Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Don’t forget to clean the coffee machine filter. It’s not self-cleaning.

— M.

Lucas stepped inside the campus café, the silly hat perched on his head doing nothing to brighten his mood. He already dreaded the long hours ahead — the hum of the espresso machine, the flickering lights outside casting a pale glow, and the random group of students who’d show up at 2 a.m. asking for a million mozzarella sticks, disturbing his peace. The espresso machine sat on the counter, its filter basket clogged and damp from his previous shift. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed the cleaning brush and began scraping away the stubborn grounds.

His eyes flicked up to the fridge door, where a bright pink sticky note stood out among the clutter. The handwriting was messy, familiar — unmistakably hers.

And she was right, as always.

Stop handing cookies out for free. We are not a charity.

— L.

El showed up at her usual Thursday time, around 10 p.m., after one of her late-night craft club meetings. Without hesitation, Max got the biggest chocolate chip brownie cookie — her best friend’s absolute favorite — from the counter and handed it over.

Max caught sight of the sticky note stuck near the cash register — his handwriting practically yelling at her. She just shrugged, grinning.

“We do pay tuition, you know,” she said, as if he’d actually argue.

If you burn another batch of muffins, I’m not covering for you. Instructions say 10 minutes in the oven, tops.

– M.

Lucas peeled back the foil on the tray she’d left earlier that evening. The muffins looked fine at first glance — golden, maybe a little pale. But when he picked one up, it sagged slightly in the middle. He bit into one cautiously, immediately regretting the choice but trying not to show it.

Raw. Not even underbaked. Raw.

He stared at the sticky note stuck to the side of the mixer, her handwriting neat and self-assured.

She was serious.

A smirk tugged at his lips anyway.

They were actually both terrible at this.

The muffins from last night were borderline a crime. Please keep the kitchen edible. 

– L.

Max snorted as she read the note stuck to the fridge. Borderline a crime? She glanced over at the tray of fresh muffins she was sliding into the oven, with a timer perfectly set for the instructed baking time. Perfect this time — or at least she hoped so.

She tapped the note with a grin. “Says the guy who can barely toast a bagel without burning it,” she muttered to herself. Maybe next time, he should try baking before he starts playing kitchen critic.

Please follow cleaning standards when closing up. Morning shift said it was a mess when they got in. 

– Management. 

Lucas glanced up at the bright yellow sticky note stuck near the espresso machine, smirking at the clever signature. Management, huh? She thought a little too highly of herself.

He wiped down the counter as the café grew quieter — trying to follow all the stupid cleaning rules the actual management posted by the back door. The mozzarella stick run — a staple by this point — had already happened, so he knew without checking the clock that it was almost time to go home.

Dustin, ever the night owl and always finding a way to bother his friend at the worst shift possible, slid onto a stool near the register, eyes flicking to the note with amusement.

“Your boss sounds a bit intense,” he said with an eyebrow raised. “What do they mean, cleaning standards ?”

“I don’t know, dude,” Lucas said with a half-smile, wiping his hands on his apron. “I guess it’s just someone who really wants this place to run right.” He said it more to himself than to Dustin.

He wasn’t sure what he’d say if he knew who Management really was.

Please be useful and fry some extra mozzarella sticks so that I don’t have to run around like crazy during my shift.

— L.

“Are you almost done?” Mike’s voice came from behind the counter, a trace of impatience sneaking through. He had somehow finished all his assignments for the night and abandoned Will at a table just to bother Max.

She didn’t look up, her hands busy getting the oil in the fryer to the correct temperature. “It’s sooo late already.”

“You guys don’t have to wait for me, you know. Just go home,” she said without looking at him, frying some extra mozzarella sticks, knowing she would have to wash her hair the second she got back to her apartment.

Mike shrugged but didn’t move to leave. Instead, he leaned casually against the counter, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched Max work. “Someone’s got to keep you company. Keep the energy up.”

Max responded with a quick, amused eyeroll but didn’t slow her rhythm, carefully flipping the mozzarella sticks in the bubbling oil.

As Mike’s gaze wandered, it caught the bright neon green sticky note stuck just above the fryer. 

He squinted at the neat handwriting. “Is this why you can’t leave yet? Playing fairy god-coworker and doing someone else’s job?”

Max glanced over briefly, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Just helping out. Sometimes I can be nice.” 

And no, he didn’t need to know who that coworker was. Frankly, most days she chose to pretend she didn’t know either.

I think we might be baking way too many muffins. People don’t eat them much at night.

— M.

Max glanced around the quiet café, then moved toward the oven to stick the note where he would see it first thing on his shift.

“Max, I’m heading out. My sub should be here soon,” her coworker — a bright-eyed first-year — called over her shoulder, already halfway out of the employee section. “See you tomorrow!”

Max only half-listened, focused on sliding the muffin tray into the oven.

“Have fun tonight,” she said without looking up, the soft click of the café door marking her coworker’s exit.

She closed the oven door, her fingers lingering on the handle for a moment longer than necessary.

Then she looked up — just in time to see him step inside.

She froze.

Oh. She should have checked who the sub was.

Chapter Text

She didn’t hate him. Of course she didn’t. She could never. 

But seeing him then, walking into her territory — her shift — she might as well have. Or maybe it would’ve just been easier if she did.

And he must have felt the same, as he cautiously left his coat in the cubby area. There was a beat of uncomfortable silence, neither of them quite willing to make the first move.

She forced herself to keep going, moving through her tasks like she would on any other Tuesday — with her usual co-worker, who, for the record, had just betrayed her for some freshman event. Not that she could have known; Max mostly kept to herself and didn’t go around announcing who she did and didn’t want to work with. And clearly, he hadn’t checked the schedule before agreeing to cover for Erin. If he had, he  wouldn’t have said yes.

Or maybe that was inevitable anyway.

They’d been doing it for months. Avoiding. Quietly coordinating a detour around each other. But honestly, they were both naive to think it would never happen. Turnover at the campus café was always high — freshmen quitting for better on-campus jobs, shifts getting shuffled last minute. They were so understaffed some weeks that managers practically begged people to pick up extra hours. It was bound to happen eventually. And Max, stubborn as she was, had just never let herself prepare for it.

As he clocked in, he spotted the sticky note — her sticky note — right where she’d just left it.

It had started as something practical — a quick reminder scribbled at the end of a shift, because she knew he’d be the one walking in next. Simple, useful. The beauty of it was that she never actually had to see him. That was the unspoken rule. From the start, it had been a quiet, faceless back-and-forth. The notes were meant for an anonymous reader — even if she’d always known exactly who he was. She was never supposed to see him read them. 

Max turned away sharply, pretending to troubleshoot something in the register that wasn’t broken.

He looked at the note for a beat longer than necessary. 

“…You think we’re baking too many muffins?” he said, voice low.

She couldn’t remember the last time they spoke — not really. It might’ve ended in something messy, or quiet, or both. But his tone now was easy, like he was choosing not to remember any of that. She didn’t hear any resentment in it.

“Last night I only sold one,” she finally said , eyes still fixed on the register screen. “They taste awful the next day. Especially if you burn them.”

He let out a soft huff — not quite a laugh, but close.

“That happened once.”

She glanced sideways at him. “Twice.”

He lifted his shoulders in a half-hearted shrug, lips twitching at the corners. “Okay. Once and a half.”

There it was again — that rhythm, that familiar tug of something they used to be. It sat between them now like an open book neither of them had dared to touch for months.

He stepped behind the counter with a practiced ease, like he hadn’t been actively avoiding this place on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 8pm to 11 pm for the past semester. 

“I didn’t check if it was your shift,” he said finally, not quite looking at her. His voice was quieter than she remembered, but maybe that was just the room — all tile and soft jazz and lemon cleaner.

“I figured,” she said, without looking up from the register screen, which she had stopped pretending to fix five minutes ago. Her fingers hovered over the buttons, unmoving.

There was a beat of silence. Not the brittle, bracing kind from when he first walked in — this one was thinner, quieter, edged with something she couldn’t name. Maybe mutual effort. Maybe something else.

He rested his hand on the stainless steel counter, fingers tapping once. “I can take front if you want,” he offered. “You can stay in the back.”

She looked at him then. Really looked. It wasn’t like she never saw him — campus wasn’t that big, and they still shared the same group of friends, even if everyone tiptoed around it like kids caught in the middle of a divorce. He still showed up in the background of her days, and in the photos tacked to her wall — the ones from Hawkins, the ones she couldn’t bring herself to take down. She never even tried.

“It’s fine,” she said after a breath. “You’re better with the espresso machine anyway. If you actually clean it.”

He gave a short, almost imperceptible nod, then moved to the back station. He didn’t say anything else, and neither did she. 

So they spent the next hours in a quiet rhythm, the clatter of dishes and the hum of the espresso machine filling the spaces where words might have been. They moved around each other like two strangers sharing the same small space but not the same world.

When the clock finally crept toward the end of her usual shift, Max wiped her hands on her apron and headed toward the cubby area in silence. He knew that was the time she went home — seconds before he himself would normally come in. She grabbed her backpack, the familiar weight grounding her as she slipped on her heavy winter coat.

Before she stepped through the door, Max glanced back one last time. He was still there, methodically wiping down the counter, every movement precise and controlled. His expression was unreadable, a carefully guarded mask she couldn’t quite read.

In another lifetime, when they were both working long summer nights at the diner in Hawkins, trying to save for college, she would’ve asked him if he needed company when doing the long closing shift alone. Back then, he would’ve told her to go home, get some rest. And she would’ve rolled her eyes, maybe called him dramatic — but she’d have stayed anyway.

Now, the words sat like gravel in her throat, sharp and uncertain. Maybe she should offer to stay, just in case. But she didn’t want to make it even weirder than it already was. So she swallowed the impulse.

Instead, she offered a quick, dry, “Good luck with the mozz sticks weirdos tonight,” the old snark slipping out like a reflex. He looked up, a flicker of a smile brushing his lips, but said nothing.

Max pushed open the door and stepped into the cool night air. She didn’t hate him — that was impossible. If that were true, El always said, there’d be no reason to avoid every shift with him. But tonight reminded her why she had been doing it so religiously, sacrificing some precious extra dollars on her paycheck. And, if she was lucky, this would never happen again.

Things should stay as they were. As they were supposed to be.

— — — 

Give away muffins that don’t sell. We do charity sometimes.

— M.

Lucas glanced at the sticky note, his eyebrow twitching. She knew exactly how he felt about giving away food. They weren’t supposed to do it — it would risk their jobs. He definitely couldn’t afford that right now. Unlike him, though, she could always get away with it. He’d seen Mike and El suspiciously wandering around with their beloved brownie cookies during her shifts.

He looked over at Will, seated at the counter, buried in a literature review project, the bags under his eyes growing darker by the hour. Lucas had told him to go home, that he could work on it in the morning, but Will was adamant about finishing it tonight. So there he was — probably in need of a little fuel for the late-night grind.

He had to admit it: she was right. Letting perfectly good food go to waste just felt wrong. His fingers brushed against the slightly squished blueberry muffin resting near the edge of the tray, its sweet, fruity aroma faint but comforting in the cool night air of the kitchen. With a small sigh, he picked it up, feeling the slight stickiness where the berries had burst during baking. Maybe this little act of kindness to a friend wasn’t so reckless after all.

“Hey,” Lucas said, holding it out.

Will looked up, surprised. “For me?”

Lucas shrugged, trying to sound casual. “Yeah. Didn’t want it to go to waste.”

Will smiled, a little uncertain but grateful. “Thought you weren’t supposed to do that.”

“Oh well, feeling generous today,” Lucas said, smirking.

Will grinned to himself, peeling the wrapper slowly. He’d definitely benefited from her impromptu baked-good giveaways more than once. And having spent enough ungodly hours there, he knew Lucas was the type to hold onto every leftover with his dear life. If he’d put the pieces together — the sticky note, the awkward delivery — he kept it to himself. Not that there was anything to piece together.

Will didn’t say anything else, just nodded his thanks and returned to his work. The café had settled into that late-night hush — machines cleaned, lights dimmed, quiet music looping from someone’s forgotten playlist.

Lucas moved back behind the counter, wiping down surfaces that were already clean, waiting for the clock to catch up to closing. His eyes drifted to the muffin tray — empty now — and then to the small stack of sticky notes beside the register. His fingers hovered over the neon green pad, trembling slightly.

Up until then, he would have defined all their notes as strictly practical, calling each other out for silly mistakes. Her muffin comment, though, had been a shift. A small one, but still. A nod, a recognition that what they’d been doing was becoming an actual conversation between two people — not just a series of sticky notes. They’d talked about it last Thursday, when they shared a shift, the first time they had talked in a long time. It seemed like now she actually saw him in those notes, not some faceless co-worker that Dustin might call entitled. And maybe that’s what unsettled him. He didn’t know how to read that — or what it meant for whatever this was now.

That distance between them existed for a reason — and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to cross it. 

He sighed and grabbed a note anyway, scrawling carefully.

Saved one muffin from the waste pile. Will says thanks.

— L.

He pressed the note onto the counter where she’d find it.

Glad Will got some energy — nice to feed friends sometimes. Save a brownie cookie for Mike tonight, I think he might need it.

— M.

Mike is duly fed. And I’m starting to think you might be running a secret snack operation behind our backs.

— L.

Don’t tell the Cookie Cops.

PS: The muffins were actually edible. Miracles happen. Proud of you.

— M. 

She’d left that last one tucked away oddly in the pastry display, unlike her usual practical notes scattered by the register or the coffee machine. He didn’t find it immediately — not until the start of the extra Wednesday shift he’d picked up at the last minute.

It was Wednesday, not his usual day, but people were desperate to switch out of closing, and he needed some extra hours. A win-win, he guessed. He’d shown up a little early, expecting to find Kimmy already running around —  instead, he only found the crew from the previous shift, who were more than happy to ditch the place as soon as possible. He couldn’t blame them.

A few minutes later, he heard the back door creak open. Footsteps. He didn’t bother turning around.

“Hey, Kimmy, do you know where we left the used oil last night? I forgot to—”

The words caught halfway out of his mouth as he finally glanced over the counter.

Not Kimmy.

“Oh. Hi,” he said, caught off guard, voice just a notch quieter than usual.

She shrugged, trying to look casual but failing. “Kimmy called in sick,” she explained, voice steady. “Thought I’d cover.”

Lucas gave a small, neutral nod and turned back toward the storage shelf, still searching for the bottle of used oil he’d stashed somewhere the night before — probably behind the cardboard boxes of cups or maybe under the sink. Or maybe someone had already tossed it. Either way, he wasn’t about to ask her now.

They then slipped a quiet rhythm — passing each other effortlessly between the fryer and the prep station, alternating who stayed up front and who kept an eye on the back, juggling orders of mozzarella sticks. It didn’t need to be awkward. It wasn’t awkward. It was just two people who had once spent nearly every waking moment side by side, who had known each other better than anyone else ever had, now navigating the slow, grinding stretch of a four-hour closing shift together. 

He told himself he didn’t need to make it into something. He shouldn’t. He promised himself he wouldn’t. This was just a professional interaction — just like it was with Patrick on Tuesdays, or Kimmy on Thursdays. Nothing different here. Nothing to feel weird about. She would go back to being just some hideous pink sticky notes soon enough.

But when the last light flickered off and they stepped outside, something about the stillness made it harder to believe all that. The cold wrapped around them, sharp and silent, and their breaths hung in the air — soft, fleeting clouds suspended in the space between them. She stood curled into her coat like she always had, shoulders hunched, hands buried deep in her sleeves. She’d never gotten used to Midwest winters, not even after all this time.

He remembered how, back then, they used to share warmth without thinking — an arm looped around her shoulder, fingers hooked into her sleeve, whatever made the cold feel less cruel. But that was years ago. Now neither of them would dare to move an inch closer.

He wanted to say something — anything. Wanted to ask if she wanted company walking home. But no. He should leave things as they were.

He adjusted the collar of his coat, glanced away, and murmured, “Guess this is it.”

She nodded, eyes on the sidewalk ahead, breath catching in the cold.

“See you,” she said softly.

“Yeah. See you.”

As she walked off, the urge to follow tugged at him, stubborn and sudden, but he let it go. Not today.

It was better this way.

Chapter Text

Lucas remembered the day she broke up with him — the last time. A random Tuesday. No warnings. No big fights. Out of the blue.

Back then, he didn’t want to fight, so he just accepted it. She had done it many times before anyway. If she wanted him back, she would leave it clear. But she never reached out. Disappeared. 

That, too, wasn’t new. It was how she coped — always had been. He used to meet that pattern with patience, used to wait her out, used to find her when she didn’t want to be found.

But this time, he didn’t. He couldn’t.

He was tired — maybe not of her exactly, but of always being the one who stayed. The one who showed up, even when she didn’t want him to. The one who tried, over and over, even when it never seemed to be enough.

He had done everything he could think of. He had been there every time she needed him. He supported her, encouraged her, even read her essays when she thought they weren’t good enough. And still, it hadn’t mattered.

So he let her go.

He had done a great job at keeping it like that. Avoided any group hangout where she might show up. Skipped the game nights, the movie marathons without thinking. At first, he figured the others assumed it was just another breakup — that they’d bounce back like they always had. But when they didn’t, the group simply just adjusted, like it had always been that way. No one said anything, at least not publicly. And if they took her side — well, he couldn’t really blame them, even if there weren’t any sides to take. Even though, technically, they were his friends first, they just liked her too much. Maybe more than they liked him now. 

He’d made peace with it. It was easier that way—easier not to expect anything.

But then, somehow, the sticky notes started showing up.

He remembered the day they started. A random Thursday this time. Also no warnings. Completely out of the blue after almost two years of basically no contact. At first, he hadn’t even been sure they were from her — but the tone in them could never be from anyone else. Of course it was her.

He had no idea why she’d suddenly reached out again, or what she wanted from it. Maybe it was just something to pass the time — a game she played to amuse herself during shifts. He remembered how much she used to hate that job, especially when she’d first started freshman year. He’d thought about that when he picked it up himself last semester. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe a test. Whatever it was, he kept finding himself looking for the next one — even when he told himself he didn’t care. Even when he swore he didn’t want to.

It was fine when she was just a scribble on a sticky note — messy handwriting, dumb jokes, half-hearted jabs. She existed in the margins then. A distraction, not a presence. He could pretend it didn’t mean anything. 

But it was harder when she was actually there, working right next to him. It didn’t take much. Just a few hours near her and suddenly, he was right back there — the same old Lucas, having to fight himself back not to run right back to her. And he hated that. Hated that he couldn’t switch it off. The control he’d kept,  the boundary he’d built, felt like it was hanging by a thread.

He knew it was a bad idea. He knew it was a bad idea the second he started to answer those stupid notes. He knew it was a bad idea when he started to have actual, though casual and teasing, conversations with her through them. He knew it was a bad idea to share a shift with her — even if he didn’t have much say on it. He knew it was a bad idea to keep going with it, to slowly let her in.

If it was still a game, he didn’t want to play it anymore. And maybe that was the first good idea he’d had in a while.

— — —

Max was used to him always coming back to her. For him to reach out. To ground her.

He did that in middle school, when she broke up with him over every dumb little thing. He did it in high school, when she pushed him away, when she hid from everyone. He showed up. He saw her.

So when he didn’t do that the last time, she felt a bit lost. He just agreed to it. Said it was a good decision. No fight. No trying. Just… sure. Okay. Like he had already been slipping through her fingers and was relieved to let go.

Anticlimactic.

So she accepted it. Slipped away, like she always did — only this time, no one came after her.

She made peace with it, or something close to it. Avoided him. Made her friends tiptoe around shared plans. It was working. It should’ve stayed that way.

Until one day, on a whim, she left a stupid sticky note. She didn’t know why, exactly. She was just bored, to tell the truth. She had seen his name surprisingly show up on the schedule the previous semester. He used to swear up and down that he’d never take a job like that. Said it was beneath him, or some dramatic crap like that. Proof, maybe, that she didn’t know him anymore. Not really.

Still, she left the note.

What surprised her most was that he responded. And then again. And again. Like a real conversation — with her. And every day, she found herself anxiously waiting for the next one, even if she’d never admit it out loud.

And then… they stopped.

No reason. No explanation. And she knew it was stupid — it’s a piece of paper, it’s a joke, it’s nothing. But she felt like she was living through their breakup, the real, permanent one, all over again. And she hated that she kept looking for them. Hated that she still expected him to be the one to keep reaching out.

As she handed out a soggy panini to another sleep-deprived student, she glanced over the counter. Mike was right there, pretending to study just to have an excuse to bother her all night — although he usually got way too bored when she did closing shifts. She could just ask him, plain and simple. It wouldn’t be so out of the blue. They were technically still friends — or that’s what they told the group. But everyone knew that wasn’t true. And how could she explain it: oh yeah, my ex and I have been exchanging sticky notes, and suddenly he hasn’t left any in a while. Is he ok? It wasn’t even a real concern. It sounded ridiculous, even to herself. The sticky notes were stupid anyway, he must just have been focused on doing his actual job.

“If you’ve got something to say, just say it. Don’t just stand there staring,” Mike muttered, not even looking up.

“Go away,” she said sharply. “Do you not have anywhere better to be?”

Mike didn’t flinch. He rarely did when it came to Max. “You’re fun when you’re annoyed.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to the register, pretending to focus on the next order even though no one was in line. “You’re insufferable.”

“You say that like it’s a revelation,” he replied, stretching out in his chair and drumming his fingers on the counter. “Seriously though, what’s up with you?”

“Nothing’s up.”

“You’ve been weird all night.”

“I’m always weird, you have said it yourself.”

Mike tilted his head. “Yeah, but not this kind of weird. This feels… existential.”

She didn’t respond. Just grabbed a napkin, wiped a perfectly clean spot on the counter, and kept her eyes down.

He let the silence hang between them for a moment, then said, quieter, “If something’s wrong, you can tell me.”

That got her. Almost.

Surprisingly enough, Mike was — more often than she liked to admit — able to get through to her. Maybe because she saw herself in him, the worst and most irritating parts. So she let him in, just a little. Not too much. He’d abuse the privilege. And he’d absolutely not let her live it down if he knew the reason she was being existentially weird .

She looked up, met his eyes for half a second, then shrugged like it meant nothing.

 “I’m fine.”

Mike raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “Okay. But for the record, this version of you sucks. Bring back the one who throws napkins at me when I annoy her.”

She gave a weak smirk and tossed the napkin in his direction. It fluttered in the air and landed on one of his books.

“Better,” he said, peeling it off. “You’re still terrible at aiming, though.”

She laughed, trying to send all the thoughts about sticky notes — or the lack thereof — to the back of her head. She was being dramatic. The existential kind of weird, the worst kind, if you could ask her. There was no need for her to be weird about something that didn’t even matter.

It didn’t matter. She repeated to herself over and over. This is silly .

But still, when she went to the back to restock the ketchup packets, she checked the side of the fridge where the sticky notes used to appear.

Nothing.

She should just move on. Again.

Really.

— — —

The air outside was cold — sharp and still. He could see his breath clouding in front of him, vanishing almost as quickly as it came. Campus was quiet at that hour, emptied out except for a few silhouettes moving fast, hurrying home before the snow hit. Lucas should’ve been one of them. He should’ve left hours ago. His housemates were probably wondering where he was — or maybe not. No one ever really noticed. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting there, only that the cold had settled deep into his fingers, and that nothing felt clear anymore. He couldn’t make himself get up. Couldn’t walk back inside where it was warm and bright and real. Out here, it was just him and the bench and the dark, and he could almost believe nothing was happening. That everything was still okay.

She saw him before he saw her. Slouched over, elbows on his knees, head low. For a second, she considered  turning around before he even noticed her. She was in no place to do anything right then. Maybe a few years ago she would’ve tried — cracked a joke, nudged him out of the bench, dragged him home like it was nothing. Maybe back then he would’ve laughed. Maybe he would’ve wanted her there. But now, when he finally looked up and their eyes met, she was sure: she was the last person he wanted to see. And honestly, she couldn’t blame him.

Of course it would be her. Of course she’d be the one to find him like this. There was something cosmic about it, like the universe couldn’t help but pull them back into each other’s orbit just when they least wanted it. Cruel. Ironic. Maybe inevitable, just like the shifts they shared the week before. He looked up and met her bright blue eyes. There was something in them — not pity, not exactly, but an ache to understand. A pull. She looked like she wanted to speak, to say something that would fix whatever this was. And still, he said nothing. What was there to say that wouldn’t break him open?

She didn’t want to push. Didn’t know how to ask. Or what exactly to ask — he was always the one who did that. But she wanted to. Her hands hovered uselessly at her sides, like they might reach out before her brain could catch up. But they stayed still. She stayed still. Should she move? Say something? Just go? A while ago, she would’ve known. She would’ve known exactly what to do, what he needed. But now? Now, she wasn’t sure of anything.

His rational self wanted her to turn around and walk away. Slip out of sight the way she had for the past two years, like it was nothing. Like he was nothing. But some stubborn part of him — the part that still remembered late nights and soft jokes and the way she used to nudge his shoulder just to make sure he was still there — wanted her to stay. Even if they didn’t speak. Even if all she did was sit beside him, silent and warm and real.

She moved before she could think better of it. The bench creaked slightly under her as she sat beside him, not too close — just enough to let him know she was there. Her hands were cold in her lap. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t say his name. Didn’t even breathe too loudly, afraid the moment might crack under any added pressure. She just sat there.

They sat in silence. Neither daring to break it.

Max stared ahead at the same dark nothingness he was staring at. But she wasn’t really seeing it. She was remembering — how many nights they’d sat like this before, on steps or curbs or lawns, not saying much, not needing to. How he used to reach for her hand first. How, sometimes, she beat him to it.

Her hand inched toward his now, slow and hesitant, a ghost of a gesture she hadn’t made in so long it felt like someone else’s muscle memory. She could feel the warmth of him even through the air between them. Just a few inches. Just a breath.

But she stopped.

Her fingers curled into a loose fist on her lap. She swallowed. Her throat was tight.

Then, without a word, she stood up. The bench creaked again with the shift of her weight.

He didn’t look up. She didn’t look back.

The next day, as he prepared to start his shift, his eyes caught a bright pink sticky note, tucked where he couldn’t miss it.

You ok?

–M.

Chapter Text

Lucas’s fingers hovered above the note for a second before he pulled a pen from his pocket. Her question was casual, maybe, but not careless. He knew that much. And even in a messy scrawl, he knew she meant it. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to let her in — not enough to answer that question as earnestly as she’d written it.

So instead, he drew. Just a sleepy face. Lopsided eyes, deep under-eye circles, and a dramatically downturned mouth. It was dumb and low-effort and maybe a bit too familiar. He didn’t think too hard about that part until after.

The next shift, it was the first thing Max looked for. She scanned the corners of the register, the mugs, the schedule board like she wasn’t doing it on purpose. She almost rolled her eyes at herself — she was slowly going insane and she knew it.

But there it was, tucked between old receipts and loose sugar packets. A doodle. A stupid little face, dramatic and expressive and unmistakably his. Just like the ones he used to sneak her during boring high school classes, though she wasn’t sure he even remembered those. Max smiled, genuinely this time — not a smirk, but a soft, awkward, too-big smile that caught her off guard. Good thing no one was around to see it.

And that was all they needed to start again.

😐

(that’s me after three closing shifts in a row)

– L.

(under the cash register)

You spelled “pathetic” wrong.

– M.

(slid under his note, crooked, a little crumpled at the edge — like she almost didn’t leave it.)

We should just break the espresso machine. Would be good for humanity.

– M.

(stuck dead center on the espresso machine’s blinking, half-broken screen — her handwriting sharp and rushed, like she wrote it in the middle of a thought.)

As if you could live without it. You wouldn’t survive a day.

– L. 

(scrawled on a napkin, propped beneath the chipped Hawkins souvenir mug he keeps using no matter how many times someone told him to throw it away — the coffee inside was cold by the time she found it, but she drank it anyway.)

Some people have cookie standards. I can’t believe you feed your friends this monstrosity.

-L.

(taped onto the edge of the pastry display)

Presumptuous of you to assume I made that one.

– M.

(hidden under a slightly burnt, already dry cookie that miraculously no one ate since her previous shift — maybe because it was objectively horrible. He ate it anyway.)

You always burn the last tray. It’s kind of your thing.

– L.

(written over the back of a printed receipt, folded and left by the employee schedule — where she’d have to see it.)

Please stop leaving your ugly dirty mugs for me to clean. And stop drinking coffee late at night, you’re gonna get a heart attack.

– L.

(hidden under her — dirty — sunflower mug that she and El had painted their senior year of high school.)

Max leaned her elbow on the counter, chewing absentmindedly on the cap of her pen. The note in front of her already had three versions crossed out. One too soft, one too defensive, one that was just way too dramatic.

She stared at the little square like it had betrayed her.

It was just a stupid note. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

You used to like sharing coffee with me.

She frowned. Too much .

“Max?” Will’s voice cut softly through her sticky note trance.

She blinked up. He was standing at the edge of the counter, two drinks in hand, a crease between his brows.

“I asked if you wanted some Chai from Saint’s Rest. I got you an oat milk one”

“Oh. Yeah, sorry,” she said, quickly setting the pen down. “Wouldn’t it be considered treason?”

He handed her the cup anyway. “Nah. Everyone knows the drinks here suck. No need for you to suffer through them every night.”

“Thanks,” she murmured, already taking a sip.

Will’s eyes lingered a second too long. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. All good,” she replied, with the kind of half-smile that made people stop asking questions.

As soon as he sat down and started to get books from his backpack, Max reached for the pen again, scribbling quickly before she lost the nerve. The note was folded once and slid under the edge of the register — out of sight, but not really.

Hypocrite. Don’t pretend you’re not a coffee addict just like me. 

And you said the mug was cute when we made it 😢

– M.

(written in a sharp, slanted scrawl across a blank white sticky, not her usual bright pink one. She was running out of them.)

She didn’t smile when she pulled her hand back. But her fingers hovered a moment too long on the corner of the note.

Then she turned back to Will, who was still sitting on one of the counter stools, sipping his own drink with a curious expression.

“So,” she said, steadying herself again, “what prompted you to tempt me into betraying my place of employment?”

— — —

March. 

The snow was finally melting outside when Max officially went insane. She willingly scheduled a shift with him. 

Kimmy had an event she couldn’t miss, and she always covered for Max when she needed it. Normally — when she was still sane — Max would’ve passed it off to someone else like she had done many times before. It had been working that way. Each to their own shifts, each to their own lives. But now those stupid sticky notes had her wanting more. Had her wanting to share a room, share a painfully long closing shift with him, as insane as that sounded.

So instead, she heard herself say: Sure. I’ll take it .

She got there unusually early, heart pounding like an anxious teenager. Had he seen the schedule? Had he asked for a sub last minute to avoid her? 

What was she even doing? She should know better. She was the one who broke up with him, after all. And she was the one who started the sticky notes. A bit inconsistent, if you could ask her. Like she wanted distance and closeness all at once, and wasn’t quite sure which one she was supposed to choose.

She hated that her mind wandered there at all — entertaining the idea that he might want to get close again someday.  She hated that she noticed the way her stomach flipped when she didn’t see his name crossed out in red pen. And she absolutely hated that she kept pretending to have things to do so it wouldn’t seem like she was too desperate to face the door every time it opened. 

Get yourself together , she told herself.

He showed up six minutes late — as if deliberately feeding into her unpredictable anxiety.

Max was halfway through rearranging the cookie display — again — when he showed up, opening the back door slowly. She didn’t turn immediately. She didn't need to. She knew it was him.

“Hey,” he said, his voice somewhere between casual and cautious.

“Hey,” she replied, focused very intently on lining up the oatmeal raisin cookies like they were about to be graded.

He walked behind the counter without another word, slinging his apron over his shoulder before tying it at his back in one practiced motion. She glanced sideways, just briefly — catching him start a batch of mozzarella sticks with an unamused face.

So that’s what the shift would be like — silent and a bit awkward just like the other two they shared. She should have seen it coming, honestly. She should have known that those sticky notes meant nothing to him. She knew it. Of course she did. She had to keep telling herself that, even though the last few weeks of quiet paper exchanges had filled her with far too much hope. And she had to remind herself it was her fault. That he’d be guarded around her — who wouldn’t be?

Still, as the silence stretched between them, Max found herself reaching for a fresh sticky note. Not the pink ones, those were far gone. 

Don’t burn the mozz sticks. I’m watching you.

– M.

She slid it across the counter, careful to catch his eye. A small, almost imperceptible smile flickered on his lips.

You actually did a good job with the cookies today. Improvement.

– L.

(written after he finished the mozzarella sticks, as she placed the cookies on the display — definitely way more than they needed)

Now I see what you mean by hating closing shifts. This is unbearable.

– M.

(left under his Hawkins mug she had filled for him, right next to her — dirty — sunflower one)

And you still give me more work. Wash. Your. Ugly. Mug.

– L.

(under a yet again filled sunflower mug. She drank it right away.)

“Hey, Lucas. I know you never want to give stuff to us for free, but I was really really craving one of those giant brownie cookies,” a voice came from over the counter around midnight with the kind of casual purpose that meant she’d been thinking about this for hours. 

Max turned slowly, sunflower mug still in her hand, knowing exactly who she would find. 

El stood there, backpack slung casually over one shoulder, eyes flickering between the two of them like she was trying to read the room. “Didn’t know you were both on tonight.”

“Kimmy had something,” Max explained, shifting her weight. “I need some extra money this month anyway, so I took it.”

El raised an eyebrow — not dramatic, just enough to say really? without needing to.

Max resisted the urge to hide under the counter.

Please, please, please, don’t make it weird , Max thought to herself. It was already humiliating enough that she wanted to take this shift. She absolutely did not want El — or anyone else for that matter — to be questioning why she was really there.

“But hey,” he finally cut in, already holding one of the giant brownie cookies in a napkin, “double chance to get your free cookie.”

“Lucky me you’re suddenly feeling generous,” El said, taking the cookie with a big smile. Then her eyes lingered on Max again. “You getting off soon?”

“Not for another couple hours.”

“You want me to hang out?”

It was soft. It wasn’t a test, but Max still felt like she had to pass it.

She hesitated for half a second too long. 

“Nah, I’m good. You should go enjoy your cookie while it’s still gooey.”

El didn’t argue. She just nodded once, then let her gaze drift between the two of them — slow, searching, but unreadable as ever. “Okay,” she said gently. “I’ll see you at home then, if I’m awake when you get back.”

She gave Max a small smile, the kind you give someone you care about but aren’t sure how to help. Then she turned and walked off, the oversized hoodie she was wearing swaying a little with each step. 

Max didn’t move.

She stood there, sunflower mug still cradled in her hands, staring at the empty spot where El had just been — like if she looked hard enough, she might come back. Maybe toss her backpack on the counter and slide onto one of the stools. Maybe offer to help them with prep, even though she didn’t technically work there. Maybe make things easy.

Like she used to do in high school, when the three of them could easily exist in the same room. 

Before Max screwed up as she always did.

But she didn’t come back.

And Max hated how much she wanted her to. Hated that now, the only way she could really communicate with him was through sticky notes. Hated how hard it was to say actual words when he was right there. Hated that she was the one who messed everything up — their relationship, their friend group, the way things used to be — and now, there she was, wanting it all back like some greedy child. Just because the mood struck her. 

She didn’t make any sense, not even to herself.

“So,” he said eventually, like he was trying to be casual. “Did we just poison El with your terrible cookies?”

Max forced a grin, shrugging. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s just used to worse.”

“Does your house just permanently smell like burnt pastry?”

“Stress-burning baked goods should be considered an art.”

His laugh was quiet. But it stayed in the space between them. Warm. Familiar.

Troubling.

— — —

“So we know they’ve been sending each other flirty sticky notes at work, right?” Will asked, stirring the last of the ice in his drink with the straw.

Mike didn’t look up from his book. “Obviously.”

Dustin blinked. “Wait, what do you mean obviously ? Since when?”

“Since always,” Mike said flatly, eyes still locked in on the page. “Max is very bad at pretending it’s just a random co-worker. And honestly so is Lucas. It’s written all over their faces, it’s a bit ridiculous.”

Will leaned back in his chair. “I thought it was kind of sweet.”

Mike snorted. “It’s chaos.”

Dustin sank deeper into the armchair, frowning like he was trying to piece together clues he should’ve caught earlier. “Should we do something? Like… say something? Or stop it?”

Will glanced at him, uncertain. “Stop it?”

“I don’t know,” Dustin said. “The whole... them thing. I think this has a high possibility of going wrong… again.”

Across the room, El looked up from her own work, legs curled beneath her. “No,” she said softly. “Let’s just see what happens.”

Chapter Text

Kimmy was a perfectly good co-worker. She got there on time. She shared tasks easily. She never burned any scones or messed up the panini ingredients. She was even great at making conversation.

This shift wasn’t bad at all. Lucas had picked it up from Derek on a whim, mostly because staying at home or sitting in the library trying to force out half-finished projects felt suffocating. It wasn’t a closing shift, so he wouldn’t have to handle the mozz stick rush that always made him want to disappear. It was all fine. It was totally fine.

But still, Lucas caught himself staring at a sticky note she had left the night before — from a new batch of bright orange ones she probably had to buy since she ran out of her signature pink. Looking at that silly piece of paper in that perfectly fine shift, he missed something he really shouldn’t miss. The awkwardness. The wordless scribbled conversations. Her . 

And then, to his surprise, he blinked, looked up, and there she was.

She was tucked into one of the corner tables, the sunflower mug she had taken with her from the last time she had worked sitting next to a stack of papers and a half-eaten cookie. Her hair was pulled back in a loose, careless tie, frizzy around the edges, like she hadn’t bothered to fix it all day. Every now and then, her pen would tap a frantic rhythm against the table. Then she’d stop, pressing the heels of her hands hard into her eyes as if trying to push the world away for just a second.

Lucas looked away. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t. So he focused on wiping down the already clean counter. But he couldn’t stop his chest from buzzing.

It came to him fast, like muscle memory.

A school hallway, soft with a late afternoon light. His sneakers squeaking faintly against the tiles as he turned the corner. She was already sitting there, half-curled against her locker, picking apart a granola bar like it had personally wronged her.

She had barely looked up.

“Mr. Sinclair,” she greeted, flatly. “Your presence is neither expected nor required.”

Lucas flopped down beside her, dropped his backpack with a dramatic sigh. “Long day of being better than everyone else?”

“Something like that.” She handed him the other half of the granola bar without comment. That was how it worked — unspoken habits and automatic kindness.

They sat in silence for a while. Her, focused on her math homework. Him, just watching as she wrote and erased the same problem over and over. It wasn’t weird. It hadn’t been weird then. Nothing between them was ever weird, not really — not until everything became weird, until they both made it weird. Back then, he could have sat there for hours and said nothing, and she wouldn’t have minded. He wouldn’t have, either.

“Coach said I talk too much,” he said eventually, just to see if she’d look up.

She did. Rolled her eyes. “You do.”

“But you like it”

“I tolerate it.”

Lucas nudged her shoulder. She didn’t move away.

He remembered leaning into her to grab an extra pencil from her case, something he could also do without asking back then. He started doodling in the margins of her worksheet — quick, ridiculous faces. Eyes too big, tongues sticking out, exaggerated frowns. She’d tried not to smile, but then snorted anyway.

“You’re such a dork,” she muttered. But she kept smiling.

And then — this part he remembered too clearly — she looked at him and said, just barely above a whisper, “You make things easier, you know?”

He just responded, “You too,” like it was obvious. Like it was permanent. And it really seemed like that back then.

A small, polite shoulder bump from Kimmy brought him back. Lucas blinked hard, shook off the memory, and turned to grab the next order.

When he glanced back toward the table, she was still there — elbows on the wood, scribbling something fast and desperate in the margins of her notes.

She hadn’t looked at him once.

And yet, somehow, he couldn’t stop thinking about how she used to.

— — —

She wasn’t there his next shift. Thankfully. All that was left behind from her were the notes she’d scribbled before heading home for the night. It would have been a perfectly normal shift with Erin — another perfectly good co-worker — if Dustin wasn’t there to bother him.

“You know I absolutely love Max,” he said, arms crossed, posture too deliberate as he leaned against the counter like it was some kind of scheduled intervention and not something he’d decided to spring on Lucas mid-shift. “But I also love you. And I don’t think any of us can survive another we broke up, everything is horrible, no one talks for a year era. It was a dark time, man.”

Lucas blinked. “Okay,” he said slowly, cautiously. “Where did that come from?”

Dustin shrugged — a little too quickly, a little too rehearsed. “Nowhere. General observation. Totally hypothetical. Obviously.”

Lucas crossed his arms. “Right. Because people always bring up my ex during hypothetical conversations.”

Dustin scoffed. “She’s not your ex. She’s Max.”

And yeah, he seemed to have forgotten that. Or maybe he’d made himself forget — carefully, deliberately. Because it was easier that way. Easier to think of her as just his ex, a past chapter filed neatly away. Easier to see her as a co-worker, someone who left passive-aggressive notes about burnt cookies and panini assembly. Easier to believe she was someone different now, someone distant. Not his Max.

Not the Max who once shared quiet, easy moments with him. Not Max, the friend, who sat with him after practice, legs stretched across the bleachers, listening to him ramble about stats and pressure and how hard it was to hold everything together. Not the Max who challenged him, laughed with him, yelled at him — and still showed up

He had spent the last two years building that distance brick by brick, trying to make it feel normal. Logical. Safer.

But Dustin’s words cut through all that. She’s Max .

Not just a memory. Not just someone he used to date. Someone who still existed in the present tense.

“So…” Dustin’s voice broke through, careful but poking. “Are you not going to say anything? Defend yourself?”

Lucas didn’t look at him. “I have to work.”

He didn’t wait for a response — just walked toward the back and tapped Erin on the shoulder to switch stations. She gave him a curious look, but didn’t ask.

He wasn’t ready to have that conversation.

Not with Dustin.

Not with anyone.

Not yet.

— — —

Max should have just asked for someone to sub for her. Should have just called in sick, no one would have cared. Instead, there she was, fighting back tears walking to the stupid campus café on a freezing March night. 

She should’ve seen it coming. Her mom would never choose her — not really. Max knew that. Knew it wasn’t intentional, knew she was stuck. That she wouldn’t risk sneaking around Neil, wouldn’t defy him just to see her daughter. Max knew fear when she saw it, even if her mom never named it out loud. But knowing didn’t soften the blow. It still hurt. It hurt the same way it had when she was a kid, shoved into the backseat and driven across the country to nowhere, Indiana. It hurt like the nights she curled under the covers, fists clenched as voices rose and things broke in the next room. Like it did when she packed for college alone, blinking fast while her mom stood in the doorway, not crossing the line. Every time, it felt like a quiet kind of betrayal. And tonight was no different.

But she was always able to push through it. So to work it was.

She clocked in. Tied her apron. Said hi to Erin, who was already working on some panini. Forced a smile at the girl from her Sociology class who ordered an iced coffee. Pretended everything was fine.

Then she saw it.

She hadn’t even meant to look. It was just there — stuck under the pastry display. A half-drawn smiley face next to it.

If a cookie goes missing, it wasn’t me. (it was. don’t call the cookie cops)

– L.

Her breath hitched. It was so dumb. So him. A stupid in-joke about the damn cookies they now both gave away on a daily basis. It had made her laugh once, and he’d started using it all the time. It was one of those small things he did. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just a reminder that he paid attention. That he cared, even when she was supposed to be his evil ex or something.

She blinked hard, but it was too late — the tears welled up before she could stop them.

And suddenly, she was seventeen again. Feeling alone, just like now. Feeling desperate — a feeling she’d long grown used to carrying, like an old bruise that never faded.

Sneakers barely tied, jacket slipping off one shoulder, breath hitching in the cold night air as she biked across town. The street lights flickered as she passed. She wasn’t sure what she’d said before storming out. Didn’t even remember getting on her bike. Just remembered needing to get out.

Before she knew it, she was in front of his house — porch light glowing like it had been waiting for her.

She didn’t knock.

She couldn’t bring herself to do it.

But the door opened anyway, like he had been standing there the whole time. Waiting for her.

He looked confused for a second. Sleepy face, wearing one of those threadbare sleep shirts he always said was lucky. But then his eyes met hers.

“Max?”

That was all he said.

Her throat burned. Her jaw locked. Her whole body trembled like it might fall apart.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she said, voice small and broken.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand answers. She didn’t need to explain — not like now, in the present, where everyone wanted neat narratives, tidy reasons, bullet points on how and why she was feeling too much. Back then, he just knew.

He opened his arms, and that was enough. She took one step forward — and then another. The tears came fast, soaking into his shirt almost immediately. But he didn’t pull away. He just held her, slow and steady, his hand tracing quiet circles into her back until the shivering eased. Until the cold air pressing in around them was too much to ignore — Erica probably shouted at them from upstairs to close the door, it was Spring in Indiana after all, but Max didn’t even remember. 

Inside smelled like cinnamon and dryer sheets. She sat down on the couch like she had a hundred times before. Warm, comfortable, peaceful — unlike her own living room couch, where she never even dared to sit down.

He came back with a glass of water and one of those microwavable heating pads he used for sore muscles after games. He placed both on the coffee table, then sat beside her in silence.

They didn’t talk about it that night — not about Neil, not about the yelling, not about the way her chest felt like it was caving in.

She didn’t need to.

He stayed until her breathing slowed.

He stayed until she fell asleep.

He stayed. As he always did.

And now, standing in the middle of the stupid campus café, clutching a dumb sticky note in his handwriting, Max wished more than anything that he were here. Not in ink. Not in memory. Just here .

She wiped her cheeks roughly with the sleeve of her hoodie. She had to stop. It was humiliating enough to show up to work with a red puffy crying face, let alone actually crying in the middle of the shift. It was just her family being a mess like it had always been. It was just a sticky note like the ones he left for her all the time. No reason for her to cry. Or to feel nostalgic. Or to want him back in her life after she was the one who pushed him away. Get yourself together , she told herself, as she had been doing more times than she would like to admit in the past few weeks.

“Hey. You okay?”

She flinched. Erin stood a few steps away, eyebrows drawn together in concern. Max swallowed hard.

“Yeah. Just… need some air,” she muttered, already stepping past her.

Outside, the cold hit her in the face like a slap. March in the Midwest — still unforgiving. She shoved her hands into her pockets and sat down on the low concrete ledge near the back entrance.

That’s when she saw him.

Leaning against the side of the building, hood up, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. He looked just as surprised to see her — but didn’t move.

“You’re early,” she said after a moment, voice steadier than she expected.

He didn’t answer. And maybe that was fair. She didn’t know what she expected from him anyway — didn’t even know what she wanted from him. And he didn’t seem to know either. Not like before.

So they stayed there, frozen in the cold, a few feet and a few thousand emotions apart.

“I should’ve stayed home,” she said, mostly to herself.

He stepped a little closer but didn’t sit. “You want me to go?”

She shook her head. “No.”

Silence stretched between them. Not tense, but not quite comfortable either.

After a beat, she spoke again, quiet this time.

“You ever feel like you’re not allowed to be sad about something anymore? Like… it’s been too long. People expect you to just… be fine now.”

He looked at her. His eyes were soft, but tired. Worn in a way that made her heart ache.

“Yeah,” he said. “I feel like that all the time.”

He hadn’t said much, but she could read it — in the lines of his face, the quiet pull in his voice. She thought about their breakup. How everyone around them had tiptoed at first, then moved on. Expected them to move on too. To be just fine . And she was, for a while. And he was, too, or at least it always seemed like it.

Finally, he lowered himself onto the concrete beside her. Not close enough to touch — not quite — but close enough to feel like she wasn’t alone.

They sat there, watching their breath fog the night air.

She didn’t cry again. But she didn’t feel the need to push it all down either. She was just… She didn’t know how to explain. It felt like being seventeen again, sitting on his couch as he waited for her.

He didn’t ask what happened. And she didn’t offer.

But sitting there beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of his presence, something settled inside her.

If he ever wanted her back in his life — not as a friend, not as someone from the past, but really back — she was ready. She needed it. She just didn’t know if he would ever trust her enough to let her in again. Didn’t know if she’d earned that right.

Max turned her head slightly, watching the way his fingers curled inside his sleeves, the way his shoulders rose and fell with each breath.

He hadn’t left. Not yet.

And that had to mean something.

Chapter Text

An ugly flyer — made with colorful cutout magazine letters, probably by someone who thought that looked good — hung crooked on the back door. The English Department’s open mic, hosted in the campus café every semester.

Mike had started participating in their first year of college, roped in by a requirement for his intro lit class. Since then, Max had been obligated to attend every single one, to her — loud and performative — displeasure. He claimed he didn’t care who showed up. She knew that was a lie. He called her a traitor every time she so much as hinted she might have something else going on. She claimed he owed her a lifetime supply of curly fries for every poem he read out loud about a metaphorical moth.

The flyer wasn’t new. Max had seen it a hundred times, taped to the very same spot every semester. But this time, something was different.

A sticky note had been added, just beside it.

Are you going?
– L.

When she saw it, Max stared at it for a second before grabbing a pen and scribbling underneath.

Do I even have a choice?
– M.

He didn’t write back immediately. Left notes about other things. Cookies. Scones. Paninis. But not this.

Max figured he assumed the matter was settled. If she was going, he wouldn’t.

That was how it had been for the past two years. It meant he missed most of Mike’s events — Max had, somehow, earned preference over them. It was stupid, really. Their friends didn’t deserve that. And honestly? Neither did they. But for a long time, it had felt easier. Now, she wasn’t so sure. 

So the next day, she added another note — a little more careful this time, tucked underneath the others.

You should go too.
– M.

And now she was late. Almost-missing-Mike’s-reading kind of late.

She ran from the library. Actually sprinted. Like the Olympic runner she absolutely wasn’t. Sweat clung to her neck despite the cold wind, and her face was probably as red as her hair by the time she pushed open the door to the packed café.

Almost every seat was already taken.

Her eyes scanned the crowd for Will first — no sign of him. She spotted the back of Dustin’s head, but veered away instinctively. He’d been especially annoying these past few weeks.

Then she saw him.

Sitting on the bench, hoodie half-zipped, eyes on the little stage. A single spot open beside him on a bench her and Erin had brought in from the student center the night before — like he was saving it. She was almost delusional enough to think it was for her.

She should have just gone somewhere else. Tried to find Will again. Or squeezed in wherever Dustin was. Pretended she didn’t see him. But the space was there — open like it had been waiting. And she was tired of pretending she didn’t want to take it.

“Hi,” she sounded more casual than she had expected.

“Hey.” He glanced over — almost smiled.

She sat down next to him, trying to make it feel casual — like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it wasn’t weird. It shouldn’t be weird. It used to be so normal, so natural. She could still picture that first open mic back in freshman year, the two of them squeezed between Will and El, shoulders touching. His hand resting on her thigh — and how she hadn’t minded, not even a little. How later, when Mike left early and the poems dragged on, she reached for his hand without thinking. That kind of closeness had once felt automatic. But, well, that was all in the past. 

“Has Mike gone yet?”

“No, they’ve only just started.” He nodded toward the stage. “Where’s El?”

“Still stuck in the library. Her group project is taking forever.”

Before he could respond, a sharp shhh came from someone behind them. Max rolled her eyes and settled in, but she could still feel the heat of his arm just a breath away from hers. Like it had been so many times before. Stop, you’re here for Mike , she told herself.

Her eyes drifted toward the side of the room, where the presenters waited their turn. Mike stood among them, arms crossed, mouthing the lines of his poem like he was casting a spell. When he noticed her looking, she shot him an exaggerated thumbs-up. He rolled his eyes in return — classic Mike. Max smiled, just a little.

By the time the fifth presenter had taken the mic, she felt a shift behind her — the soft scrape of the door, the murmur of whispered apologies. El slipped in, damp from the rain that had apparently started just after Max had arrived. Her hair stuck slightly to her forehead, her expression flustered and mildly annoyed.

Max twisted as far as the crowded bench would let her and gave El a quick wave, already starting to stand to offer her seat. But El beat her to it. She walked over, grabbed Max’s arm, and with a gentle push, sat on the very edge of the bench — nudging Max right back down beside him.

Max sank back, trying to look unaffected, trying to hide her inner panic. She didn’t want to make a scene. Didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable. So she just offered a brief smile, hoping it didn’t come off too self-conscious, and shifted slightly on the bench. Not quite leaning in, but not pulling away either. Just there. Squeezed between him and El like she had been so many times before.

Trying to be normal. Whatever that even meant now.

She looked at him quickly, catching a glimpse of his focused eyes.

He didn’t look like a memory. He looked like himself — here, now, casually sitting beside her. Not the version she’d been clinging to without realizing it, but someone solid. Present. It was still him, just… different. Not like sitting next to him when they were together. But not exactly like sitting beside him in the dark a few weeks ago either.

And maybe that was the strange part — how something could feel both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

Max’s thoughts were interrupted when Mike’s name was called. She clapped — a split-second too late — and sat up straighter, trying to will her brain into paying attention. He stepped onto the stage with the usual dramatic flair, flipping open a crumpled piece of paper like he was about to read the Constitution.

Usually, she’d be at full volume by now — whispering something mocking to Will or giving Mike a fake standing ovation just to mess with him. But tonight, her usual commentary was missing. Half her attention stayed fixed on the space between her shoulder and Lucas’s. Barely an inch. She didn’t dare shift too much. So she stayed still. Too still.

She heard the words of Mike’s poem in fragments. She was vaguely aware of how quiet the room had gone, how much more confident he sounded this time. But it all passed in a blur.

She blinked and it was over. Applause rose around them, and she clapped along, belated again. Mike gave a short, self-aware bow and left the stage like he hadn’t just spilled his entire psyche into the microphone. Classic Mike. She felt guilty. She hadn’t heard most of it. What a wonderful friend she was.

When the event was over, Max joined the applause after the Department Head’s speech, the sound mingling with scattered cheers and the shuffle of people gathering their things. She followed El as she wove through the crowd, hunting for Mike. 

There he was — already surrounded by Will and Dustin, the six of them together at an event for the first time in what felt like ages. They all congratulated Mike. Max couldn’t resist teasing him about his dramatic poem, earning a roll of his eyes and a playful shove. For a second, it almost felt easy — like no time had passed at all. Like Max’s dumb decisions hadn’t also broken up a perfectly solid group dynamic.

Then the windows rattled softly, the wind nudging against the glass like a reminder. The sky outside was still heavy, a clear warning.

“Okay, we should get going before it starts pouring again,” El said, glancing toward the rain-speckled windows. “Want to come too, Lucas?”

Max only had a vague idea where he lived, somewhere not far from the apartment she shared with El. She also knew he lived with some random basketball guys — a fact she knew plenty about, courtesy of Mike, who had whined nonstop about the arrangement ever since it was finalized at the end of the previous academic year. Meanwhile, Will, Dustin, and Mike all lived together on the other side of town.

“Yeah, let’s go,” he said, only looking at El.

They said their goodbyes to the rest of the group and started walking. It wasn’t far, but Max suddenly didn’t know what to do with herself. Usually, she and El would talk the whole way — about their classes, about random things that were going on with their lives, about books they were reading, anything. And she knew El sometimes walked with him too, when they both left the library late.

She didn’t really know how to start a conversation with him anymore — not one that didn’t involve burnt pastries or dirty mugs. She wasn’t even sure what he was doing with his life these days. She used to know everything. But now? She didn’t even know what classes he was taking. If he liked his roommates. If he still loved the same things he used to love.

So she didn’t say anything. Just kept pace beside El, waiting for her to lead the way.

She glanced at him. Just a second. The edge of his expression in the glow of a streetlamp — thoughtful, distant, slightly tired. And it hit her, more clearly this time.

He was Lucas . Yeah. But not the one she’d memorized long ago — who’d walk her home after late-night movies, who always knew when something was wrong even before she said a word. He was still him, but also… not entirely. Older. Changed. Real.

Not a version she’d imagined or softened in her memory. Not someone to decode from sticky notes or reconstruct from half-heard updates. He was right here. Beside her. Breathing the same damp air.

And yet, the silence stretched between them, full of all the things she didn’t know how to say.

But it turned out the weather gods weren’t planning to give them a chance to talk that night anyway. The rain started up again halfway through their walk, just as they passed the fancy admissions building — classic spring nonsense.

By the time they reached the porch of Max and El’s place — or rather, the porch of the rundown split house their apartment was in — they were all soaked through, shivering.

“Do you want to come in? You can warm up a bit, maybe wait for the rain to stop again,” El offered, ever generous, already digging out the keys. Max just blinked at her, too busy trying not to freeze to fully process what was happening.

“We baked some cinnamon rolls yesterday,” El added. “They should still be good if we warm them up a bit.”

“Are they even edible?” he asked, shooting Max a cautious sideways look.

“They’re perfectly fine,” she answered, unsure of how to stand or breathe or exist. “But El was in charge.”

“Tempting, then.” He turned back to El. “Thanks for the offer. I think I should just get going, though.”

As he walked away, walking fast under the rain, she couldn’t help but feel sad. She wanted him to say yes. To stay. Like past Lucas used to.

But present Lucas wasn’t there yet. Wasn’t ready to let her in. And maybe it was time for things to be on his terms. For her to learn what he wanted, for once.

She had to wait now. 

Like he had always done.

— — —

They had another shift together. Because that’s what they were doing now. He actually liked having her around. Having Max around, almost like he did years ago — even if it wasn’t completely the same. 

He liked her brutally honest comebacks to customers who complained about the smallest things. Liked the way she and Mike still bickered — loud, ridiculous, and, somehow, always affectionate. Liked the spark in her eyes whenever she handed El another cookie, like she was getting away with something.

So there he was, doing another closing shift with her. Almost a regular thing now — Kimmy was just taking a permanent vacation on Thursdays. It was quiet. But, somehow, he found it comforting. 

He didn’t say much most nights. They usually just talked about what they needed to do, and sometimes cracked jokes. Sometimes through sticky notes, sometimes out loud. Nothing too deep, just enough for him to know she was still there. That Max was still there. In the present. 

But sometimes — like now, when the machines were off and it was just the two of them wiping down counters in the dim after-hours light — it felt like he could almost forget the space that had stretched between them. Almost.

He stole a glance at her. She was refilling the sugar canister, focused, methodical. Her brow furrowed the same way it used to when she was trying to finish math homework and pretending she didn’t care about her grade.

It was strange — how he could feel like he didn’t know her at all, and still, somehow, know exactly who she was. Like there were entire chapters missing, whole years he couldn’t piece together, but the core of her was still familiar. Still Max.

Sometimes he caught himself laughing with her and forgetting the weirdness. Other times, the silence between them stretched too long, filled with everything they weren’t saying. Still, he kept showing up. And she kept showing up too.

That had to mean something.

He looked down at the cloth in his hand. He didn’t know how long he had been cleaning that same — already absolutely clean — spot.

“Are we ever going to talk about how weird this is?” 

The question caught him off guard — sudden, unannounced, like so many things with her. She didn’t even look at him when she said it. Just kept her head down, wiping the same spot on the table like it might give her something to hold onto. Like maybe not meeting his eyes would make it easier to ask.

“This place? Definitely weird,” he said, finally moving to the next table. “For starters, everyone seems to take time off all the time. And there only seems to be like five employees. No idea how this place still functions.”

She looked over at him, unimpressed. “You know what I meant.”

He straightened a chair, slower than necessary. “Does it need to be weird?”

“Only if you want it to.”

Honestly, he didn’t. He was slowly realizing he was fine with it. He couldn’t erase the past. He wasn’t quite ready to face it either. To talk about it. But this? Working late together, making dumb jokes, existing in the same space again? That he could handle. That felt... okay.

“I don’t,” he finally said.

She smiled. He did too.

Whatever version of her lived in his memory, this one — this real, complicated, present-tense Max — still mattered. Somehow.

Chapter Text

April showers bring May flowers — or so they said. For Max, it was more like April showers bring being stuck in random campus buildings more often than not — all because she refused to buy an umbrella, a dumb decision, if you asked her.

That Tuesday night, after her own shift with Erin, she was perched on the bench by the counter, sipping an iced coffee and pretending to care about her sociology essay. Lucas and Derek were on shift. The place was half-empty, low hum of conversation mixing with the sound of the espresso machine and occasional clinks of mugs.

It wasn’t weird, they had agreed on it. But she still felt a bit out of place, just in the way things were when you’d avoided someone for a long time and suddenly had them back in your life. Lucas was behind the counter, laughing at something Derek had said. Max caught herself watching, then quickly looked back at her inexistent essay.

Suddenly, a hand reached across the counter and set down a small piece of paper in front of her.

She stared at it for a second before unfolding it.

You look stressed. Need another cookie?

– L.

She bit the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to smile. Grabbed a pen and scribbled underneath.

She folded it, slid it back toward him across the counter without a word.

Only if Derek was the one who made it. Yours are always terrible.

– M.

A moment later, he returned with a cookie — a seemingly unburnt chocolate chip — and another note.

You wound me and my incredible baking skills. 

– L.

She snorted.

“This looks suspiciously edible,” she said aloud, examining the cookie like it might explode.

Lucas raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a thank you.”

“Thank you,” she said, already taking a bite.

He went back to work, and she went back to pretend to advance on her essay. Since she couldn’t go home, she might as well get going with that. But she just couldn’t really concentrate. 

Sure, they had agreed it wasn’t weird. But also… they hadn’t really seen each other since spring break. He’d gone back to Hawkins. She’d stayed behind, courtesy of her mom’s latest disappointing decision. So, in the span of a few scattered months, they’d gone from total radio silence to awkward sticky note exchanges, to sharing the occasional shift, to sharing shifts more often than not, to sometimes showing up in the same spaces even outside of work. Then came a full two weeks of nothing again. And now? They were right back here. 

So yeah. It couldn’t not be at least a little weird — but that was Max’s opinion.

After fifteen excruciating minutes of writing truly terrible sentences for her essay, the door finally creaked open, letting in a sharp gust of air — and El, triumphant and slightly windblown, appeared with a damp polka dot umbrella in hand. Thank goodness .

“Hello, my beautiful roommate and savior,” Max greeted as the other girl approached, dramatically dropping her pen and beginning to gather the mess of papers she had barely touched. She quickly stacked them into something resembling order, slipped them into her folder, put everything into her backpack, which she zipped closed in record time.

“Hi,” El said, a little breathless, her cheeks pink from the wind. “Sorry it took so long.”

Max stood, already shrugging on her jacket. “Shall we?”

Before El could answer, Lucas spoke up from behind the counter. “Are you on shift Thursday?”

“Yeah,” Max said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I guess I’ve officially inherited that from Kimmy.”

“I’ll see you then,” he said. Easy. Casual. Like the completely drama and weirdness-free co-workers that they were. Or maybe like the friends they used to be.

Max hesitated just long enough to catch his eye. “Have fun handing out mozz sticks tonight.”

He laughed — that low, familiar one that somehow managed to land in her chest. “Bye, Max. Night, El.”

“Bye,” El echoed, and the door swung shut behind them with a soft chime.

Arm in arm, Max and El braved the cold rain. The umbrella was a bit small — or maybe just not built for two people. One of their arms was soaked, the other half-dry and curled tightly into each other’s sides, their steps syncing unevenly as they dodged puddles and tried to stay close.

“So…” El started, her voice barely above the sound of wet tires passing in the distance.

Max glanced sideways, raising an eyebrow. “Dangerous opener.”

“I know I promised I was not going to say anything,” she admitted, eyes fixed ahead. “But I’m really just curious.”

“About what?” Max asked, playing it casual, too casual.

“You know what.”

Max sighed. “I’m not entirely sure,” she admitted. “We said it wasn’t weird, but it still kind of is. You know too well how these past two years have been. But then he’s… I don’t know. He’s so nice. And thoughtful. And it throws me off.”

El stayed quiet, listening.

Max kept going, her voice a little quieter now. “I don’t know if it means anything. If we’re in like… friend territory again. And I know I really messed things up before, so I don’t want to push anything. I’m just trying to be…” she hesitated “...normal. Whatever that is. Until he signals that it’s okay.”

El glanced over, a faint smile playing on her lips. “If I’m allowed to say… I think he already is.”

“You are absolutely not allowed to say,” Max said, narrowing her eyes.

“I’m just saying…” El shrugged, feigning innocence. “I think he’s ready to be friends again. And I’m just…” she gave a little skip to avoid a puddle, “… excited to be all in one group again.”

Max didn’t answer right away. Rain pattered steadily against the umbrella, and her thoughts buzzed louder than the traffic nearby. Yeah, El was excited — of course she was. She missed having all six of them together. Their silly movie or game nights. Midnight runs to the ice cream place in the summer — the only thing open in Hawkins after nine. Max missed it too, even if she’d always gotten her fair share of hanging out with the boys — maybe a bit too much, if you could ask her. And that was part of what made this sticky note, let’s-be-friends-or-something-again situation so tricky: navigating not just her own feelings, but their friends’ expectations too. Even if they said they didn’t have any.

“We should totally host a movie night on Saturday,” El said suddenly, like the idea had just struck her. “Invite everyone.”

Max raised a brow. “Does the end of the semester not exist to you?”

“It’s so far away,” El waved off. “And don’t even pretend you spend your Saturday nights finishing assignments, cause I know you don’t.”

Yeah, she definitely didn’t. But having all of them… having Lucas… in her space after such a long time… Not ideal.

“We can think about it.” That was all she said.

— — —

The weather wasn’t any better on Thursday night. It had been fine all day — clear skies, soft spring breeze, the kind of afternoon that made you think the season had finally settled in. But then, as the café emptied and Max and Lucas were wiping down the counters, ready to lock up, the rain came fast. Sideways against the windows, loud on the roof, a sudden downpour that swallowed the street in streaks of gray. As if the weather gods were laughing at them.

“Shit,” Max muttered, staring at the windows as she was cleaning one of the tables on the other side of the café.

And, five seconds later, the power went out. Of course it did.

Lucas looked over at Max, her face only lit by the faint moonlight, then out the window, then back at her again. “I guess we are not leaving any time soon”

She exhaled through her nose, less annoyed than she sounded. “Nope.”

He remembered how she hated it when the power went out back in Hawkins. How much she would complain whenever it happened — and it used to happen quite a lot. How she’d eventually give up, curl up next to him in the dark on those long, stormy summer nights. He remembered how he also hated being in the dark for so long, but how he loved it at the same time. A few hours of nothing, just her. No distractions, no noise. Just the sound of rain and the warmth of her pressed into his side.

So it wasn’t weird at all — or that’s what they told themselves — when they slid into the corner booth near the window, shoulder to shoulder, tucked away from the rest of the empty café.

They just sat there, like they had done many times before. Neither of them said anything at first. It was like those summer nights — the ones where the rain would press pause on the world outside. The emergency lights cast a dull glow over the café, softening the edges of everything, muting colors and voices and whatever thoughts were trying to rush in.

Then, to his own surprise, he was the one who broke the silence.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Max didn’t look up. “Depends.”

“Why did you start leaving the sticky notes?”

Lucas’s voice was quiet but steady — the kind of question that had been waiting on his tongue for weeks, maybe longer. It had been floating between them with every note passed, every shared glance, every too-casual exchange. He just needed to ask it out loud.

She didn’t respond right away. As if she was not sure what to tell him.

“I don’t know,” she said finally, though it sounded more like a placeholder than an answer. Then she exhaled through her nose. “That’s not true.”

He waited.

Max’s voice was quiet when she spoke again. “Do you want an honest answer?”

He nodded.

“I was bored,” she said. “Simple as that. I saw your name on the schedule on Tuesdays and Thursdays right after mine, and just thought that maybe… I knew someone else could answer them too, but… I also knew you were going to see them.”

Lucas let out a short laugh. “I think Kimmy saw the first one before I did. She stuck it on the espresso machine and told me my secret admirer had terrible handwriting.”

He really didn’t know how Kimmy had figured out the note was for him. She knew Max, obviously — they’d been trauma-bonded over this café since freshman year, if Lucas remembered the stories correctly. So the M must have been pretty easy to guess. But he had no idea she knew, or even remembered, that Max and Lucas knew each other. Or even that they had dated. Maybe Kimmy just remembered more than he thought. Or maybe she was simply more observant than he’d ever given her credit for.

Max looked mock-offended. “Wow. Rude. My handwriting is objectively fine.”

“Debatable,” he said, smirking. “But I kept checking them anyway.”

“I know,” she said softly.

They stayed silent for a few more beats. Outside, the storm showed no signs of letting up. Rain lashed against the windows, and the occasional flicker of headlights sliced through the gray. Inside, the café was quiet.

Lucas looked at her from the corner of his eye and thought about how much he used to think he knew her — from when they were together back in Hawkins, from the first year of college, from stories filtered through friends when they were apart. And how much he didn’t. How much she kept hidden, even from him. How even in all their closeness, there were still corners of her he hadn’t been allowed to see, even if he looked pretty hard. Still things he didn’t understand.

So he spoke again, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

“Why did you break up with me?”

Max blinked, startled. Her eyes flicked toward the window, then back to him.

“I thought it was just one question,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him.

He gave a small shrug, lips twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to smile or brace for impact.

“Do you want a serious answer or the answer I convinced myself was serious?”

He shrugged. “Both, I guess.”

“I made myself believe it was because we’d grown apart. That dating in college wasn’t like high school. That it made sense. Which… I think is half true.”

She paused. The rain kept going.

“The real answer is... I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ve fully figured it out yet. Breaking up with you was just always the answer. Whenever things got heavy, or messy. So it seemed easier. Safer.”

Another beat of silence passed between them. The rain was the only sound they could hear.

“Can I ask you a question now?”

He nodded. 

“Why did you not come back? Why did you just walk away?”

“I thought it was just one question.”

She raised an eyebrow at him — not annoyed, just waiting. Letting him decide whether or not to be honest.

And maybe he wasn’t fully ready. But if she was being honest, then maybe he could be too.

“I couldn’t do it anymore. You did it every time… pulled back, shut me out. And then we got here, and you were… The one part of my life I was 100% sure of, even if I had the rest of the Party. I was holding on so tight. To you, to everything that was familiar. I know I never really talked about it, but it was so hard adjusting here. I just wanted everything to work out, to feel like I belonged here.”

He took a breath.

“Then you just said it… like it wasn’t a big deal. Like we hadn’t made it through so much already. And I just… gave up. Thought maybe starting over would hurt less.”

More silence. More rain.

“I’m sorry.”

Her eyes met his.

“Me too.”

The words hung there like something fragile, as if speaking too loudly might shatter them.

Lucas leaned back, rubbing his hands over his face.

“I know we’re not the same people we were in high school,” he said. “And I know college changed everything. But I kept thinking, hoping, that didn’t mean we’d change too.”

She nodded, slowly.

“I thought that too. And then it all felt different. Like we were pretending to be okay when we weren’t. And I didn’t want to make you fix it. Not again.”

That one cut deep. 

Lucas looked down at his hands, flexing them slightly on the table like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He thought of all the times she had broken up with him — for different reasons, in different seasons of their lives. And how, every time, he had fought for it. For her. How sure he’d been that he couldn’t let her go. Wouldn’t.

And then he thought about the last time. Their final break.

How lost he had felt in the months leading up to it. How tired. How he hadn’t had it in him to fix anything anymore — not even for her.

He looked up, and for the first time that night, he really looked at her.

“You never made me fix it. I just… wanted to. Because I loved you. And I thought we were in it together. Even when it was hard.”

Max’s mouth twisted like she was trying not to cry — or maybe trying not to let the guilt show.

“It scared me, how much I needed you,” she admitted. “How much I built my whole world around being with you, especially after everything that happened back home. And when we got here… I was just so overwhelmed. I didn’t know who I was anymore, not really. So I pushed you away instead of asking for help. Typical me.”

She laughed, barely. It didn’t reach her eyes.

“I convinced myself I was doing the mature thing,” Max said quietly. “That we’d both be better off.”

Lucas didn’t respond right away. He just shook his head — not harshly, but with something sad in the motion. When he spoke, his voice barely rose above the wind outside.

“But you never asked what I wanted.”

She blinked and looked away. Her eyes traced the edge of the window, the way the rain ran in quiet streaks across the glass.

“I didn’t know how,” she said. “I convinced myself that we were already slipping away. I thought if I asked, and you said that was true… it would hurt more.”

She let out a small, shaky breath. “So I made the call before you could.”

There was a pause — not just in the conversation, but in everything. The café felt frozen for a second, the quiet settling deep. Even the rain seemed like it was slowing down.

“I know it sounds stupid now,” she added, softer still.

The wind howled again outside, loud against the windows — almost like it had something to say. Like it was cutting through the silence for them.

Lucas sat forward, elbows on the table.

“I wish you had only talked to me.”

“I know.” Her voice broke just a little.

They sat in the quiet, the power still out, the rain still tapping on the windows, slower, quieter.

Then she said, almost whispering, “I didn’t think you’d still care.”

Lucas gave a short, breathless laugh.

“Max, I never stopped. Not really.”

She looked at him again, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t flinch under the weight of it.

“Me neither. How could I?”

Max didn’t say anything after that.

Neither did he.

And maybe that’s why it cracked something open.

First it was just a tight breath from her — one of those uneven exhales that meant she was trying too hard not to fall apart. Then a blink, too long. And when he reached out, just instinctively — a hand over hers — he realized his own face was wet.

It wasn’t dramatic, just like their breakup wasn’t. No sobs. No shaking shoulders. Just quiet tears that had been waiting too long to fall. The tears that should have come when they broke up. Just a two-year delay.

“I’m so sorry.” She sounded more genuine this time. “For everything.”

He wanted to tell her she didn’t need to be sorry. That it was fine. But he couldn’t — not really. Because deep down, he knew he needed to hear it.

He’d told himself that he didn’t hate her. And he didn’t. He still cared — probably too much. But she had hurt him. And until now, until this moment, he hadn’t let himself be fully there when she was around.

It was like one more layer of the quiet wall he’d kept between them, one he didn’t even name — not until she said the words out loud.

And now he could finally be ready to have her in his life again. Not as a co-worker. Not through sticky notes. Just as Max . For real.

Chapter Text

As the sun finally broke through for the first time in over a week — the rain finally giving them a break — it felt like something inside Lucas cleared, too.

They hadn’t stopped talking since that night. Not really. Not in the way they had gotten used to — short answers, surface-level questions, silences. When the lights had come back and the rain had let up, they’d walked home together, and it felt easy. Light. Clear, like the sky above them.

And it didn’t stop there.

He found out that her mom was still with Neil, despite everything she had promised Max when she left Hawkins. He found out that her first-year roommate, who they'd both initially thought was totally normal, turned out to be a nightmare. Controlling. Passive-aggressive. The kind of person who made Max feel like she was constantly being watched. Judged. That was part of why she hadn’t stayed in the dorms long. She told him how she finally landed on a major. How she loved it, most days. How she didn’t always feel like she belonged in the department, but also couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

He told her things, too. He told her about his classes. About basketball and how he wanted to quit it most days. Something he kept doing not because he wanted to, but because he couldn’t afford not to. Scholarship pressure. Expectations. His own.

It was just something about her that made him keep talking, even if the rational part of his brain told him to stop. He remembered all too well what happened the last time he let himself feel too much. He remembered what it felt like to lose her all at once.

But it was fine, he told himself. He was keeping it surface-level. Just updating a friend who he had lost contact with. That was all it was. That worked. Or at least that was what he was telling himself. 

But it was just so good to have her back in his life.

On Tuesday, he came in early before his shift. She stayed after hers. He wanted her to stay until closing, to walk home together again. But she left about fifteen minutes before he was off, saying El had asked her to be home early — though he knew that probably wasn’t true. El was almost definitely already asleep.

He only noticed the note after she was gone.

It was tucked beneath a napkin holder replacement they always had on the counter, almost hidden under the little jars of sugar packets and coffee stirrers. Like she wasn’t sure she wanted him to find it. Like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to ask.

El must have mentioned. We’re having a movie night at our house on Saturday. You should come.

– M. 

Some things, he guessed, were still better said over sticky notes.

I’ll be there.

– L.

He left it right next to hers.

Max didn’t mention it when they worked together on Thursday. She didn’t go looking for his response either — even though she knew there was one. Maybe because she didn’t want to push. Or maybe because a part of her was scared to break whatever fragile, steady thing they were building again. Like if she looked too directly at it, it might vanish.

El had already confirmed it anyway. Lucas had told her he was coming. He was bringing the pizzas from the place downtown — the one Max always liked.

They were friends again. Or something like it. Friendly. Just someone she had lost contact with and was now getting closer to again. Simple. That’s what Max had been telling herself. That it didn’t need to mean anything.

It didn’t need to be a big deal.

But when Saturday came, it was a big deal. A BIG DEAL . Capital letters. Bold. Italicized. Screaming in her head no matter how many times she tried to talk herself down.

In their tiny kitchen, Max had to consciously stop herself from pacing. Her hands were restless. She kept wiping the counter even though there was nothing on it. El, blissfully unaware, was beside her popping popcorn like this was any other night. And Max didn’t want to ruin that — didn’t want her best friend to feel bad for organizing something that was supposed to be fun.

It was fun. It was fine.

It was just the Party. Hanging out like they used to. Totally normal.

So why did it feel like her heart was about to claw its way out of her chest? 

She hated this. Hated when she just felt too much. Hated the way her brain wouldn’t shut up even for one second. It was popcorn and pizza and a dumb movie night with the people she’d known since she was thirteen. 

Not a big deal.

Not a big deal.

Not a big deal.

She focused on her hands. One on the counter. The other clenching, unclenching.

A breath in. Another out.

And still, underneath it all, a truth she didn’t want to touch.

It was just so good to have him back.

She didn’t want to scare that — him — away by wanting it too much.

And then the front door creaked open without so much as a knock. 

They always left it unlocked — the perks of living in a small college town. There wasn’t much for anyone to really steal there anyway. Lucas wouldn’t know that. So it was for sure not him. Max didn’t even flinch.

“Hey,” Mike called, already halfway into the living room.

He glanced over the kitchen and immediately threw himself in the recliner she and El had bought for a suspiciously low price from some senior the year prior — and everyone’s favorite spot in the small cramped living room ever since. He didn’t even bother to ask if they needed anything, just sat there like he owned the place.

“We let him get way too comfortable in our house,” Max muttered to El, though her voice carried perfectly through the pass-through counter. She didn’t even try to whisper.

From the other side, Mike’s voice rang out immediately. “Max is just jealous El can be normal around her ex.”

Max rolled her eyes so hard it was practically audible. She grabbed the popcorn bowl and stormed into the living room, tossing the bowl onto the coffee table with more force than necessary. Then, without hesitation, she yanked some old colorful cushion off the couch and hurled it directly at Mike. 

She missed. But he still let out a loud oof as the cushion barely touched his arm.

“Shut up, Wheeler.”

But honestly, he was right. When Mike and El broke up back in high school, it was pretty much like when Lucas and Max broke up: everyone thought they would just bounce back. The difference was that, when they didn’t bounce back romantically, they were just able to be friends. A perfectly fine friendship that seemed way too natural. Like nothing ever happened. Max had no idea why she wasn’t able to do that. She and Lucas were friends, they always had been, from the start, why could they not go back to it after breaking up? 

El followed a few steps behind, her expression somewhere between amused and exasperated as she stepped out of the kitchen and into the living room. She shot them both a look then she sighed and dropped down onto the couch next to Max.

“Be nice, you two,” she said, already casually reaching for the popcorn.

Mike grumbled something under his breath, and Max smirked, settling back into the cushions.

Then the doorbell rang.

It was Lucas — of course it was. Dustin and Will were there way too often to still bother with the bell. They knew the door was open. And, of course, El and Mike thought the same thing.

Mike looked up from the recliner with a knowing smirk. “You should go get it.”

Max narrowed her eyes. He shrugged. She knew exactly what he wanted to say.

Before Max could attempt to throw something else at him, El stood up from the couch, smooth and diplomatic as ever. “I’ll get it.”

Lucas stood outside, trying to balance the two pizza boxes on one hand while the other got warm in his pocket. It was warmer outside, spring slowly making a full return. He had been to the house before, just the outside. It was like every other house in the almost fully student-rented neighborhood: rundown, makeshift separate entrances to make the biggest number of apartments in one building. But this one had something that made him unsure if he should even be there. 

He wanted to turn around. Maybe he should just go back to studying, he had way too many assignments to turn in — and he was late with almost all of them. Hadn’t even started some. Maybe he should just eat those pizzas alone, he surely had the appetite for it. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea at all. He felt like he was breaking some cosmical balance.

Before he could change his mind, El appeared at the door smiling. He was relieved it was her, but at the same time a little bit disappointed that it wasn’t Max.

“Come in, come in,” she said grinning.

She gently took one of the pizza boxes from his hands and guided him inside. Their front door opened, oddly, right onto a steep staircase. As soon as he started up, he could hear Max’s voice drifting down — mid-lecture, telling Mike what movie they should watch. Not that she had much of a say in it, considering Dustin was one responsible for picking and bringing one. 

And then came the smell. Just like he expected. Burnt cookies. He almost laughed.

He felt like an intruder. 

Mike was already sunk into the recliner like he lived there. El set the pizza down beside the popcorn and slid onto the couch next to Max.

Back in Hawkins, in the Wheelers’ basement, he would’ve had a spot on that couch too. Max’s legs would probably be tangled with his — though only in the winter, when she deemed it acceptable. They’d watch the movie, talk through half of it, and eventually fall asleep wrapped around each other.

He had to stop thinking about how it used to be. This wasn’t Hawkins.

So, after greeting Max and Mike, he claimed a spot on the floor. Safe. Neutral. That worked.

Will and Dustin arrived about ten minutes later — Dustin loudly, Will less so — both carrying too many snacks for the group size. Once everyone had made their greetings and claimed a seat, the movie started. Of course Dustin made them watch something they’d all seen at least twice. But it didn’t matter. At least not to Lucas — Max definitely had a different opinion.

Somewhere between the second pizza box being emptied and Max arguing with Dustin about a plot hole, things began to settle. The jokes came easier. The laughter filled the room like it used to. Lucas let himself relax, just a little.

Eventually, the sugar crash hit, and one by one, people started to drift. Just like they somehow always did.

Mike had long since fallen asleep with his head tilted at a painful-looking angle on the recliner. El was curled up under a blanket on one end of the couch, and Max — he wasn’t really sure, her head was still turned to the screen, legs tucked up beside her. Lucas wasn’t sure when Will and Dustin had nodded off, but their steady breathing from the floor confirmed it.

It was late. Late enough that staying over would make sense. He could’ve crashed on the floor, gotten some of the cushions from the couch.

But it felt like too much. Too close to a line he still wasn’t sure he could cross.

Quietly, he stood up and made his way to the corner where he’d left his jacket. He didn’t say anything — didn’t want to disturb the peace that had settled like a blanket over the room.

But as his fingers brushed the sleeve, he heard movement behind him.

Max.

She was standing at the edge of the living room, blinking sleep from her eyes, the faint blue cast of moonlight spilling in through the half-closed blinds and catching on her hair. 

“Did I wake you?” he asked, voice low.

She shook her head. “No. I just don’t want to sleep on the couch.”

Her tone was neutral, casual even, but her arms were crossed.

He nodded, awkward. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

She stepped a little closer to grab her water bottle from the pass-through counter, her shadow moving across the room in slow fragments. She looked like she didn’t know what to do with her hands once she had it. Then she glanced over at him, hesitant.

“You can stay if you want.”

He immediately thought about going to her room — something he had only done less than a handful of times even in Hawkins. She didn’t mean that. He knew it. But that’s not what she meant. Of course not. She meant here, in the living room, with everyone else. Of course.

He hated how his mind even thought she meant something else.

“I’d also rather sleep in my own bed,” he said, gently.

Her eyes found his again then, a little clearer, a little more awake. The corner of her mouth pulled up, not quite a smile, but something close.

“Good night, then,” she said, her voice quieter now.

He nodded and turned toward the stairs. “Night, Max.”

He hesitated, hand on the railing. “Thank you for inviting me. It was… nice.”

Max blinked like she hadn’t expected that.

“You should come over again,” she said, tucking her free hand into the sleeve of her hoodie. “The door’s always open. Literally.”

That made him smile — barely, but it was there.

— — —

Lucas was back there way too soon.

Honestly he didn’t even know why. He just wanted to get out of his apartment, away from his stupid housemates who never bothered to clean anything. Campus seemed too far. Mike, Will, and Dustin’s place seemed too far. So he walked.

He didn’t have a destination. He just kept moving, hands in his jacket pockets, hood up against the wind, telling himself he was just taking a lap around the block. But the next time he looked up, he was already turning onto their street. And then standing outside their front porch. And then on it, hesitating.

He knew the door was unlocked. Max (and El) had made it clear enough. He knew the other boys could just come in. But it felt a bit weird to just invade their space like that. To feel like he was that close to them — to Max, especially — to imagine stepping inside as if nothing had changed… To just know she would just welcome him, like he had done so many times when they were together.

Before he could decide whether to knock, to step back, or to push the door open himself, it creaked. Slowly.

Max heard him before she saw him. She was studying in her room, enjoying the quiet of dusk, so the sound of footsteps on the porch reached her instantly. El wouldn’t be back until later. None of the boys were supposed to come over. The downstairs neighbors were already home.

She turned her head toward it, almost on instinct — and there he was. Lucas. Standing on the porch, hesitating like he wasn’t sure if he should be there.

She wondered why he’d come. Why now? What had happened?

Yes, she’d told him the door was always open — and it was — but she hadn’t expected him to take her up on it. She didn’t think he would trust her again like that. 

She used to show up at his place without warning, and he never made her feel like she didn’t belong. Even when things between them were messy. Even when she didn’t have the words for what she needed. That version of them felt far away now. 

She never thought he’d ever need her again. 

And yet — here he was. 

And she couldn’t bring herself to let him stand there alone. If he needed her, she had to be there for him. That’s what friends were for, right?

She went down the stairs and opened the door before she could second-guess herself.

Lucas was there, shoulders slightly hunched like he hadn’t expected to actually see her. Even though he was, in fact, at her house.

They stared at each other for a second too long.

Chapter Text

“Hey,” he said after way too long.

“Hi,” she responded, trying to hide the confusion in her voice.

He must’ve come for a good reason. But she had no idea what to do with him standing there on her doorstep.

So she just crossed her arms and leaned against the frame, keeping her voice casual even though her stomach flipped just from seeing him there.

“Did you lose something?” she asked, one eyebrow raised.

He shook his head, exhaling a short laugh. “Nah. Just… walked.”

“To our house?” she teased, but it came out softer than she meant it to.

He shrugged. “Guess so.”

She was silent for a second, her expression unreadable in a way that made his stomach twist. Lucas didn’t know what to do with that — with her , looking at him like that. He shouldn’t have come. Maybe he should just…

But then, to his surprise, she stepped aside.

“Come in,” she said.

He followed her up the stairs without another word. The living room was dark, shadows stretching across the floor. Max flipped on the lights, blinking against the sudden brightness. She stood there for a moment, arms stiff at her sides, like she wasn’t totally sure what came next.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, finally.

Max shook her head. “No, I was just studying in my room.”

She didn’t look annoyed. Just… off-balance. Like she was trying to figure out what he was doing there. Fair enough. He wasn’t sure either.

She glanced at the backpack slung over his shoulder, like she was only just now noticing it. He followed her gaze and blinked. Right. He’d brought it. He couldn’t even remember grabbing it — just walked out of his apartment and ended up here.

“You can study here too, if you want,” she said.

It wasn’t dismissive. It wasn’t exactly warm either. Just open, in that quiet, hesitant way Max sometimes got when she wasn’t sure what to do.

Lucas gave a half-smile, adjusting the strap on his shoulder.

“Sure. Yeah. Thanks.”

“I’ll grab my stuff,” she said, already turning toward the hall.

And then it was just him, standing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the soft hum of silence and Max’s furniture. 

He noticed things he hadn’t noticed the last — and first — time he was there. The place was a little neater than he expected. The cushions on the bright blue couch were mismatched and colorful. A collection of ceramic vases lined the shelf above the TV. A half-alive plant slouched on the windowsill. It smelled like lemon dish soap and something faintly cinnamon — no burnt pastries this time. Must’ve been a stress-burn-free week. Or maybe El had been in charge of their baking adventures.

He sat down on the couch, but it felt too formal.

He shifted, ran a hand through his hair. Thought about leaving.

But then Max came back in — a stack of books and notebooks in her arms — and without saying anything, she dropped down onto the rug.

And somehow, without discussing it, they both ended up on the floor.

Not really facing each other. Not touching. Not talking. Just two people sitting cross-legged on the rug with their backs leaning against the couch.

Max opened a notebook and flipped to some half-scribbled page, like she was trying to prove she had been studying.

Lucas just watched her for a second.

She looked like the same Max he’d always known — long red hair in two messy braids, a little shorter now than it had been in high school, after that bold freshman-year haircut when she tried to reinvent herself. Blue eyes locked in that same stubborn, determined stare. The same don’t-mess-with-me slouch she’d had since middle school. And for a moment, he wished he could pretend they were still the same too.

They’d done this before — sat side by side, notebooks open, shoulders almost touching. Sometimes actually touching. Sometimes not doing much studying at all. Back then, he used to know exactly how to be around her. Back then, ending up right next to her was not unusual, was not weird. It was just routine.

Max could feel him watching her.

She kept her eyes on the page, flipping through notes she barely remembered writing — like they might distract her long enough to make sense of what was happening.

She really wanted to ask why he was there. Why here? Why her? But there was no way she thought of doing it without sounding like she wanted him to leave — and she didn’t. She didn’t . 

So she did what they both had learned to do best in the last few months. 

She took her bright orange sticky note stack and scribbled.

Why are you here?

– M.

When he saw the familiar piece of paper right in front of him, he stopped for a second. Why was he there? Good question.

He reached into his bag for the pad of sticky notes, out of habit — but came up empty. Right. He’d left them at the café. Probably still stuck to the counter.

He flipped open his own notebook instead, tore out a piece.

Couldn’t stand my housemates anymore.

– L.

So you walked all the way here?

– M.

I didn’t know where else to go.

– L.

She looked at him, eyebrows slightly pulled together.

He probably had so many places to go. So many people he could be with. At least that was the image she got of him — since high school, since always. Lucas, with his team, his friends, his family. That tight-knit orbit that seemed to hold him up even when everything else fell apart.

Why?

– M.

Lucas looked at her for a long second. Her face was still — not unreadable, just quiet. Her eyes didn’t look sorry for him. Not pitying. Just… open. Like if he wanted to say something, she’d be right there, holding space for it.

He didn’t even realize how much he wanted that until now.

“Everyone has just been…” He paused, unsure how much to give her. Unsure what would happen if he did “...a lot lately. Too much, I guess.”

Max didn’t say anything, so he kept going, slow and careful.

“Everyone’s been expecting things from me. Like I’m supposed to have answers. Like I’m still…” He cut himself off. “I don’t know. Strong, or stable, or whatever. And I get it, I do. I used to be that guy. I try to be that guy. But it has been feeling like I can’t right now.”

Max looked down at the notebook in her lap, thumb brushing the edge of the paper.

She hadn’t thought about it much back then — not consciously, at least — but it was true. She’d expected a lot from him too. His steadiness. His kindness. His ability to be there, even when she wasn’t easy to be with. Even when she was pushing everyone away. She realized now that she’d counted on him to be there, even when maybe he couldn’t — even when he might’ve needed someone to be steady for him.

And if that was true, if she'd needed so much without giving him space to need anything himself — then maybe she really was the last person he’d want around right now.

She thought about when they broke up. About how she’d felt then — untethered, checked out, too raw to explain herself and too worn down to try. But now, she found herself wondering more about how he had felt. About what it had been like on his side of the silence. About what he had said about the breakup a few weeks before, the day of the storm, about being tired, of not wanting to do it anymore. Maybe not all that different from now. 

Lucas stared at the floor, avoiding her eyes.

Max hugged her knees in, spiral notebook against her wrist.

“You know it’s okay, right?” she said, after a pause.

He looked up, brows pulling together.

“To feel like it’s too much,” she clarified. “To not have it all figured out.”

Lucas let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, except it wasn’t. “Doesn’t really feel okay most days.”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding slowly. “I know.”

Her voice was quiet, but steady. Not dramatic. Not trying to fix it. Just there.

Without thinking, Max reached over and placed a hand over his. Not squeezing. Just holding. Lucas looked down at their hands. Then at her.

Finally, Max spoke, her voice low. “I guess we both had expectations we couldn’t meet when we were together.”

Lucas swallowed. He hadn’t thought of it that clearly before, but yeah — that sounded right.

Back when they started college, it had felt logical to stay together. They’d been them for so long, it didn’t even feel like a question. Like the relationship would just keep going as it has always gone even as everything else in their lives was changing.

But it hadn’t worked like that. They’d both been holding on to what felt familiar, hoping it would be enough to carry them through all the newness. And when it wasn’t, neither of them knew how to say so.

“I needed you to be steady,” she went on, not looking at him now. “To be something I could hold onto.”

Lucas nodded slowly. “I needed you to be there for me, too.”

“I couldn’t.” She said it like a fact. Not an excuse. “And you shouldn’t have had to ask.”

A beat passed.

“Neither of us admitted what we needed,” he said quietly.

Max finally looked at him again. “What do you need now?”

“For you to be here,” Lucas said.

“I missed you.” Max’s voice barely carried, but it didn’t need to.

She didn’t expect the tears. His or hers.

But there they were — suddenly both of them sniffling quietly, trying to laugh and failing.

Max rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her palm. “God, this is so stupid.”

“I know,” Lucas said, blinking fast. “We’re so dramatic.”

He let out a soft, watery laugh.

She sniffed again, voice hoarse but lighter. “Are we gonna end up crying every time we talk now?”

Lucas laughed for real this time — low and tired and surprised.

Max looked at him — really looked at him — and something in her chest tugged sharply. She didn’t know if it was how close he was sitting, or how familiar his face still felt, or the way his smile disappeared the second she didn’t look away.

There was a pause. Not awkward. Just… still.

And then — maybe just to test the quiet — Max tilted her head, only a little.

Lucas didn’t move. But his hand shifted, just slightly.

And maybe something was about to happen — maybe something had already started — when the front door opened downstairs.

“Max?” El’s voice floated up.

They pulled apart, just barely, and Max cleared her throat.

“Living room!”

Lucas leaned back a little, rubbing at his face again, suddenly aware of how red his eyes probably were.

A few seconds later, El appeared at the top of the stairs, bag slung over one shoulder, taking in the scene: Max on the floor, Lucas beside her, both of them looking mildly wrecked.

“Oh. Hi, Lucas,” she said. “Didn’t know you were coming over.”

Lucas scratched the back of his neck. “Hey, El.”

Max offered a shrug that was supposed to be casual but didn’t quite land. “He just… showed up.”

El looked between them, then dropped her bag by the door like she’d decided not to ask any more questions — at least not yet.

“I convinced Erin to give me some brownie cookies,” she said, already heading toward the kitchen. “Do you guys want some?”

Max stood up a beat too fast, like she’d been waiting for an out. “Did you harass that poor child again?”

“Define harass,” El called back.

Max followed her, leaving Lucas sitting alone on the carpet.

For a second, he just stayed there — hands loosely clasped, the imprint of her touch still warm in his palm. He stared at the empty space beside him, where her knee had been a moment ago.

Then he exhaled, slow, and got up.

To the cookies, he guessed.

— — —

She really wanted to kiss him. She wanted to kiss him so badly . And she almost did. She would have. Absolutely.

If El hadn’t come home when she did, Max wasn’t totally sure she’d have been able to stop herself. And honestly, that was the problem — she wanted it to happen. And she wasn’t sure he felt the same. If she was going too far.

They had just been crying together, and there she was, sitting there, wanting to kiss him. It felt like a lot. Maybe too much to ask.

But hell, she wanted it.

Now it was Tuesday evening. She was working. She had to focus. But she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

As her dear friend Mike would say if he could hear her thoughts: Max had to chill.

But it felt like Lucas was haunting her. Everywhere she looked, there was one of his old sticky notes they’d forgotten to clean up. Little reminders in crooked handwriting. And every single one made her think of the way he’d been smiling at her again. The way they used to laugh together.

The way his lips used to fit hers so perfectly.

Ughhh.

Chill .

She wiped down the counter for the third time in ten minutes and tried not to imagine the almost-moment on the rug — the way they’d sat close, not quite touching, her hand over his.

She’d spent the last two days trying to convince herself she’d imagined it — that her brain had filled in the blanks with something softer than the truth. That she was hoping for more than what was really there.

Then she looked up.

Lucas.

He was early.

Max didn’t move.

Didn’t say anything.

Just let herself look.

And waited to see what he’d do next.

— — —

Lucas wasn’t sure. 

He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Not exactly. It didn’t make sense in a way he could explain, even to himself.

Should he be feeling that way? What was he even feeling?

All he knew was that he hadn’t stopped thinking about Max since that night.

The way her hand had rested on his. The way her voice had sounded. The way her eyes had softened right before El came in — like maybe something had been about to happen.

And he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.

He missed her. That much he knew. Missed her like it was baked into his bones. But missing someone wasn’t the same as knowing what to do about it.

He paused just outside the café door.

Took a breath.

He saw her before she saw him — bent slightly over the counter, wiping it down like her life depended on it.

And then she looked up.

Their eyes met.

He wanted to say something. He did. But the words snagged somewhere inside him — heavy with uncertainty, too big to shape out loud.

So he just picked a seat in the corner, tucked himself into it like a secret, and waited there until she left.

— — — 

They didn’t really talk.

Not Tuesday. Not Wednesday, when he stopped by when she was on shift with Kimmy — he did stop by, he did seem like he wanted to talk to her, but he still didn’t.

It felt like they were taking two steps back. They were lovers. Then they were strangers. Then they were awkward. Then they were friends. Then they were crying together and saying they missed each other. And now they were back to… 

Whatever that was. 

But Thursday gave them nowhere to hide.

Chapter Text

But well, Thursday did, in fact, give them a place to hide.

The café was slow — not dead, but slow enough that Max could wipe down the same stretch of counter three times and pretend it needed it while her mind ran a hundred miles an hour. Lucas was in the back, restocking syrups and making a panini that definitely wasn’t for a customer. They moved around each other like they did now: with ease, without thinking, without talking about it .

And that was fine. Really. Totally fine .

Max didn’t need to talk about it. About the hand-holding. The crying. Or the fact that they’d almost fallen back into something that felt dangerously like love. No, she told herself, that wasn’t important right now. What mattered was that they were good. Friendly. No tension, no awkwardness.

Except there was.

Not always, not like it had been the past two years. But sometimes. In little things.

Like when their hands brushed near the toaster oven and she jolted like it had burned her. Or when he passed behind her too close, and she could feel the warmth of him for a second longer than made sense.

And she hated it.

Max told herself not to read into it. It had been days. He was definitely avoiding her — well, not her, they were still talking during shift, but she knew he was dancing around it. She knew he knew he didn’t want whatever happened in her living room to ever happen again. Which was fine. She just had to control her expectations.  

Still, she didn’t seem to be able to stop herself.

She caught herself watching him more than once — the way he leaned against the counter when he was thinking, the way his jaw flexed when he concentrated, the way his stupid laugh always made her chuckle too. 

She was overthinking it. Overthinking what happened in her living room. Overthinking her feelings for him. Or whatever they were. They didn’t matter anyway — even if she had to work really hard to make them not matter.

She was absolutely not about to be the one to bring it up. She wasn’t going to make the first move just because her stupid heart decided to lurch every time he smiled. No. She had broken his heart once — or many times, really. She didn’t think she could afford getting hers broken now.

She told herself this was enough. That it had to be. Him there. Her friend. Co-worker.  

Lucas hadn’t said anything. 

He knew she was waiting for him to. He saw it in the way she tensed when he came in on Tuesday. Heard it in her voice when she asked about the scones, like she was trying not to ask something else. He’d meant to bring it up. Really. He just… didn’t know what to say.

From where he stood now — sleeves rolled, hand on the panini press — he found himself watching her. The way her bun was starting to fall loose. The white streak of flour on her sleeve she kept trying to rub off. The way she moved like she didn’t know he was paying attention.

He didn’t get it, not entirely — what he felt, or what he was supposed to feel. But this? This was good. Being around her again. Working with her. Talking to her. Hearing her laugh.

It was natural.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to break it.

Max could feel his eyes on her. Okay. Seriously, what was his deal? No. She was done with that.

She tossed the rag onto the counter, turned toward him, and tried to keep her voice neutral.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Lucas glanced up from where he was restocking the cups. “Yeah,” he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “If you don’t make me cry this time.”

She let out a nervous laugh — sharp, too quick — and then the words just started tumbling out.

“Okay, so… this is probably going to sound completely ridiculous, but I’ve been thinking about us… well, about everything, really… and the fact that I was the one who ended things, which I keep reminding myself of like a thousand times a day because it makes no sense for me to even be asking this right now.” 

Her hands moved as she talked, like she was trying to catch the words mid-air.

“And I can’t decide if that makes me a hypocrite or just pathetic, but either way, I’ve been trying really hard not to bring it up because we’ve been good, right? I’m so glad we’re friends again. Friendly. Whatever. Really. It’s totally fine. And I’m actually glad, seriously, I didn’t think you’d even want to be friends again, and then you’re just… at my house. Out of nowhere.” 

She blinked at him, then kept going before he could speak.

“And then we hold hands, and cry, and suddenly it’s like… what are we even doing? Do you feel the same? Or am I just out here spiraling alone in the middle of a shift, which would be honestly so on brand for me…”

“Max,” Lucas said softly.

“But I just can’t help myself but wonder. And then every time I look at you I think about how I broke up with you and how awful that was for both of us, and why would you even want anything to do with me after that? And I keep trying to tell myself to chill out, that it doesn’t matter, that you probably don’t even…”

“Max.” 

She froze. Her mouth shut with an audible click, and she finally looked at him. He was standing a few feet away, steady, calm, eyes fixed on hers like he wasn’t going to let her run away from this.

“This,” he said quietly, “is a very long question.”

Max opened her mouth to argue, to backpedal, to fill the silence again — but Lucas spoke first, his voice low and certain.

“Honestly, I’m not so sure.” He glanced down at his feet, afraid to look her in the eye. “About… anything you said.”

Max felt her stomach drop, the air caught sharp in her throat. She took a step back before she could stop herself. 

Of course. Of course he didn’t know. Of course he was confused. She should respect that. She would . It wasn’t fair to throw this at him.

Still, her chest tightened, and something behind her eyes stung. She’d already cried in front of him too many times.

Lucas didn’t speak.

When she stepped back, he felt something inside him lurch forward, an instinctive urge to close the space, to reach for her hand. Even if it didn’t make sense. Even if logic told him to let her go, leave it how it was — it was good to be her friend again, to have her around, to talk to her, to hear her laugh.

But as Max stood in front of him now — wide-eyed and waiting, disappointment flickering across her face — Lucas saw the same girl he’d fallen in love over and over again throughout the years. Like it was second nature.

And he knew he couldn’t let her go.

“Max.” His voice cut through the silence. Softer than before. “It’s not that I don’t want to have anything to do with you. I just…” 

She looked at him, startled. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, his eyes flicking away for half a second.

“I’m just… trying to figure out how to trust it again,” he said. “Not you. Just… the idea of us. Like, I know it wouldn’t be the same… it shouldn’t be the same. But I keep thinking about how it felt, and how it still kinda… does.” 

He shrugged, eyes meeting hers.

“But maybe…”

He took a step closer — just one.

“…maybe we can work on it.”

Neither of them said a word.

Max could feel the space between them like it was a living thing, almost daring her to close it. Lucas was standing just a few feet away, arms loose at his sides, face unreadable in the low, warm light of the back counter. His brown eyes were locked on hers — steady, searching too, like he was waiting for something.

Her chest ached with the urge to just step forward, to do what she’d done all those years ago — lean in first, like she had nothing to lose. But she stopped herself. Working on it didn’t mean she could just go ahead and kiss him. She knew better than that.

Lucas watched her hesitate. And maybe she noticed him hesitating too. The way his breath caught. The way his body leaned, just slightly, like gravity was tipping him toward her but he hadn’t given in yet. He studied her face — guarded like she was still bracing for impact, yes, but still soft in the way she always had been with him. And it broke something open in him.

He felt that familiar tug in his chest — the part of him that still questioned everything, still wanted to protect what was good between them, what they were just able to rebuild. But then there was the other part. The reckless, aching part. The part that looked at her and felt his whole body light up.

And suddenly, he didn’t care about the what-ifs or whether they would mess this up again. He just knew he couldn’t stand another second of that space between them.

Before Max could think, Lucas stepped forward and kissed her.

Their noses bumped clumsily at first — she let out a breath of laughter against his mouth. But then she kissed him back, her hands lifting tentatively, fingers curling into the edge of his shirt like she wasn’t going to let go this time.

Max felt everything and nothing all at once. Like her entire body was being pulled to him. Warmth. Relief. Longing that had built slowly, quietly, and now crashed through her all at once. His mouth was familiar and not — softer than she remembered, slower.

She knew kissing him now wouldn’t undo what they’d been through. It wouldn’t erase the time they lost, the two years they were basically strangers. But she also knew she didn’t want to pull away. So she pulled him closer.

She wanted this. She wanted him . Not the idea of him, not the memory. Him. Here. Now. The old Lucas she’d known by heart. And the new one — older, steadier — she was learning all over again. All of him.

Lucas felt her kiss him back, pulling him closer, and something in his chest unclenched — like he’d been holding his breath for months without realizing it. Her touch was gentle, but there was a steadiness in it, a certainty that startled him.

It was the same. And yet, it wasn’t. There was a quiet to it now, a kind of maturity they hadn’t had back then — no rush, no need to prove anything, no desperate grip to hold on. It didn’t feel like reliving the past. It felt like choosing her. Again. Knowing everything. Her mistakes. His. And still — still — choosing her.

They pulled apart slowly, breaths uneven, eyes still locked.

Max’s smile crept in first — small, almost sheepish.

“Isn’t this a bit unprofessional?” she asked, the grin breaking fully now.

Lucas didn’t smile, not exactly.

“Very,” he said with a mock-serious tone, his eyes glinting. “We should file a formal complaint about it.”

That made her laugh. Soft, under her breath, like she couldn’t quite believe any of this was happening.

Without breaking eye contact, Lucas grabbed a sticky note from the counter and, with a mischievous grin, began doodling on it — a little ugly cartoon of the two of them, holding hands.

Max snatched the pen from his hand and added a note beneath his doodle.

Ignore them.

– Management.

Lucas raised an eyebrow. “You really think that highly of yourself, huh?”

Max smirked. “Who else reminds everyone to clean the espresso machine? Derek?”

Lucas laughed and shook his head.

She crossed her arms. “Yeah, thought so.”

Lucas rolled up the sticky note and carefully stuck it to the espresso machine. “Let’s see if management’s memo sticks this time, then.”

Max smiled, the weight in her chest finally lifting. She reached out and brushed her fingers against his wrist — just a small touch, but it lingered. Long enough to mean something.

Lucas met her gaze, eyes soft in a way that made her stomach flip. Then, without a word, he gently took her hand and squeezed it. Like a promise. Like yes.

“Back to work, boss,” he murmured.

She exhaled a laugh, but didn’t let go. “Yeah,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Back to work.”

They didn’t move right away. Just stood there for a second, hand in hand, the café warm around them, the radio still playing awful music, everything exactly and imperfectly as it was.

It wouldn’t be easy. But Max wasn’t afraid of that anymore.

She’d done the hard part — staying away. Living like none of it had mattered. Pretending the last two years hadn’t gutted her.

This? Trying again? That felt like relief.

She wanted this. Mess and all.

And Lucas — he didn’t have all the answers. But he looked at her like he wasn’t going anywhere.

And Max?

She wasn’t about to let him.

(They would definitely continue this — later. Off the clock. When it was more professional. Probably. HR guidelines would just have to forgive them.)