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Max Mayfield wasn’t used to quiet boys.
Boys in Hawkins were loud. Obnoxious. Stupid, half the time—especially the ones she had to fight tooth and nail to be taken seriously by. Even the decent ones (like Mike and Will) always had something to say. But Miles Fairchild… he just sat there.
At dinner, he'd barely touched his food. At movie night, he’d tucked himself into the far corner of the couch like he was trying to disappear between the cushions. He spoke only when Flora did, and even then, only to gently correct or reassure her. He didn’t laugh at Dustin’s dumb impressions, didn’t argue about movie rankings, didn’t even blink when Lucas and Mike got into a heated debate over some Star Wars garbage.
He was quiet, but not in a shy way. Quiet like he was bracing for something.
Max knew that kind of quiet.
“Hey,” she’d said casually earlier that day, when she found him alone in the hallway, arms wrapped around his torso like he was holding himself together. “You good?”
He’d looked at her—dark eyes, unreadable—and given a faint nod. “Fine,” he said, voice hollow.
Liar.
It was past midnight when Max woke up to a sound she couldn’t immediately place. It wasn’t loud, not like thunder or a scream, but something sharp enough to cut through her dreams.
A gasp. Then a choked-off cry.
She sat up in her sleeping bag on the floor of the Wheeler’s living room, blinking blearily. Mike was asleep on the couch across from her, snoring softly under a thick blanket.
The sound came again. This time, unmistakable: someone was sobbing—hard, like they couldn’t breathe.
Max crept through the hallway, her socked feet silent against the wood floor. She followed the sound to the guest room. The door was open just a crack.
She pushed it slowly.
The lamp wasn’t on, but moonlight spilled through the window.
Miles was curled on the floor near the bed, knees to his chest, trembling. His sleeves had ridden up, exposing pale arms that looked too thin, too fragile. His breaths were sharp, too fast, too shallow.
And then—Flora’s voice, small and terrified, from beside the bed: “Miles? Miles, what’s wrong?”
She knelt beside him, tugging his sleeve, her voice starting to rise. “Please talk to me! Please! Miles, wake up!”
Max’s heart slammed against her ribs. Shit.
“Miles!” Flora was crying now. “He’s not breathing right! He's-what-he's-!”
Mike appeared behind Max, eyes wide with alarm. In a second, he was at Flora’s side, gently scooping her up.
“Hey. Hey, it’s okay,” Mike said, voice soft but firm. “Come with me, Flora, just for a minute, okay?”
“No—no! He’s—he’s choking again! Like before—at the house-! Why again?” She cried. "Why Miles, every time?" Flora buried her head in Mike's shoulder as he ushered her out of the room.
Max froze. What house? What is she talking about?
Flora had begun to fight him, squirming, crying harder now, but Mike carried her easily down the hall. Max could hear him murmuring to her as they disappeared—“He’s not dying. I promise. He’s just scared. He’s safe now. You're safe.”
Max turned back to Miles.
He was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering. His hands were clenched into fists against his chest, nails digging into his palms. His whole body was curling in on itself like he wanted to disappear.
Max knelt slowly beside him.
She didn’t touch him yet—something told her not to. Instead, she kept her voice low.
“Hey,” she said. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m right here.”
No response.
She shifted a little closer. “Miles, it’s Max. Remember me? Redhead with all the attitude?”
Still no answer—but his trembling shifted slightly, like he heard her.
She tried again.
“Breathe with me, okay? In… one, two, three…”
She took a slow breath, loud enough for him to hear.
“…Out. One, two, three.”
For a moment, nothing.
Then his breathing stuttered, and he tried to follow. It wasn’t perfect. It was jagged and shaky, but it was an effort—and it meant something. But only for a minute.
Max stayed kneeling, watching the way Miles’ chest heaved like he’d just run for his life. His lips were parted, face slick with sweat, breath coming in those awful, broken gasps that didn’t sound like they were working.
She’d seen panic attacks before—seen them in the mirror, even—but this was something else. This was raw and violent, like something inside him had clawed its way to the surface and was refusing to let go.
“Miles,” she said again, softer now.
Still nothing.
His eyes were wide open, but unfocused. Fixed somewhere far away.
Not here.
Not now.
Max bit her lip, heart hammering in her chest. She knew better than to touch someone mid-panic—especially someone who looked like this, like a kicked dog flinching from every shadow. But she couldn’t just sit there and watch him fall apart.
So she moved closer—slowly, deliberately—until she was sitting cross-legged a few feet from him, right on the floor. Not crowding him. Not pushing.
Just… there.
“I’m not gonna touch you,” she said quietly. “But I’m not leaving either.”
His breath caught, stuttered, and for a second she thought he might throw up.
Then came a noise from his throat—low and strained and awful. Like a strangled sob, but wrong, like it had nowhere to go.
He twisted, clutching at his sleeves with trembling fingers, yanking them down over his wrists as if just realizing they were exposed.
Max looked away quickly. She’d already seen.
The scars.
Thin, pale lines. Faint, but not faded. Fresh enough.
Her chest tightened.
She didn’t say anything about them.
Didn’t even let it show on her face.
Instead, she said, “You don’t have to talk. Just breathe. Or try to.”
She kept her breathing loud, steady, slow. Not expecting him to match her anymore. Just letting him hear it. Something real. Something grounded.
And then—
Miles rocked forward.
It was sudden—his body folding, like he was caving in from the weight of whatever was inside him. His forehead hit the carpet. He pressed his hands over his ears. Muffled whimpers escaped his mouth.
“Get out get out get out get out—”
It was a whisper, but it hit Max like a slap.
He wasn’t talking to her.
He wasn’t even really awake.
Whatever he was seeing—it wasn’t this room. It wasn’t her.
It was somewhere else.
Max swallowed. “You're safe,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Whoever it is, whatever it is—they’re not here.”
But he wasn’t hearing her. Not really. He was in it. Deep.
Mike Wheeler sat on the stairs with Flora in his lap, rocking gently. Her face still buried in his shoulder, small sobs still shuddering through her. She’d gone quiet now—spent. But he could feel her clutching at him like she might fall apart if he let go.
“He’s not dying,” Mike said again, because he didn’t know what else to say.
Flora sniffled. “He looked like he was.”
“I know. But he wasn’t. He’s… he just gets scared sometimes. Like a really bad dream.”
“But he was dreaming,” Flora whispered. “And he was choking. Like before. I saw it. I felt it.”
Mike closed his eyes, jaw tight. He remembered the story now—how Kate had snapped, how she’d grabbed Miles, left him unconscious, almost dead even, on that cold stone floor. Flora had been screaming, crying, begging her to stop.
Flora had seen that.
It made sense—why she panicked.
Why Miles did too. And he knew that Kate's hands weren't even the first around his neck.
“I promise,” he said softly, “Max is with him. She’s good at this kind of thing.” Mike hoped it was true.
The first thing that shifted was his hands.
Not much. Just a twitch.
His fingers loosened, barely, like the tension holding them in place had frayed by a single thread. Max noticed immediately, holding her breath.
Then—slowly, painfully—Miles moved. Just an inch. His shoulders sank lower, his head tilting enough that she could see the side of his face, still pressed to the carpet.
His breathing was still shallow, but less erratic. Less panicked.
“Miles?” Max whispered. “Can you hear me?”
He flinched.
His eyes blinked open—glassy, disoriented.
Max didn’t move. Didn’t dare.
She watched as he slowly pulled his hands from over his ears. His gaze slid toward her, just a little, barely meeting her eyes.
But it was enough.
“I… I c-can’t…” His voice cracked. It wasn’t even a sentence—just pieces. Like even his words were broken.
Max’s heart split down the middle.
“You’re okay,” she said again, more like a promise this time. “You’re not there anymore. You’re safe. It’s just me. Just Max.”
Miles gave the smallest nod—so small she almost missed it. His throat bobbed like he was trying not to cry, or maybe like he couldn’t cry, like it had been squeezed out of him too many times before.
And then, suddenly—
“I didn’t mean to scare her,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Flora… I didn’t mean to—”
“She’s okay,” Max said quickly. “Mike’s with her. She’s safe too.”
Miles nodded again, but this time it looked like it hurt. His eyes welled with tears—finally—and he bit down hard on his sleeve.
“I didn’t mean to—” His voice broke. “I didn’t want her to see me like that.”
Max felt something sharp twist in her chest.
Because she knew what that meant.
Not just embarrassment. Not just guilt.
Shame.
Deep, unshakable shame.
Like he’d failed some impossible job. Like his whole identity was supposed to be holding himself together for someone else—and now the mask had cracked.
“Hey,” she said softly. “You’re allowed to fall apart. No one expects you to be perfect. Especially not her.”
“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “She needs me. If I’m not—if I’m like this—she…”
He trailed off, lost in the weight of it.
Max inched closer, slowly. “She loves you. That’s all she needs. You don’t have to be anything more than her brother. That’s already enough.”
He didn’t respond. But he didn’t argue either.
She could see it now, more clearly than ever. The way his body moved like he was bracing for something—like he’d been trained to expect the worst. Every word, every breath, every movement calculated to keep the world from cracking open under his feet.
She wanted to reach out. Wanted to touch his hand, offer something.
But instead, she asked quietly, “Can I sit closer?”
Miles hesitated, then nodded once.
So she scooted beside him, shoulder to shoulder, leaving just enough space for him to move away if he needed to.
He didn’t.
They sat in silence for a while.
His breathing slowly returned to normal. The tremors faded. But the look in his eyes was still distant—like someone who’d seen the bottom of the ocean and hadn’t quite made it back to shore.
Max didn’t push.
She just waited.
Eventually, his voice returned—barely louder than a whisper.
“Sometimes… I wake up, and I still feel like I’m there. Back at the house.”
She turned her head slightly. “What happened there?”
Miles stared at his knees. “Everything.”
"...Do you want to talk about it?" Max asked tentatively.
A pause. Then—
“Everyone I loved died. And then… the people who were supposed to help us just made it worse.”
Max didn’t breathe.
“I had to grow up fast,” he said, his tone flat, but fragile. “Because if I didn’t, I...I don't think Flora would've survived it.”
She looked at him—really looked—and saw it.
Not just a broken boy.
But a ghost of one.
A kid holding the weight of a lifetime of pain he’d never been allowed to process.
“You didn’t deserve any of that,” she said.
He flinched. “Maybe I did.”
“No,” she said firmly. “You didn’t. I don’t care what anyone told you. No kid deserves to go through whatever you went through alone.”
He didn’t answer. But something in his face cracked open, just a little.
Like her words had slipped past the armor he’d welded shut.
“I used to think if I was good enough,” he murmured, “if I didn’t cry, if I didn’t need anything, it’d stop. Everything.”
Max’s chest ached.
She wanted to take all of it from him. Wanted to erase the years he’d spent swallowing his screams.
She reached over—slowly—and rested her hand over his.
He stiffened. But didn’t pull away.
And that was enough.
They sat there, hands lightly touching on the carpet—barely contact, but enough. Max didn’t speak. Just waited.
Eventually, Miles shifted beside her. His fingers tightened slightly around hers, like he was gathering the nerve to jump from a ledge only he could see.
When he spoke, it was so soft, Max almost missed it.
“I used to think the worst day of my life was the day my parents died.”
Her heart stilled.
She stayed quiet.
He continued, “It was a car accident. Winter. Snow everywhere. We were coming back from town. Flora was with them that time—just a baby. She doesn’t remember a lot of it.” A breath. “I do.”
His voice was thin, brittle.
“I was twelve. Flora was five. They told us the brakes failed, but I knew they were already fighting. Dad had been drinking. Mom didn’t want to stay at the house anymore. We never made it to the main road.”
He paused, swallowed. Max felt the heat of shame radiating off him.
“I was the one who called for help,” he whispered. “I remember...everything. My mother's head was turned to us, Flora and I, in the backseat. Like she thought if she looked at us enough we would be protected. Maybe it worked. My father was looking at my mother. He didn't even look angry anymore, just...quiet. That was the first time i'd ever seen that expression on my father. I thought my mother was asleep, somehow. She slept with her eyes open sometimes-I inherited that from her, according to Flora.” Miles' feeble attempt at a laugh came out more like a choked sob.
Max’s stomach turned.
“I thought that was it. All my happy memories, all my sad memories, all my life...down the drain. Just numb.” Miles said. “But that wasn’t-" He took in a shallow, shaky breath. "That wasn't. The end."
He rubbed his hands together. Restless. Nervous.
“There was this man. Peter Quint. He worked for the estate. Helped out with the horses. Charismatic. Loud. Everyone thought he was funny. A 'dirty peasant,' but funny, and nice.”
Miles’ voice turned flat. Cold.
“He was also a liar. And a drunk. And...” He trailed off
Max stayed still, pulse racing.
“He stuck around after they died. Said he’d help take care of things. Said we didn’t need to be alone. Miss Jessell—Flora’s teacher, or governess—she tried to leave. He didn’t let her. No one knew what really happened to her. Just that one day, she was gone.” There was a pause for a long time. "He...showed me photos. Quint. He showed me photos of Ms. Jessell." Miles' voice wavered, on the edge of tears. "She was...sleeping. Bathing. Dressing." He swallowed thickly, a sick look on his face. "I asked him why he took the pictures. He said anyone who doesn't lock their door has it coming.
He glanced up at Max. Wary, afraid.
She covered her mouth. “Jesus…”
“He killed her,” Miles said simply. "I found her body in the lake." Miles's shoulders started shaking, and he shivered. Max squeezed his hand gently, smiling as best she could after what she had just heard. "Quint...he was doing...that stuff...a long time before Ms. Jessell, though."
"There were other women in your house?" Max asked, confused.
"...N-no." Miles brought a hand to rub at his throat, shaking so hard Max thought for a second he was having a seizure. Realization dawned on her suddenly, like a wave of clarity. Quint. He had put his hands on Miles.
"Oh my god." She whispered, wanting for the first time ever to hug someone. To hug this poor boy and erase all the invisible handprints she knew would be permanent. But she didn't, because now Max knew the full reason as to why Miles hated being touched, and it made her want to vomit. Instead, she asked. "...How many times..?" He drew in a shaky breath. squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before opening them again and staring at the floor, glossed with tears.
"...More times than I can count. Almost daily, from when my parents died until the day he finally died." Miles said it with bitterness, but fear and dread coated the sentence like thick dust. "She always denies it, but I think it was Ms. Grose. I think she knew what he was doing."
"She sounds like a nice person." Max said in a feeble attempt to comfort Miles.
"She's dead." He said coldly. "Kate pushed her off the stairs."
Max’s throat burned. “Kate.”
Miles nodded. “She was… kind. Different. She tried. I didn't mean to make her hate me." He sniffled, wiping at his eyes.
His voice dropped lower.
“But she...she saw the ghosts."
"Ghosts..?" Now Max's voice was shaky.
"Quint. Ms. Jessell. She saw what he did to her, she saw them everywhere. I could tell. I wanted them to leave her alone...it was like they weren't content enough, just haunting me. But she stayed. Kate stayed. She stayed when she woke up from visions of Ms. Jessell every night, she stayed when Flora started screaming bloody murder when she tried to take us out of the manor, she stayed when she saw how...how messed up I am."
"You're not messed up Miles, you're scarred. That's-"
"I killed animals on the property sometimes. When I needed to...I don't know. Do something that made me feel alive. Not like one of those ghosts." Miles' voice cracked. "I got expelled from my school for strangling my classmate." Max's eyes widened, and as much as she wanted to now, she didn't shift away. "He burned all the pictures of my parents." He whispered. "And all I could see was...red."
Max stayed still, her fingers brushing along his knuckles.
“Then one day Kate snapped,” he whispered. “I think the ghosts finally got to her. I h-heard her crying, and I went t-to check on her. She was in the garden..in the middle of the n-night. She grabbed me. Pinned me. She was screaming and crying, and so, so angry. And all I could see was him. Quint.”
A long pause.
“She started choking me.”
Max flinched.
“I think she saw him too, thought I was him. I don't remember much else, I passed out. Flora got her to stop, I think. She was crying. That's why...why she was so afraid, earlier."
"Because that reminded her of that time."
"And apparently, I did die-for a second. I don't know if that counts.
He stared down at the carpet.
“After that, she packed our bags. Put Flora and me in the car. Drove across the state to this little town.”
Max’s voice was almost silent. “To Mike?”
“She didn’t even tell him why,” Miles said. “Just said we needed a place to stay. And then she left. Just...dropped us off and drove away,” he said. “Never came back. No note. No goodbye. Just gone.”
Max stared at him, stunned. “That’s why you’ve been here this whole time.”
He nodded.
“I haven’t seen her since.”
Max didn’t say anything at first.
She just moved.
Quietly, carefully, she reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Miles’ face. He flinched, not because he didn’t want her touch—but because he wasn’t used to it being soft.
“You didn’t deserve any of that,” she said.
His breath hitched.
“You were a kid,” Max whispered. “And he was a monster. And it wasn’t your fault.”
Miles’s jaw trembled.
“I thought if I kept it buried,” he rasped, “it wouldn’t rot everything else. But it has. I rot everything I touch.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is,” Miles snapped—but even as he said it, his voice cracked again. “I—I hurt people. I killed animals. I strangled a boy. I scared Kate so badly she lost her mind. I basically became a ghost just to make it stop.”
Tears welled in his eyes—real this time. Unstoppable.
“I thought maybe if I broke myself enough, made myself enough for the ghosts to be content with, Flora wouldn’t have to go through what I did. That maybe I could keep her safe.”
“And you did,” Max said, her voice steady. “You did everything to protect her. And you never let him touch her.”
Miles’s mouth opened—then closed. Then, he gave in.
The tears came.
Messy, ugly, choking sobs that clawed up from the pit of his stomach and tore through his chest. He doubled forward, curling into himself, arms wrapped tight like if he didn’t hold himself together, he’d fly apart.
Max moved closer and pulled him into her.
Not rough, not forced—just there. Warm. Safe.
Miles buried his face in her shoulder, gasping for breath between sobs.
Max held him tighter.
“You’re not rotting anything,” she said into his hair. “You survived. That’s the bravest goddamn thing anyone could do.”
His body shook. Max just kept holding him.
Time didn’t seem to move.
And maybe that was okay.
At some point, he stopped crying.
His breathing was shallow, but calmer. His fingers clung to the fabric of her hoodie like a child afraid of the dark.
Max didn’t pull away.
Eventually, Miles sat back slightly—just enough to wipe his face on his sleeve. His hands were trembling as he adjusted his shirt collar… but the cuff of his sleeve slipped.
Max saw the scars.
Raised. Faded. White against the pale of his arm.
He froze.
Max didn’t gasp. Didn’t flinch. She just met his eyes.
He looked like a deer in headlights. Terrified.
“I’m not gonna ask you anything,” she said gently. “But if you want to talk about it…”
His throat moved like he was swallowing glass.
“I did it because I needed to feel something,” he said finally. “Anything. Pain was better than nothing. It reminded me I was still… here.”
Max nodded. “I get that.”
“I haven’t in a while,” he added quickly. “Not since… Flora. Since she got older. She started noticing things. I didn’t want her to see.”
Max’s chest ached.
“She looks at me like I’m still human,” Miles said. “And I didn’t want to ruin that.”
Max moved her hand to his wrist, just lightly covering the old scars.
“You are human,” she said. “You’re so human. That’s what hurts so much.”
He looked at her—really looked.
And something cracked in his eyes again, but this time it wasn’t panic.
It was recognition.
Footsteps.
Small ones. Light and fast—just down the hall.
Miles stiffened.
Max heard it a second later. A voice—fragile, high-pitched, cracking under pressure.
“Miles?”
Flora.
She was outside the door. Her small fist rapped against it once, then again. “Miles? I—I heard you crying, and I—”
She sounded like she was trying not to cry herself.
Max turned toward him, but Miles was already panicking. His hands gripped the floor, his shoulders curling inward again.
“No,” he gasped. “No, she can’t-”
Max grabbed his hand. “Breathe. Mike will handle her, okay?”
But he was spiraling fast. “She thinks everything's ok. She needs to think that. She needs to have a normal life but she can't if i'm-”
The door creaked open.
Flora stood there in her bunny-print pajamas, holding her stuffed giraffe by the neck. Her eyes went wide the second she saw her brother curled on the floor.
“Miles?” Her voice broke. “Miles, are you ok? Miles?!”
Miles’s whole body jolted. “Flora, no—”
She ran toward him, but Mike appeared behind her and caught her mid-step. “Whoa, hey, hey. It’s okay.”
“No it’s not!” she sobbed. “He’s-it's like—when Miss Kate was—when she was—”
She broke off with a wail.
Miles went white. Max felt it—his body went limp, like shame had punched all the air out of him.
Mike knelt in front of Flora and gently picked her up. “It’s not what you think, Flora. I promise. He’s okay. He’s just having a hard time.”
“I don’t want him to hurt,” she cried. “He was choking! Like last time, Mikey! I thought—!”
“I know,” Mike said softly. “I know, but I’m here now. And Max is with him, and she’s taking care of him, alright?”
She sniffled hard, curling into his shoulder.
Max felt Miles trying to crawl out of himself. Like he wanted to vanish completely.
Mike met Max’s eyes from the doorway. She nodded—silent gratitude.
Then Mike carried Flora out.
Miles didn’t move.
“She thinks I’m a monster now,” He choked.
“No,” Max said, sitting beside him again. “She thinks you’re in pain.”
“She said last time. She remembers. When Kate choked me. When I...I sounded like I was dying, I was dying, and she—” He broke off, wiping his face with trembling fingers.
“She was just scared,” Max said. “That doesn’t mean she sees you any different.”
Miles didn’t answer. He curled his knees to his chest.
“I should’ve kept it together.”
“No, Miles. You should’ve never had to carry it this long alone.”
Max reached out and brushed his hair back, petting him softly. He didn’t flinch this time.
“You didn’t scare her. And you didn’t scare me.”
He blinked. “You’re still here.”
“Of course I’m still here.”
“I said everything. And you didn’t leave.”
Max gave him the smallest smile. “I told you I wouldn’t.”
It was quiet.
The kind of quiet that only comes after a storm has spent itself—hollow, wet, and trembling. The hallway light leaked into the room, painting long shadows across the floor. Outside, dawn was beginning to break.
Max sat cross-legged beside Miles, shoulder to shoulder.
Neither of them had said anything in a while.
Miles’ head rested against the wall, his eyes half-lidded, tear tracks drying on his cheeks. His hands were in his lap, fingers loosely tangled with Max’s.
He hadn’t let go.
“I’m sorry you had to hear all that,” he said eventually, voice hoarse.
“I’m not.”
He looked at her, startled.
“I’m grateful you trusted me with it,” Max added.
Miles turned his face away. “You shouldn’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m—” He faltered. “Messed up. Damaged. All the worst things.”
Max tilted her head. “You’re not the worst anything, Miles.”
He didn’t believe her. But he didn’t argue.
“Hey,” she said softly, brushing his hair back again. It had fallen in his face, like it tended to, but Max liked seeing his eyes. “You want to know what I saw tonight?”
He shrugged.
“I saw someone who was terrified, in a horrible situation…but brave enough to let themselves fall apart anyway. That’s not weakness, Miles. That’s survival.”
His eyes flicked toward her again.
“I saw someone who protected his little sister when no one else could. Who carried more than any kid ever should have to, and still put her first.”
Max’s voice dropped.
“I saw someone who needs to be loved, cared about.”
Miles blinked at that—like he wasn’t sure he heard her right.
“…Cared about?”
She gave a small smile. “Yeah. You don’t scare me, Miles Fairchild.”
The silence between them shifted—less like a void now, more like… a breath.
A beat.
Then slowly, almost cautiously, Miles leaned his head onto her shoulder.
Max didn’t move.
She just let him rest there, warm and alive and still here.
His voice, barely audible: “I didn’t think anyone could care about someone like me.”
“Well, you're wrong.” Max whispered. “I do.”
They didn’t sleep.
The sun was rising by the time Mike returned, his voice low, letting them know Flora was back in bed. That she was okay now. That she’d asked about Miles—not in fear, but in worry. She’d even asked Max to give him her stuffed giraffe, just until he felt better.
Miles hugged it tighter than he probably realized.
Max didn’t leave his side.
She wouldn’t—not tonight, and maybe not tomorrow either.
He didn’t speak much after that. But once—when the light hit the window just right, when the room felt warmer and the ghosts seemed just a little further away—he looked at Max.
And for the first time, he smiled.
It was small. Tired. Crooked.
But it was real.