked over her—snow dusting her hoodie, wet hair peeking out from her hood—and his mouth tightened. “It’s… bad out.”
Max snorted lightly. “Yeah. I noticed.”
Karen moved toward the kitchen. “Mike, get the flashlight out the drawer,” she said briskly, like she could smell the outage coming.
Mike nodded, already moving.
Max stayed where she was, suddenly aware she was dripping snow in the Wheelers’ hallway with no plan. The warmth felt like a spotlight.
The lights flickered again.
This time they didn’t come back.
The TV cut out with a pop of static, and the house fell into an abrupt quiet that made Max’s skin prickle.
From the living room, Ted’s voice rose: “Karen! The television!”
Karen’s response was so calm it sounded fake. “The power’s out, Ted.”
“It can’t be out,” Ted complained, like electricity cared about his opinion.
Mike clicked the flashlight on, beam cutting through the dim, and said, “Cool.”
Max let out a small huff that could’ve been a laugh if she trusted herself. “Cool.”
Karen was already pulling candles out of a cabinet, moving like this was just another box on her checklist. She lit one. The flame flared, then steadied, casting warm light that made everything softer. The corners of the kitchen deepened, shadows moving.
Max watched the candle from the corner of her eye.
Karen glanced at Max. “We’ll try calling your mother again later,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.
Max nodded once, stiff. “Okay.”
Mike hovered near the counter with the flashlight and looked at Max like he wanted to ask if she was alright and didn’t know how to do it without sounding like an idiot.
Max looked away first.
The living room looked like a different place in candlelight.
Same floral couch, same ugly lamp that was useless now, same coffee table with magazines stacked too neatly—Better Homes and Gardens and something about “America” like that was a hobby. But the lack of overhead light made it feel like they were camping inside a dollhouse.
Karen gathered everyone like she was herding cats.
Nancy came down the stairs with a blanket around her shoulders, hair messy, face tired in a way Max recognized. She glanced at Max, curious, then looked away like she didn’t know what to do with her.
Holly toddled in, immediately delighted. “Candles!” she declared, like this was a party.
Ted sat in his chair with his arms crossed, expression like the universe had personally inconvenienced him.
Karen clapped her hands once. “We’re staying downstairs,” she said. “The heating’s not working, so we’re going to sleep by the fire.”
Mike made a face. “Does the fireplace even—”
“It works,” Karen said.
Max hovered near the edge of the room, blanketless, trying to look like she wasn’t a guest who might break something.
Karen noticed anyway. She always noticed.
She handed Max a folded blanket without making a show of it, like she was passing her something as normal as a plate.
Max’s hands hovered. “I—”
“It’s cold,” Karen said simply.
Max took it carefully, like she didn’t want to leave fingerprints on something that clean, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
It smelled like laundry detergent and nothing else.
Max’s chest tightened with a stupid ache. A stupid, humiliating want.
Mike sat on the floor near the coffee table, shuffling a deck of cards like his hands needed something to do. Holly crawled over and tried to grab them.
“Hey,” Mike said, laughing softly. “Those are not for babies.”
“I’m not a baby!” Holly yelled, offended.
“You’re definitely a baby,” Nancy said absently.
Holly shrieked like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard.
Max watched Mike deal with Holly with this strange quiet patience. He didn’t snap. He didn’t roll his eyes. He just… redirected her, gentle, like it was instinct.
Max didn’t know what to do with that version of him.
Karen straightened. “Okay,” she said. “Board game.”
Max’s first instinct was to sit it out, but she glanced around—Ted’s annoyed silence, Nancy’s distant stare, the storm rattling the windows—and realized sitting in the dark with nothing to do but think would be worse.
So she nodded once, careful. “Sure.”
Mike looked up, eyebrows lifting like he hadn’t expected her to agree. “Really?”
Max shot him a look. Don’t make me regret it.
She didn’t say it out loud. She didn’t need to. Mike, annoyingly, seemed to get it anyway, because his mouth twitched and he looked back down at the cards like he was trying not to smile too much.
Karen pulled out a box and set it on the table: Sorry!
Max stared at it. “That’s… the name?”
“It’s a classic,” Karen said.
Mike smirked. “I’m sorry in advance,” he told Max, “because you’re gonna lose.”
Max’s mouth tilted. “Try me.”
They played.
Ted complained about the rules. Holly cheated openly, moving pieces when nobody was looking and then yelling “No!” when accused. Nancy played half-heartedly, rolling her eyes whenever Mike got intense about fairness like it was a moral issue.
Max did her best to be normal. She didn’t roll her eyes too hard. She didn’t take up too much space. She didn’t say anything that might make Karen look at her like a problem.
But every once in a while, Mike’s knee bumped hers under the table, casual and careless, like he forgot to keep distance.
Max pretended not to notice even when her stomach flipped.
At one point, Holly dropped a piece and it rolled under the couch.
Mike immediately crouched down and reached without hesitation, arm disappearing into dust and darkness.
“Got it,” he announced triumphantly.
Holly clapped.
Max watched him and felt that familiar twist of envy—sharp and unwanted. Not just about Mike. About the whole thing. About how easy it all looked when your house didn’t feel like a negotiation.
She tightened her grip on her pawn until her fingers ached.
Karen stood after a while. “I’m going to make hot chocolate,” she announced.
Mike’s head snapped up immediately. “Do we have marshmallows?”
Karen gave him a look like he was still eight years old sometimes. “Yes,” she sighed.
Max huffed a small laugh before she could stop herself.
Mike’s eyes slid to her, pleased, like he’d earned it.
Max scowled on instinct. “Don’t.”
Mike’s smile widened. “You laughed.”
Max leaned forward, blanket pooled like armor, and hissed, “No I didn’t.”
Mike looked delighted anyway.
The kitchen felt warmer, the stove giving off heat even without the lights. Karen moved around it like she knew every inch of her life by heart—mugs, milk, pot, match.
Max hovered near the doorway, careful. She wasn’t sure she was allowed past the threshold. She didn’t know the rules of this place.
Karen didn’t tell her to come in. Karen didn’t tell her to leave.
She just existed in a way that made room.
Mike leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching his mom like he didn’t realize he was doing it. Holly climbed onto a chair and tried to reach the marshmallows. Mike lifted the bag out of her reach.
“No,” he said, laughing. “You’ll eat them all.”
“I will not!” Holly declared.
“You will,” Nancy said from the doorway, appearing like a tired ghost.
Max startled a little. She hadn’t heard Nancy follow them.
Nancy’s eyes flicked over Max, then away. Not mean. Not warm either. Like Nancy was tired in a way Max couldn’t touch.
Karen poured milk into a pot. “We’ll try the phone again in a bit,” she told Max quietly, like she was saying we’ll take out the trash later. Like it wasn’t a big deal.
Max nodded stiffly. “Okay.”
The hot chocolate smelled sweet and impossible. It made Max’s throat ache with that same humiliating want. Comfort shouldn’t smell like anything. Comfort shouldn’t be something you could taste.
Karen handed Max a mug. Max took it with both hands, grateful for the heat, and immediately hated herself for being grateful.
Mike bumped her shoulder gently as he passed, small and casual, like he couldn’t help checking she was real.
Max’s eyes flicked to him automatically.
He was looking at her.
Not staring. Not obvious. Just… attentive.
Max’s stomach tightened. She looked away quickly, flinching after she took a sip of hot chocolate that burned her tongue.
“Too hot?” Karen asked, instantly.
Max shook her head. “It’s fine.”
Karen’s mouth twitched. She let Max keep the lie.
Holly bit into a marshmallow like she was taking revenge on it. Nancy leaned against the doorway with her arms crossed, watching everyone like she was half here, half somewhere else.
Max found herself watching Nancy too, curiosity creeping in despite herself. Nancy Wheeler looked like she had a whole other life in her head, and it didn’t match the Better Homes and Gardens stack.
Max didn’t know why that made her chest ache.
Mike made a face at Holly. “You’re gonna get sick.”
“I won’t,” Holly said, mouth full.
“You will,” Nancy repeated, flat.
Holly sighed dramatically. “Everyone’s against me.”
Max’s mouth tilted without permission.
Mike saw it. His eyes brightened a little, like that was a victory.
Max scowled at him to cover it up.
He didn’t look scared of her scowl. That was the problem.
Later—after the mugs were rinsed, after Karen herded Holly toward the bathroom like it was a gentle battle, after Ted complained and then did nothing useful—Max found herself standing near the living room doorway with her blanket still around her shoulders, watching Karen move around the house.
Karen checked the windows, tugged the curtains tight, adjusted candles so they weren’t near anything flammable. Her movements were quiet and automatic, practiced.
Max watched the steadiness like it was something she could steal if she stared long enough.
Mike appeared at her side, just close enough that Max could feel warmth off him.
“You okay?” he murmured, like he was testing the question again.
Max’s jaw tightened. She didn’t like how good he was at seeing through her. She didn’t like how careful he sounded, like he’d learned that being blunt would make her bolt.
“I’m fine,” she said, softer than before.
Mike hummed like he didn’t believe her but wasn’t going to call her a liar in front of his mom.
Karen glanced toward the phone on the wall. “Let’s try calling Susan now,” she said.
Max’s stomach dropped. “It won’t work.”
“We don’t know that,” Karen said gently.
Max hated that she was right.
Karen lifted the receiver and listened. Max watched her face. Karen’s brow furrowed slightly, then smoothed as she hung it back up.
“No dial tone yet,” Karen said simply. “Okay. We’ll try later.”
Max swallowed hard.
No moralizing. No “your mother must be worried.” No “what were you thinking being out in this?”
Just: We’ll try later.
Max’s chest tightened painfully.
Nancy wandered past Max toward the kitchen and paused, eyes flicking over her. “You’re from California,” Nancy said suddenly, like it was a fact she’d been carrying around and decided to drop now.
Max blinked. “Yeah.”
Nancy’s mouth tilted, almost amused. “You ever seen snow before?” she asked.
Max bristled on instinct. “Yeah.”
Nancy’s eyes softened a fraction. “Okay. Just checking.”
Max didn’t know what to do with that. She watched Nancy disappear into the kitchen, hair messy, blanket trailing behind her like a cape.
Mike leaned closer, voice low. “She’s not trying to be mean,” he murmured.
Max shot him a look. “I didn’t say she was.”
Mike’s mouth twitched. “You looked like you were about to bite her.”
Max huffed. “Maybe she deserves it.”
Mike’s smile widened a little.
Max’s stomach flipped again, annoying and traitorous.
Karen clapped her hands. “Alright,” she said. “We’re making a campout. Downstairs only.”
Ted grumbled. Holly cheered. Nancy sighed.
Max tightened her blanket around her shoulders and tried to ignore how the word campout made her chest ache in a way she didn’t have a name for.
When Karen sent Mike upstairs to grab extra blankets, Mike disappeared up the staircase with the flashlight beam bouncing.
Max stayed rooted near the bottom of the stairs, fingers curling into her blanket. The upstairs hallway was a dark mouth. The kind of darkness that made her skin prickle.
Karen called after him, “Careful, Mike!”
Mike’s voice floated back, “I’m fine!”
Max’s mouth tightened. Of course he said that like it was an instinct.
Karen glanced at Max. “Would you mind helping him?” she asked.
Max blinked. “What?”
Karen tilted her head slightly. “He’ll bring down half the linen closet and drop it all,” she said, fond exasperation. “And I’d rather not have him tripping in the dark.”
Max’s stomach tightened. She didn’t want to go upstairs. She didn’t want to be alone with Mike either. Not because she didn’t like him. Because being alone with Mike made her feel too visible.
But Karen was looking at her like it was normal. Like Max belonged here enough to be asked for help.
Max swallowed. “Yeah,” she said, and hated that her voice sounded small. “Okay.”
She adjusted the blanket around her shoulders, set it on the banister so she wouldn’t trip, and started up the stairs.
The second floor was colder. The air changed—less warmth from the fireplace, more quiet. The flashlight beam sliced through the hallway, catching framed family photos on the walls.
Max pretended not to look.
She looked anyway.
Mike in little league. Mike holding a science fair ribbon. Nancy in a graduation cap from… middle school? Holly as a toddler. Karen and Ted smiling in a stiff, posed way that looked like an advertisement for a life Max didn’t believe in.
Max’s chest ached, sharp and jealous.
She followed the beam down the hall.
Mike was in his parents’ room, rummaging in the closet like he was searching for treasure. He turned when he heard Max’s footsteps, surprised.
“You came up?” he whispered.
Max scowled. “Your mom told me to make sure you didn’t die.”
Mike’s mouth twitched. “I’m not going to die.”
Max’s gaze flicked over him, the flashlight catching the curve of his cheekbone, the way his hair fell into his eyes. “You say that like it’s a fact,” she murmured before she could stop herself.
Mike blinked.
Max immediately regretted it. Her jaw clenched. “Just—grab blankets,” she snapped, covering.
Mike’s lips parted, like he was going to say something, then he looked away and went back to rummaging.
Max hovered in the doorway, refusing to step fully into Karen’s bedroom like it was sacred ground she’d ruin by standing there.
Mike pulled out an armful of blankets, then another. “Can you—” he whispered, and held one out.
Max took it, fingers brushing his for a second.
Mike went still.
Max went still too, heartbeat loud in her ears.
She yanked the blanket away quickly, pretending it was about efficiency.
They moved down the hall with their arms full.
As they passed Mike’s room, the flashlight beam swung inside and lit it briefly—posters, books, the edge of a desk with papers scattered, a model rocket maybe. It looked like a teenager’s room. Normal. Messy.
Max’s throat tightened.
Mike followed her gaze. “What?” he whispered.
Max shook her head quickly. “Nothing.”
Mike’s mouth twitched slightly. “You’re doing that thing again.”
Max narrowed her eyes. “What thing?”
“The ‘nothing’ thing,” Mike whispered.
Max huffed, too quiet to be a laugh. “Shut up.”
Mike’s eyes softened in a way that made Max’s stomach flip.
They carried the blankets downstairs together, and Max tried not to think about how it felt like something a couple would do. Like this whole night was pretending to be something it wasn’t.
By the time everyone settled in, Max felt like she’d been in the Wheelers’ house for days.
Blankets were piled on the living room floor near the fireplace. Holly curled up instantly with a stuffed animal, face slack with sleep. Ted grumbled about his back and fell asleep in his chair anyway, mouth open.
Nancy claimed the couch and turned away from everyone like she was trying to disappear.
Karen sat in the armchair near the fireplace with a blanket over her lap, posture relaxed but eyes alert like she planned to keep watch through the storm.
Mike ended up on the floor with his back against the couch, blanket around his shoulders, legs stretched out. Restless even when he was lying down.
Max lowered herself onto her own blanket a careful distance away from everyone, like she didn’t want to accidentally take up too much space.
The candlelight made the room soft. Too soft.
The quiet pressed in.
Outside, the storm scraped at the windows. Inside, the only sounds were Ted’s snore, Holly’s soft breathing, and the occasional crackle of the fire.
Max stared at the ceiling and waited for her brain to shut up.
It didn’t.
It replayed everything she didn’t want to look at. The mall lights. Heat. Smoke. The way the world had gone wrong and then pretended it hadn’t. Billy’s face, twisted and furious, and her own voice, useless.
Max squeezed her eyes shut hard enough to see sparks.
Across the room, Mike was still awake.
She could tell because his breathing was too deliberate, like he was trying to control it.
Max turned her head.
Mike was on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes open, fixed on the ceiling.
His face looked different in candlelight. Younger. Softer. Like the world hadn’t had enough time to harden him all the way.
Max’s chest tightened.
Mike’s eyes shifted and caught hers.
They froze.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Mike whispered, barely audible, “You okay?”
Max’s first instinct was to say yes.
Her second was to say no.
She chose the third option—the one that kept her safe.
“Go to sleep,” she whispered.
Mike’s mouth twitched. “You too.”
Max rolled her eyes and stared back at the ceiling.
The storm kept going.
The house kept being quiet.
Max’s chest kept feeling too tight.
She couldn’t stand it.
She sat up carefully, blanket sliding off her shoulder. Karen’s chair was in her peripheral vision. Karen’s eyes were closed, but Max couldn’t tell if she was asleep or just pretending.
Max stood and padded toward the kitchen, socks whispering on tile.
She needed air. Even if it was inside air.
The kitchen was dim, lit by a single candle and the faint orange glow of the stove pilot light. The shadows were softer here.
Max leaned against the counter and breathed.
Her hands shook slightly now that she’d stopped moving. The delayed reaction always hit once the danger passed. Max hated that her body kept receipts.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Max stiffened immediately.
Karen appeared in the doorway, wrapped in her sweater, hair slightly loosened, face soft with sleep she wasn’t getting.
She didn’t look surprised.
She didn’t look annoyed.
She just stepped in quietly and said, “Couldn’t sleep?”
Max swallowed. “No.”
Karen nodded like that made perfect sense.
She walked to the cabinet and pulled out a mug. She didn’t turn any lights on. She moved like she knew her house in the dark the way Max knew escape routes.
Karen poured water, warm enough to steam, and dipped a tea bag in.
Max watched her hands. Calm. Steady.
Karen glanced over. “Do you want some?”
Max opened her mouth to refuse.
Then she felt how cold her fingers still were, how tight her chest was. How being brave didn’t make her warm.
She swallowed. “Sure.”
Karen didn’t react like Max had just admitted something. She just made another mug and set it in front of her.
Max took it with both hands. Heat seeped into her skin.
They stood in silence for a beat. The storm tapped the windows. The house held its breath.
Karen spoke quietly. “Have you been able to reach your mother at all?”
Max’s throat tightened. “The line’s still dead,” she lied. “I tried.”
Karen nodded once. “Okay,” she said. Then, after a pause: “We’ll try again in the morning.”
Max nodded stiffly.
Karen sipped her tea. In the dim light, her eyes looked older than Max had ever noticed—like Karen carried weight too, just folded up neatly so it didn’t spill.
Max hated noticing that. It made her feel connected.
Karen’s gaze shifted to Max’s hands. “You’re shaking,” she said gently.
Max’s spine went rigid. “No I’m not.”
Karen’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but not mocking. “Okay,” she said, letting Max keep the lie.
Max gripped her mug harder.
Karen set hers down and leaned against the counter, giving Max space without leaving. “I don’t know everything,” Karen said quietly.
Max’s heart stuttered.
Karen continued, voice soft. “About what happened this summer. About the mall. About why all of you look like you’ve been running for a long time.”
Max stared at the steam rising from her mug.
Karen didn’t push. She didn’t ask what Max couldn’t answer.
She just said, gently, “You look tired, honey.”
Max’s throat burned. She blinked fast.
“I’m fine,” Max said, because she didn’t have another sentence that kept her intact.
Karen hummed slightly, thoughtful. “You remind me of Nancy,” she said.
Max blinked. “What?”
Karen’s eyes flicked toward the living room as if she could see through walls. “She pretends she doesn’t need anyone,” Karen said. “She pretends she’s not scared. She thinks if she doesn’t say it out loud, it isn’t true.”
Max’s chest tightened.
Karen looked back at Max. “But the truth doesn’t care if you say it,” she added, quiet.
Max swallowed hard. Her voice came out sharp because softness felt like a trap. “Are you interrogating me?”
Karen raised her eyebrows slightly, amused but kind. “No,” she said. “I’m offering.”
Max frowned. “Offering what?”
Karen’s gaze softened. “An excuse,” she said simply. “A storm to blame. A warm house. A place to sit down.”
Max’s eyes stung hard.
She looked away, jaw clenched. “I don’t need—”
Karen didn’t interrupt. She just waited.
That was worse.
Max stared at the steam. The chamomile fumes soothed her.
Karen’s voice dropped lower. “You can stay as long as you need,” she said. “Tonight. If the roads are bad tomorrow, longer.” A pause. “Sometimes a house feels loud even when it’s quiet.”
Max’s breath hitched.
The words landed somewhere deep and tender.
Max’s control cracked. Just a hairline fracture. Enough to let something slip.
“My mom’s tired,” Max said, and her voice sounded wrong—too small. “She’s always tired.”
Karen’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t pity. She didn’t dramatize.
She just listened.
Max swallowed hard. “And my stepdad—” She stopped. Her jaw tightened. Her fingers trembled around the mug. “It’s not… good.”
Karen’s eyes softened further, and Max hated the warmth there because it made her want to fall apart.
Karen didn’t say I’m sorry. She didn’t say that’s awful.
Karen said, quietly, “I’m glad you came here.”
Max’s throat closed.
She tried to salvage control. “I didn’t come here,” she muttered. “The storm—”
Karen’s mouth twitched. “Mm,” she said, letting Max keep the lie if she needed it.
Max took a shaky breath.
Karen’s eyes held hers. “You’re not a burden,” she said simply.
Max’s throat burned.
She looked away quickly and muttered, “Okay.”
Then she turned and left the kitchen before she did something humiliating like cry.
Max made it three steps out of the kitchen before her eyes started doing that stupid thing where they burned like she’d rubbed salt in them.
She hated it.
She hated Karen for being nice in that quiet way that didn’t ask for anything back. She hated herself for almost breaking down in someone else’s house. She hated the way the word burden had landed in her chest and Karen had pulled it out of her and held it up to the light.
Max tightened her grip on the mug and walked back into the living room like nothing had happened.
The living room was darker than the kitchen, the candlelight thinner here, spread out across more space. The fire had sunk lower too, orange and soft like it was tired.
Ted still snored in his chair like the outage was a personal affront he could sleep through.
Holly was still curled into a comma on the floor, stuffed animal clutched to her chest, mouth slightly open.
Nancy was still on the couch turned away, blanket up near her ears, trying to vanish.
Karen’s armchair was empty.
Max’s stomach dropped a fraction at that—then she saw the slight movement in the kitchen doorway behind her, Karen still there, still awake, but letting Max leave without following like she was trying not to scare her off.
Max swallowed hard and set the mug down on the coffee table, careful. Like if she made too much noise, the night would snap.
She lowered herself back onto her blanket, shoulders tight, and stared at the ceiling again like it was safe.
It wasn’t.
Across the room, Mike was still awake.
She’d known he would be. Mike didn’t sleep like other people slept. Mike slept like he was waiting for something to happen.
His head was turned slightly, eyes on her.
Max’s spine prickled.
She didn’t want him to ask. She didn’t want him to see anything in her face that she hadn’t chosen to show.
So she did what she always did: she went on the offensive.
“Go to sleep,” she whispered.
Mike’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile and didn’t know if he was allowed. “I was,” he lied.
Max narrowed her eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Mike blinked slowly. “You’re… literally the worst liar.”
Max scoffed, but it came out quieter than usual. Less sharp. Like her edges were tired.
Mike’s gaze didn’t shift away. “Did she say something?” he asked, voice low enough it barely made it past the fire crackling.
Max’s throat tightened.
She stared at the ceiling. “Who.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “My mom.”
Max exhaled through her nose. “No.”
Mike didn’t move. Didn’t push.
Max hated that. It made her want to fill the silence.
“She just… talks like she thinks people are just allowed to be sad,” Max muttered.
Mike’s eyes softened. “Yeah,” he whispered, like that was the most obvious thing in the world.
Max turned her head and stared at him. “That’s not normal.”
Mike looked at her for a beat. In the candlelight, his face looked… not like a boy who could afford to think something like that was normal.
Then his jaw tightened, and he looked away toward the ceiling. “It’s… her version of normal,” he said quietly.
Max’s chest tightened. Her version.
Max swallowed.
A gust of wind hit the house hard enough that the windows rattled. Holly didn’t stir. Ted didn’t stir. Nancy didn’t stir.
Max did.
Her shoulders went tight automatically, the flinch so quick it made her angry.
Mike saw it anyway.
He shifted slightly, closer—just an inch, like he was testing whether she’d bolt.
Max didn’t move away.
That was probably the first time she’d ever done that in her life. Not move away.
Mike’s voice dropped even lower. “It’s loud out there,” he said.
Max’s mouth twisted. “Yeah.”
Mike hesitated. “Do you… hate storms?”
Max let out a short breath that could’ve been a laugh. “I hate being stuck,” she said.
Mike’s eyes flicked to her. “Stuck where?”
Max’s jaw clenched. She didn’t answer right away.
The house creaked. The fire popped. Somewhere upstairs, something settled with a soft thunk like the building was shifting its weight.
Max stared at the ceiling until her eyes unfocused. “Anywhere,” she said finally, and her voice came out rough around the edges. “Inside. With nowhere to go.”
Mike was quiet for a beat.
Then he whispered, like it cost him something to say: “Me too.”
Max turned her head fast, suspicious. “You live in a mansion.”
Mike huffed, quiet. “It’s not a mansion.”
“It’s… basically a mansion,” Max insisted, because she needed the argument. She needed something normal.
Mike’s mouth twitched. “It has two floors. That’s not a mansion.”
Max narrowed her eyes. “It has a fireplace.”
Mike blinked, then looked mildly offended. “So does my grandma’s house.”
Max scoffed. “Exactly.”
Mike stared at her for a second, then his lips pressed together like he was trying not to smile.
Max felt her stomach flip—annoying, traitorous.
She looked away quickly.
The silence between them wasn’t empty anymore. It was full of the stuff they weren’t saying.
Max’s voice slipped out before she could stop it. “Your mom said I’m not a burden.”
Mike went still.
Max regretted it immediately. Her throat tightened. She stared harder at the ceiling like she could erase the sentence.
Mike’s voice came out carefully. “Why would you be a burden?”
Max let out a low, humorless laugh. “Seriously?”
Mike’s gaze stayed on her. “Yeah. Seriously.”
Max swallowed. Her mouth went dry.
She wanted to say because people always treat me like one, but that sounded too pathetic. Too honest.
So she shrugged, small. “I don’t know,” she said. “Because I’m… here.”
Mike’s eyebrows knit together. “That doesn’t—”
Max cut him off, sharp. “It does.”
Mike opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked away like he was thinking.
Then, quietly: “My mom thinks everyone is a stray animal,” he said.
Max blinked, thrown. “What?”
Mike’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious. “She sees someone in the cold and she’s like, ‘Come inside.’”
Max’s chest tightened, stupid and sore.
Mike glanced back at her. “She’s not wrong,” he added, softer.
Max’s throat burned.
She turned her head away so he wouldn’t see her face. “Shut up,” she muttered.
Mike didn’t.
He just shifted again, closer. Another inch. Like he was building a bridge with distance.
Max could feel the warmth off him now. Not a lot. Just enough to be aware of.
Her fingers curled into the blanket.
“You know what I hate?” Mike whispered after a beat.
Max’s voice came out cautious. “What.”
Mike stared at the ceiling. “When everything is… quiet,” he said slowly. “And people are acting like nothing happened. Like we’re supposed to just—” His jaw clenched. “Go back to school. Do homework. Watch TV. Like the mall didn’t… like—”
He stopped, breath hitching.
Max’s chest tightened. She knew that feeling. The sentence choking on itself because finishing it meant making it real.
Mike exhaled hard through his nose. “It makes me feel insane.”
Max swallowed. Her voice came out quiet. “Yeah,” she said.
Mike turned his head slightly, eyes flicking to her. “Does it make you feel insane?”
Max hesitated.
Then, because she was tired and the candlelight was soft and Karen had cracked something open in her, she said, “All the time.”
Mike’s gaze stayed on her.
Max stared at the ceiling, stubborn. “And everyone keeps acting like I’m supposed to be grateful,” she added, the words slipping out sharper. “Like I’m supposed to be happy we’re alive.”
Mike’s voice was quiet. “Aren’t you?”
Max’s throat tightened. “I don’t know,” she admitted, and hated herself for it.
Mike didn’t laugh.
He didn’t look disgusted.
He just said, softly: “Me neither.”
Max’s breath caught.
The fire cracked. A log shifted. The room glowed orange for a second.
Max’s heart thudded in her ribs like it was trying to get her attention.
She turned her head and looked at Mike fully now. His face was half-lit, half-shadow. His eyes looked too awake.
Max’s voice came out small, and she hated it: “Do you ever… think about it?”
Mike’s mouth tightened. “Yeah.”
Max swallowed. “All the time?”
Mike’s eyes flicked down, then back up. “Yeah,” he whispered.
Max stared at him for a long beat.
Then she said, because she couldn’t help it, because the question had been sitting under her tongue since she’d met him: “How do you not fall apart?”
Mike blinked.
For a second, he looked like he didn’t know how to answer without lying.
Then he exhaled and said, quietly, “I do.”
Max’s chest tightened painfully.
Mike’s voice went flatter, like he was trying to put distance between himself and the truth. “Just… not in front of everyone.”
Max’s throat burned.
She looked away fast and stared at the flickering candle on the coffee table. The flame was steady. It didn’t care about anything.
Max’s voice went rough. “My mom thinks I’m fine,” she said. “Because I don’t… do anything.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you mean, ‘do anything’?”
Max swallowed. “Like… cry,” she said, and the word tasted bitter. “Or talk. Or… whatever.”
Mike’s mouth tightened. “That’s stupid,” he whispered.
Max’s eyes flashed. “Yeah? Tell her that.”
Mike went quiet.
Then, softer: “I’m not good at crying either.”
Max’s mouth twisted. “You don’t seem like you cry.”
Mike huffed a laugh, too quiet to wake anyone. “Really,” he asked. “I guess it’s because I’m too busy charming you.”
Max stared at him. Then—without meaning to—she let out a small laugh.
It surprised her. It surprised Mike too.
His mouth tilted, pleased, like he’d won something.
Max scowled immediately to cover it. “Don’t,” she whispered.
Mike’s smile widened a fraction. “You laughed.”
Max narrowed her eyes. “I did not.”
Mike leaned closer, voice low and smug. “You did.”
Max’s stomach flipped again, annoyed.
She reached out and shoved his shoulder lightly.
Mike made a soft sound, offended. “Ow.”
“That did not hurt,” Max hissed.
Mike’s eyes gleamed in the candlelight. “You’re so mean.”
Max scoffed. “You’re so dramatic.”
Mike’s smile softened, and for a second, his gaze dropped to her hand where it still rested on his shoulder.
Max froze.
Her fingers tingled like they’d been caught doing something illegal.
She yanked her hand back fast and tucked it under the blanket.
Mike didn’t say anything about it.
He just stared at the ceiling again, breathing slow.
Max tried to do the same.
It didn’t work.
A floorboard creaked somewhere upstairs.
Max’s body tensed automatically, the old instinct biting before her brain could catch up.
Mike’s head turned toward her immediately.
Max hated that he saw it.
Before he could say anything, she whispered, sharp: “Don’t.”
Mike blinked. “Don’t what?”
Max swallowed, throat tight. “Don’t… look at me like that.”
Mike’s brow furrowed. “Like what?”
Max clenched her jaw. She didn’t have the words.
She didn’t want them.
The candle flame wavered.
Mike was quiet for a beat, then he said, softer, “I’m not judging you.”
Max’s chest tightened.
She stared at the ceiling. “You don’t know anything,” she muttered.
Mike hesitated. Then—careful, like he was stepping onto thin ice—he said, “I know you skated here in a storm instead of going home.”
Max went still.
Mike’s voice stayed low. “So… I know enough.”
Max’s throat burned.
She wanted to snap at him. She wanted to deny it. She wanted to bite.
Instead, she whispered, “Shut up.”
Mike didn’t.
He shifted again, closer. Close enough now that their blankets nearly touched.
Max could feel the warmth off him, faint and real.
Mike’s hand moved under his blanket, hesitant, like he didn’t know if he was allowed. His fingers brushed the edge of Max’s blanket.
Max’s pulse jumped.
His hand stopped.
He didn’t grab her. He didn’t force it.
He just hovered there, waiting.
Max stared at the ceiling like if she looked at him, she’d do something stupid.
Her fingers clenched under the blanket.
Mike’s voice came out rougher than before. “You can tell me to stop,” he whispered.
Max swallowed.
She didn’t tell him to stop.
She turned her head slowly and looked at him.
Mike’s eyes were on her, steady. Not teasing. Not smug. Just… there.
Max’s chest ached.
She shifted her hand under the blanket, slowly, like she was approaching a wild animal.
Her fingers brushed his.
Mike went still.
Max’s stomach flipped.
Then, quick and tight like she was ripping off a bandage, she hooked her fingers around his.
Mike’s breath caught.
For a second, neither of them moved.
The candlelight flickered. The storm pressed against the windows. Ted snored. Holly breathed.
Mike’s fingers curled around hers gently—not tight. Not possessive. Like he was just… confirming it was real.
Max’s throat tightened.
She stared at their hands, hidden under the blankets, and felt something settle in her chest that she didn’t have a name for.
Safety, maybe.
Or just… not being alone.
Mike’s thumb rubbed over her knuckle once, small and careful.
Max’s breath hitched. She hated that it felt good.
Mike whispered, barely audible, “Okay?”
Max scoffed quietly, because she couldn’t not. “You’re weird,” she whispered.
Mike’s mouth twitched. “So are you.”
Max’s eyes stung again, but this time it wasn’t panic. It was something softer. Something worse.
She squeezed his fingers once, quick and hard.
Mike squeezed back.
They stayed like that.
Max’s eyes got heavier. The storm sounded farther away now, muffled by walls and warmth and a hand in hers.
Max’s last coherent thought before sleep tugged her under was that she was going to hate herself tomorrow for this.
Then she fell asleep anyway.
Max woke up with her cheek pressed against the blanket and her neck stiff from sleeping on the floor like an idiot.
The room was lighter—grey-blue dawn leaking through the curtains. The fire was mostly embers. The candles were melted down to wax puddles.
The power was still out. The house felt colder.
Ted was awake and grumbling in his chair like someone had personally stolen electricity from him.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “What do you mean it’s still out? It’s been all night.”
Karen’s voice came from the kitchen, calm and practical. “It’s a storm, Ted.”
Ted grumbled something Max didn’t catch.
Holly sat up abruptly, hair a mess, and announced, “I’m hungry.”
Nancy groaned from the couch like it physically pained her to exist in the morning.
Max blinked hard and pushed herself up, blanket slipping off her shoulder.
Her hand felt weirdly empty.
She looked down automatically.
Her fingers were no longer tangled with Mike’s.
Mike was sitting up against the couch, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand like he’d been punched by sleep. His hair was worse than last night.
He looked at Max.
Max froze.
Mike’s eyes flicked down, briefly, like he was checking if she remembered.
Max’s stomach tightened.
She looked away first, cheeks hot.
“Good,” she muttered, mostly to herself.
Mike blinked. “What?”
Max scowled, defensive. “Nothing.”
Mike’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile.
Max glared at him harder.
He looked away, still faintly amused.
Max stood quickly and wrapped her blanket around her shoulders like armor as she headed toward the kitchen.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and something warm. Karen was already moving, robe tied, hair looser, face tired but steady like she’d decided sleep was optional.
She glanced at Max and smiled softly. “Good morning,” she said.
Max swallowed, throat scratchy. “Morning.”
Karen nodded toward the phone on the wall. “The line’s back,” she said quietly. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Max’s stomach dropped.
She hadn’t even realized she’d been waiting for that like a countdown.
She stared at the beige phone like it was a weapon.
Karen didn’t watch her. She turned back to the stove, giving Max privacy without leaving.
Max picked up the receiver.
Dial tone buzzed in her ear, thin but real.
Max swallowed hard and dialed home.
It rang twice.
Susan answered, voice tight with worry. “Hello?”
Max’s throat tightened. “It’s me.”
“Oh my God,” Susan breathed, relief making her sound younger for a second. “Where are you? I—Neil said—”
“I’m at the Wheelers’,” Max said quickly. “Storm got bad. Power went out.”
Susan exhaled shakily. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. That’s… that’s fine. Just—come home when you can.”
Max swallowed. “I will.”
A pause.
Susan’s voice softened, tired. “Are you alright?”
Max stared at the counter, at Karen’s hands moving with calm competence, at the way warmth existed in this house like it didn’t have to be earned.
She forced her voice steady. “Yeah,” she lied, because she didn’t know how to tell the truth without breaking something.
Susan sighed. “Okay,” she said quietly. “I love you.”
Max’s throat tightened painfully. “Yeah,” she said, because she was bad at that part. “Okay.”
She hung up and stared at the phone a beat too long.
When she turned, Karen was looking at her gently—present, not prying.
Max cleared her throat, rough. “She’s… fine,” Max muttered.
Karen nodded. “Good.”
That was it. No questions. No pressure.
Max’s chest tightened with that stupid ache again.
Mike wandered into the kitchen behind Max, hair a mess, blanket draped over his shoulders like he hadn’t fully woken up yet.
He glanced at Max, then away, like he wasn’t sure what the rules were in daylight.
Karen set bowls on the table. “Eat,” she said briskly, like she could bully trauma with cereal.
Ted complained from the living room about the electric company.
Nancy poured herself coffee like it was medication.
Holly climbed onto a chair and immediately started narrating her hunger like she was a tiny dictator.
Max sat at the table like she was afraid to take up too much space.
Mike sat across from her.
Their knees bumped under the table once, accidental.
Max’s stomach flipped.
Mike’s eyes flicked up, caught hers for half a second.
Max looked away.
They ate cereal. It tasted like cardboard and sugar and normalcy.
Max ate fast, because sitting at the Wheeler table made her feel like she was trespassing.
When she finished, she stood abruptly. “I should go,” she said.
Karen glanced toward the window, where the snow had settled into bright white drifts. “The roads are passable,” she said. “But be careful.”
Max nodded once, stiff. “Thanks.”
It came out quieter than she expected. Real.
Karen’s expression softened. “Anytime,” she said, like it wasn’t a price.
Max swallowed hard.
Mike stood too. “I’ll—” he started, then stopped, glancing toward his dad, like he was checking whether he was allowed to leave the table.
Ted barely looked up.
Mike headed to the front door anyway.
Max slipped her shoes on quickly, grabbed her board from the corner near the stairs, and hugged it to her side like it was a shield.
Mike opened the door and cold air hit her face sharp and clean.
Outside, the world looked scrubbed. White and bright and quiet in that post-storm way that made everything feel like it was holding its breath.
Max stepped onto the porch and pulled her hood up.
Mike hovered in the doorway, hands in his sweatshirt pockets, like he wanted to act casual and couldn’t.
Max adjusted her grip on her board and forced herself to move toward the steps.
“Max,” Mike said.
She paused, half-turned.
Mike swallowed, then said, voice low: “Call me when you get home.”
Max froze.
The words were simple. Practical. Normal.
They landed anyway.
Max stared at him. “Why?”
Mike blinked, then frowned like he was scrambling for a reason that didn’t sound like the truth. “Because,” he said, then gestured vaguely at the street. “It’s icy.”
Max’s mouth tilted. “Liar.”
Mike’s cheeks colored faintly. “Shut up.”
Max’s chest tightened.
She looked down at her board, then back up at him.
“Okay,” she said, voice rough.
Mike’s shoulders loosened slightly like he’d been holding his breath.
Max stepped down the stairs carefully, porch slick under her shoes.
At the bottom, she stopped.
She didn’t turn right away. She stared down the street, at the quiet white road leading back to her life.
She swallowed hard.
Then she turned back.
Mike was still in the doorway, watching her like he hadn’t moved.
Max lifted her chin. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she called, making it an insult because that was the only way she knew how to make it safe.
Mike’s mouth tilted. “You first.”
Max huffed a laugh, surprised.
She raised a hand, a small wave that felt too intimate, then grabbed her board like she hadn’t.
She pushed off, wheels crunching over packed snow, and skated down the road.
Behind her, the door clicked shut.
Max kept skating, wind cold on her cheeks, the morning bright and quiet and wrong.
Her fingers were cold again inside her hoodie pocket.
The Wheeler house warmth stayed under her skin anyway, stubborn as an ember.
Halfway home, she passed the drugstore with the payphone out front—metal receiver frosted, the booth rimmed with snow like a little glass coffin.
Max slowed automatically, eyes flicking to it.
Call me when you get home.
Max’s mouth twisted.
She kept skating.
Then she didn’t.
She stopped two seconds later so hard her wheels slid a fraction on the ice.
Max stood there, board under her arm, staring at the payphone like it was a dare.
She could wait until she got home.
She could call from home.
She could do what he asked like it was nothing.
Or—
Max swallowed hard, annoyed at herself.
She marched to the payphone booth like she was going to punch it.
The metal was so cold it burned her fingers when she picked up the receiver.
She shoved a coin in, punched the number into the rotary-style keypad with more force than necessary, and waited.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
On the third ring, someone picked up.
“Hello?” Karen Wheeler’s voice.
Max froze, mortified instantly.
Of course Karen would answer.
Max’s cheeks burned. “Uh—hi.”
There was a pause. Then Karen’s voice warmed, amused and gentle. “Max?”
Max clenched her jaw. “Yeah.”
Karen didn’t laugh, but Max could hear the smile anyway. “Did you get home already?”
“No,” Max snapped, then immediately regretted it. She exhaled hard. “I mean—no. I’m… I’m calling.”
Karen’s amusement softened into something fond. “Alright,” she said calmly. “Hold on.”
Max heard Karen call, louder: “Mike!”
Max’s stomach flipped painfully.
There was shuffling on the other end, footsteps, a muffled “What?” from Mike.
Then: “Hello?”
Mike’s voice—closer now, right in her ear—made Max’s throat tighten.
Max stared out at the white street, at the slow drift of snow off the trees.
“I’m… not home,” Max said, because she was an idiot.
Mike went quiet for a beat.
Then, softly: “Okay.”
Max clenched her jaw, annoyed at herself. “But I’m fine,” she added quickly. “I didn’t die.”
Mike huffed a small laugh. “Good.”
Max’s fingers tightened around the receiver. Her breath fogged the glass of the booth.
There was a pause where neither of them spoke, and Max could hear Mike breathing on the other end like he didn’t want to hang up first either.
Max’s chest tightened.
“Okay,” Max said abruptly, like she was slamming a door on the moment before it got too soft. “I’m going home now.”
Mike’s voice was quiet. “Okay.”
Max swallowed. “Okay.”
Mike hesitated. Then, softer: “Be careful.”
Max’s throat tightened. “Yeah,” she muttered. “You too.”
There was another pause.
Mike’s voice dropped, rougher. “Max?”
Max’s pulse jumped. “What.”
Mike hesitated like he was choosing the safest words. “I’m… glad you came over,” he said.
Max’s chest ached.
She stared at the street. She could feel her own heartbeat in her fingers.
“Yeah,” she said, voice rough. “Me too.”
Mike went quiet.
Max’s cheeks burned.
She snapped, because she couldn’t not: “Don’t get weird about it.”
Mike huffed a laugh. “You’re the one calling me from a payphone.”
Max’s stomach flipped. She scowled even though he couldn’t see it. “Shut up.”
Mike’s smile was audible. “Okay.”
Max’s throat tightened again, stupid.
She hung up fast before she did something humiliating like say thank you.
The receiver clacked back into place.
Max stood there for a second, staring at her reflection in the glass—hood up, cheeks red, eyes too bright.
She looked like someone who’d just done something stupid.
Max exhaled hard and grabbed her board.
Then she pushed off again, skating home through the bright, quiet morning with her hands jammed deep in her pockets and the sound of Mike’s voice still warm in her ear.
The storm hadn’t made her go to the Wheelers’.
Not really.
But it had given her an excuse.
And for now, that was enough.