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Marching Band!Mike Wheeler x Cheerleader AFAB!Reader

[Mike Wheeler, who has loved you from the moment he met you, but the idea of you loving him back always felt impossible, maybe one day he’d be brave enough to not care…]

CW: NSFW!! friends to lovers, mostly fluff, eventual smut, angst, kissing, yearning, slow-burn, infidelity, oral, fingering, p in v, everyone is 18+

Music ~ Creep, Radiohead

The TV cart hums louder than it should. The classroom lights are off, blinds half-drawn, and some old movie plays across the screen that no one’s really watching. Mr. Harris gave up about ten minutes in. Typical. Mike should be paying attention. Or at least pretending to. Instead, he’s hyper-aware of exactly one thing, you.

You’re sitting beside him. Not just beside him, close. Close enough that your elbow nudges his every now and then when you shift. Close enough that if he looks down, your knee is right there, almost touching his. Close enough to ruin him.

“Your arm.” Your voice is quiet, like you don’t want to disturb the fake peace of the room.

Mike blinks. “What?”

“Your arm,” you repeat, already reaching for him. “Hold still.”

He doesn’t remember agreeing to this. He doesn’t remember saying yes. But somehow his arm is already resting on your desk, palm up, sleeve pushed back just enough for you to have space. Like his body made the decision without him.

That happens a lot with you. You start doodling. At first, it’s nothing; little shapes, swirls, a star near his wrist. The tip of your pen drags lightly over his skin, and Mike has to concentrate very hard on breathing normally.

This is fine. This is completely fine. People let their friends draw on them all the time. This is a normal, friendly thing. Your fingers shift, steadying his wrist, and- oh. Your thumb rests right at the base of his palm. Warm.

Mike’s brain short-circuits. Because it would be so easy. So easy to just tilt his hand a little, curl his fingers, close the space, like it’s nothing, like it’s natural, like it’s something he’s allowed to do. Like you’d let him.

His fingers twitch. He stops himself. Don’t. Don’t ruin this. You keep drawing, oblivious to the war happening two inches away from your hand. Or maybe not oblivious, maybe you just trust him not to cross that line. God, that’s worse.

“What is it?” he asks, because if he doesn’t say something, he might actually lose his mind.

You grin a little, still focused. “It’s a dragon.”

“That looks nothing like a dragon.”

“It’s abstract.”

“It’s a worm with wings.”

You huff softly, nudging his arm. “Shut up, Mike.” His name sounds different when you say it. Softer. Warmer. Dangerous. He smiles anyway. Because he always does with you.

The movie ends. Or maybe it just stops. The lights flick on too suddenly, too harsh, dragging everything back into reality. Your hand leaves his. Just like that. Mike’s arm feels cold.

“Come on,” you say, already standing, grabbing your bag. “I have practice.” Of course you do. You always do.

Then the hallway hits. Noise. Lockers. People. And your people. They’re already calling your name, your cheer squad, bright and loud and right. You light up instantly, like you belong there in a way that makes perfect sense.

You turn back to him for half a second, fingers lightly catching his wrist. “See you later?”

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Yeah, of course.” Of course.

You smile, that smile, and then you’re gone, pulled into them, into that world. And Mike, Mike stands there a second too long. Because it hits him again, sharp and familiar, that’s where you fit. Not here. Not with him.

The idea of the two of you together feels… wrong. Not in a bad way. Just, impossible. He looks down at his arm. The ink’s still fresh. Your dragon- worm, curves across his skin, messy and imperfect and completely yours.

Mike pulls his sleeve down carefully. He doesn’t wash it off. He won’t. Not until he has to.

The uniform is stupid. Mike knew it would be stupid the second he put it on, but somehow it’s worse under stadium lights. Too stiff. Too bright. He catches his reflection earlier in the band room mirror and had to look away. He looks like a kid playing dress-up. A very uncool kid. ‘The little drummer boy’ Dustin had dubbed him, completely unhelpful.

The field stretches out ahead, grass flattened and painted, bleachers packed with people who actually belong here. The noise is constant; cheering, shouting, the low hum of anticipation. And somewhere across all of that, you.

He doesn’t look for you. Not at first. He’s learned better than that. Learned what happens when he lets himself get distracted, when he forgets where he is and what he’s supposed to be doing.

He focuses on the count instead. Left. Right. Lift. Strike. The drumline starts. The rhythm settles into his bones, familiar, grounding. For a second, it almost works. Almost drowns everything else out.

Until halftime. Until the formations shift. Until the band spreads wider across the field and, there. He sees you. Like he always does. Like some invisible thread keeps pulling his eyes in your direction no matter how hard he tries to resist it.

You’re across the field, lined up with the rest of the cheer squad. Your uniform is- Mike swallows. You look- Yeah. Okay. He’s not even going to finish that thought. It’s not safe.

Your hair catches the light when you move. Your smile is bright, effortless, like you were made for this, like this world bends around you instead of the other way around. So different from him. So right. He should look away. He doesn’t.

And then, you see him. Out of everyone on the field, out of all the movement and noise and colour, your eyes find his. And you smile. Not the big, performative one you give the crowd. A smaller one. Real. For him.

Everything just stops. The sound dulls, like he’s underwater. The lights blur at the edges. The field disappears until it’s just, you. Looking at him like he matters. Like he belongs in your world for even a second.

Mike’s hands falter. Just slightly. Just enough that the rhythm stutters under his grip. Oh shit. His heart spikes. Panic flickers, he’s going to mess up, he’s going to ruin it, everyone’s going to notice- no one does. Or if they do, they don’t care.

And for that moment, he forgets everything else. Forgets the uniform. Forgets the difference. Forgets how wrong it feels sometimes, loving you like this. His brain just, melts.

The game ends in a blur. Mike barely remembers the last set, barely remembers marching off the field, barely remembers anything except flashes of noise and color and the lingering warmth of that moment.

They file out, instruments heavy, bodies tired. And then it happens. It always happens. The girls start running. From the sidelines, from the track, from everywhere. Cheerleaders breaking formation, laughing, shouting, sprinting toward the stands, toward the players. Toward their boyfriends.

Mike looks away. He always does. Awkwardly rocking on his heels. It’s easier not to watch. Easier not to think about how natural it looks, how easy it is for them, how they just, fit. Like puzzle pieces clicking together. Like they were always meant to.

He adjusts the strap of his drum, head ducked, focusing on literally anything else- “Mike!”

He freezes. No. No, don’t- But you’re already there. You don’t slow down. Don’t hesitate. You never do. Your arms wrap around his neck, momentum carrying into him as you hug him tight, laughing, breathless.

“Did you see that last play?” you say, words tumbling out. “That was insane-”

Mike’s brain stops working. Because you’re- you’re hugging him. Like this is normal. Like this is where you’re supposed to be. Like you’re not embarrassed in the slightest. His hands hover for half a second before settling, awkward but careful, around your back.

“Y-yeah,” he manages. “Yeah, it was- uh- crazy.” Smooth. Real smooth.

You pull back just enough to look at him, still smiling, still glowing from the game, from everything. And his chest twists. But not in that sharp, aching way. Not this time. This feels like- like the top of a rollercoaster. That suspended second before the drop. All light and air and something he doesn’t have a name for.

God. What he would give, just to lean in. Just a little. Just enough to close the space between you. Like the other couples. Like it’s allowed. Like it’s his place. His grip tightens for a fraction of a second before he forces himself to let go. Don’t. You deserve more than this. More than him.

“You played really good,” you say, softer now.

Mike lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m serious.” You always are. That’s the problem.

“Thanks,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to do with that. With you. With the way you look at him like he’s something worth noticing. Someone worth choosing.

You grin, bumping his shoulder lightly before stepping back. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yeah,” he says again. Always that word. Always later.

You turn, already being pulled away again; friends, teammates, noise swallowing you back into your world. And Mike stands there, heart still racing, skin still warm where you touched him. He stares down at his hands for a second. Then exhales. Because for a moment, it almost felt like he wasn’t out of place.

Like maybe, in some universe, he could be the one you ran to.

Your room, or his. It doesn’t really matter anymore. At some point over the years, they became interchangeable. Same comfort, same ease, same quiet that doesn’t need to be filled. Today, it’s his.

Mike’s lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, one earbud half in, the other dangling loose across his chest. The music is low, something soft and guitar-heavy, the kind you insisted he listen to weeks ago.

You were right about it. You’re usually right. You’re beside him, close but not touching, stretched out in the opposite direction so your heads are near each other, feet pointing away. Parallel. Always parallel.

You share the headphones, the wire draped between you like something fragile. Every time one of you shifts, it tugs slightly, a quiet reminder that the other is there. Not that Mike needs one. He’s very aware you’re there.

You hum along under your breath when the chorus hits, fingers tapping lightly against your stomach like you can’t help it. Then, of course, you start singing. Dramatically. Off-key on purpose, louder than necessary, like you’re performing for an invisible audience.

Mike huffs a quiet laugh, turning his head just enough to look at you. “You’re ruining it,” he murmurs.

You gasp, offended. “I’m improving it.”

“You’re butchering it.”

“Wow. Okay. I see how it is.” But you’re smiling. You always are.

Another riff hits, louder this time, and you reach out instinctively, hand searching for his like you’ve done a hundred times before during moments like this, grabbing onto him for emphasis, for drama, for no real reason at all.

Your fingers brush his. Mike stills. It’s nothing. Barely anything. Just skin against skin for half a second, but it lingers. Or maybe that’s just in his head. Your hand doesn’t fully take his. It never does. It just rests there for a moment, grazing, before pulling back like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t supposed to. Like it’s normal.

Mike swallows. Yeah. Normal. He turns his head back toward the ceiling, like that’ll help. It doesn’t. Because all he can think about is how close that was to something else. How easy it would be, to just turn his hand. To catch yours before it slips away. To hold it. Just once. Just to know what it feels like when it’s not an accident.

Instead, he keeps his fingers curled loosely at his side. Still. Careful. Controlled. Because this, he can have this. He’s allowed this version of you. The one who lays beside him, steals his music, laughs too loud, grabs his hand without thinking. If he pushes, if he reaches, he could lose it. And that thought is worse than anything.

“You’re in your head again,” you say suddenly.

“What?”

“You do that thing,” you mumble, eyes still half on the ceiling. “Where you go all quiet and weird.”

“I’m always quiet and weird.”

“Yeah, but this is, like, extra.”

He exhales a small laugh. “Thanks.”

You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at him. Your fingers lightly tracing his forearm, fuck. If you knew what that did to him. There’s something softer in your expression now. Less teasing. More… curious. “Where’d you go?”

Nowhere he can say out loud. “Just tired,” he lies.

You study him for a second longer than usual. Like you don’t quite believe him. Like you almost push. But then you don’t. “Liar,” you murmur lightly, but there’s no real bite to it. And somehow that’s worse.

Later, the music fades into something quieter. The sun shifts, golden light slipping through the curtains and stretching across your face. Mike notices before he means to. The way it catches on your eyelashes. The curve of your cheek. The soft part of your expression when you’re not talking, not performing, not on. Just you.

He turns his head fully this time. He shouldn’t stare. He knows that. But, it feels like one of those moments he’ll want to remember. The kind he stores away without meaning to. For later. For when you’re not here. For when this isn’t enough anymore.

Parallel. That’s what this is. Two lines, side by side, moving in the same direction, close. Always close. But never touching. Never crossing. Never becoming anything more. Mike’s chest tightens. Because he knows how this ends. It doesn’t. Not really. It just… keeps going like this. Forever, if he lets it.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

He blinks, snapping out of it. “Yeah?”

“You’re doing it again.”

He forces a small smile. “Sorry.”

You don’t smile back right away. Your eyes flick down, briefly, to his hand. Then back up. Something unreadable passes over your face. “…You’re allowed to tell me stuff, you know.” It’s soft. Careful. And it hits harder than it should.

Mike looks at you. Really looks this time. And for a second, a dangerous, fragile second, he wonders what would happen if he did. If he just, told you. Everything. But then reality settles back in. You. Him. The difference. The way the world works.

He shakes his head slightly. “Yeah. I know.”

That night, the quiet follows him home. It sticks to him. Clings. He paces his room, running a hand through his hair, trying to shake it off, you off, but it doesn’t work. It never works. He tries everything. Walking. Thinking about literally anything else. Doesn’t work.

He takes a shower. That’s worse. Because now his brain’s decided this is a great time to replay every moment you’ve ever stood too close to him, every time you’ve smiled like that, every time you’ve touched him, every time he’s touched you-

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, pressing his forehead against the tile. He turns the water colder. It doesn’t help. That spot on his forearm your fingers teased, brushed by the water now, relighting it. The little streams of water falling down his back, mimic your touch.

A memory of a similar evening comes back, back when he’d first joined band, first subjected himself to the branding. Mike hates the jacket. That’s the first thing he decides when he pulls it on.

It’s too tight in the shoulders, even though his mom insisted it ‘fits perfectly’ The fabric is stiff, structured in a way that makes him feel like he can’t move naturally, like every shift is being watched. He tugs at the sleeve, frowning at himself in the mirror. “I look stupid.”

“You do not.” Your voice comes from behind him, immediate, certain.

Mike glances at your reflection over his shoulder. You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed, watching him like this is the most interesting thing in the world. “It’s the hat,” he says, reaching up to adjust it. “It makes it worse.”

“The hat is the best part.”

“That is objectively wrong.”

You snort, pushing yourself off the bed and walking over before he can protest. “Hold still.” There it is again. That quiet command you never think twice about. Mike does anyway. Of course he does.

You step closer, closer than necessary, and reach for him. Fingers smoothing over the front of his jacket like you’re fixing something that isn’t even there. Your touch is light. Careful. But it’s enough. It’s always enough. “You’re just not used to it yet,” you murmur, tugging slightly at the lapel. “It’s new.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s distinguished,” you correct, glancing up at him with a small smile.

Mike huffs a laugh. “Yeah, okay.”

Your hand moves again, flattening the fabric over his chest, then, without thinking, flicking the brim of his hat slightly to the side. It tilts just enough to be wrong. To be you. You grin. “There. Much better.”

Mike lets out a quiet, helpless laugh, shaking his head as he pulls the hat off entirely and tosses it onto the bed behind you. “Now I definitely look stupid.”

“No,” you say, softer now. He turns back to you. And that’s when it happens. Your hand slides. Up his chest. Unthinking. He feels like you’re moving in slow motion. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Mike stops breathing.

Your fingers trace upward, following the line of the jacket, over the collar, brushing his neck. His pulse jumps under your touch. Then higher. Along his jaw. Into his hair. And everything just, breaks. His brain goes completely, utterly blank.

Because you’re- your hand is in his hair. Your fingers threading just slightly, resting there like they belong, Mike freezes. At the same time, something in his chest drops, like his entire body is giving in all at once.

He doesn’t know whether to move or stay perfectly still. He doesn’t know if this is real. He doesn’t know if you can feel how fast his heart is going. He doesn’t know if he’s about to ruin everything just by existing too loudly in this moment.

Then- you ruffle his hair. Quick. Playful. Gone. “Okay,” you say, stepping back like nothing just happened. “Now you definitely look like yourself.” The moment snaps. Just like that.

Mike freezes. Air rushes back into his lungs all at once. “Wow,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair where yours just was. “Rude.”

You laugh, already turning away, completely unaffected. Of course you are. Mike drops onto the edge of the mattress, still trying to catch up with what just- what that was.

You grab the hat from behind you and then the jacket he’d just been adjusting. “Hey-” Too late. You’re already shrugging it on. It’s too big on you. Obviously. The sleeves hang past your wrists, the structure of it swallowing your frame in a way that should look ridiculous, but it doesn’t. Not really.

You settle in front of him, standing between his knees, pulling the jacket into place like you’re trying to copy how he wore it. Then you straighten. Stiffen. Strike an overly serious, dramatic pose.

“Now this is ridiculous,” you laugh, tilting your chin up slightly.

Mike forgets how to function. Because you’re wearing his jacket. His. The same one he just complained about. The same one that made him feel out of place. And on you, it looks different. Good different.

He exhales a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “No- no, you pull it off.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”

“No,” he says easily. “Definitely not.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

“I look like a nutcracker.”

You grin. “A handsome nutcracker.”

Mike rolls his eyes, but he can’t stop smiling. Can’t stop looking at you. Standing there. Between his legs. Wearing his clothes. Like they’re not embarrassing. Like he’s not embarrassing. Close enough that if he just, if he just reached forward-

His hands tighten slightly against the edge of the bed. Because God- he wants to. He wants to pull you closer, just enough that you’d have to look down at him like this, just enough that- that something would happen. Something real. Something that makes all of this make sense.

Like one of those movie moments. The kind where everything complicated just… disappears. Where the right thing is obvious. Where you lean in, and so do they, and it just works.

His chest aches. Because he knows that’s not this. That’s not you and him. So instead, he does something smaller. Something safer. Something that still feels way too big.

“You look pretty,” he says. It comes out quieter than he meant it to. More serious. His eyes soften, he almost feels like he’s breaking a rule as he can’t control the way they keep flicking from your gaze, to your lips.

Your expression shifts. Just slightly. “Yeah?” you ask.

Mike nods. Swallows. “Really pretty.” The words hang there. Different than usual. He doesn’t take them back. Doesn’t laugh them off. Doesn’t hide behind a joke. For once, he lets it be real.

You hold his gaze for a second longer than expected. Then, you smile. Softer this time. Almost shy, or maybe he was just hoping he had that effect on you. “Thanks, Mike.”

After you leave, the room feels wrong. Too quiet. Too empty. Mike sits on the edge of his bed for a long time, staring at the jacket you left behind before tossing it back toward him. He picks it up slowly. Like it matters. Like it’s something fragile.

His fingers brush over the fabric where you held it, where you wore it, where it sat on your shoulders like it belonged there. He brings it closer without really thinking. Just instinct. The faintest trace of your scent clings to it. Mixed with his. Something familiar and new all at once.

Mike exhales slowly. His grip tightens. Because it’s not enough. It’s never enough. His other hand lifts, almost unconsciously, brushing through his hair where your fingers had been earlier. Then down. To his chest.

Pressing lightly, like he can still feel the path you traced there. Like something might still be left behind. His heart kicks under his palm. Fast. Unsteady. “God,” he mutters under his breath.

Because what he wants, is so simple. And so completely impossible. He closes his eyes, just for a second. And lets himself imagine what it would be like if it wasn’t.

The metal bleachers creak under his weight. They always do. Mike drops down beside you like he’s done a hundred times before, the familiar sound grounding in a way everything else isn’t. The air still carries the faint echo of practice; distant voices, a whistle, the dull thud of a ball hitting grass.

You’re already there when he gets out. You usually are. Sitting a few rows up, legs stretched out, hands braced behind you like you’re trying to hold yourself steady. “Hey,” he says, a little breathless from jogging over.

“Hey.”

Something’s off. It’s subtle. Anyone else probably wouldn’t notice. But Mike does. Of course he does. He sits beside you, not too close, not too far, exactly where he always does. That careful distance he’s memorized over years. “What’s up?” he asks.

You shrug. “Nothing. Just tired.” Liar. He almost says it.

Instead, he leans back on his hands, mirroring you. “Practice bad?”

“It was fine.” A pause. “Same as always.” Another lie. Mike glances at you. Your eyes are somewhere else, down on the field, unfocused. Waiting. For what, he’s not sure.

“I was uh- wonder if I could,” you say after a second, like you’re forcing yourself to speak. “Can I ask you something?”

His chest tightens, “Yeah. Of course.”

You hesitate. That’s new. You never hesitate with him. “What do you think about… dating?”

Mike blinks. Out of everything he expected, that wasn’t it. “What?”

“Dating,” you repeat, a little quieter now. “Like- have you ever… wanted that? With someone?”

Oh. Oh, this is- this is bad. His brain scrambles, trying to find something safe. Something neutral. Something that doesn’t give him away completely. Because the truth? The truth is you. It’s always been you. Every version of it. Every stupid, impossible, hopeful version he’s built in his head over the years.

He clears his throat, looking out at the field instead of at you. “I uh- I don’t know,” he says. “I mean… I’ve just never really met anyone I was interested in like that.”

The second the words leave his mouth, something feels wrong. He doesn’t notice it on his end. But you do. Your shoulders shift. Just slightly. Like something small and invisible just… dropped. “Oh,” you say. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Mike frowns, finally looking at you. “...What?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “That makes sense.” It doesn’t. He knows it doesn’t. But before he can question it, you inhale, like you’re bracing yourself. “Um- so, actually,” you start, and now you won’t look at him either. “One of the guys on the team asked me out.”

There it is. Mike feels it immediately. That drop. Sharp. Sudden. Like missing a step in the dark. “Oh,” he says. It sounds normal. It doesn’t feel normal.

“Yeah,” you continue, a little awkward now. “He’s… he’s really nice. Like, actually nice. Not in a weird way.” Mike nods. Because of course he is. Of course the guy is nice. Of course he’s everything Mike isn’t.

“He’s on varsity,” you add, like it matters. “And he’s, um… yeah. He’s just- he’s good.” Blonde. Popular. Confident. Mike can picture it without you even saying it. The exact kind of guy he’s always known you should be with.

“That’s good,” Mike says. And he means it. That’s the worst part. “That’s really good.”

You glance at him then, like you’re trying to read something in his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs lightly, forcing a small smile. “If he’s nice and you like him, then… yeah. You should go for it.” Because you deserve that. You deserve someone who fits. Someone who doesn’t feel like a mistake. Someone who looks right standing next to you. Not him.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I… I think I will.”

And that should be it. That should be the end of it. But something lingers. In the space between you. In the way you don’t immediately relax. In the way Mike’s chest still feels tight, even though he said the right thing.

Because in his head, it’s different. In his head, this is temporary. Like it always is. You date someone. They’re fine. They’re okay. But eventually they mess up. Or they’re not enough. Or they don’t get you the way he does.

And then you come back. You always come back. Crying. Frustrated. Tired. And he’s there. He’s always there. Letting you talk. Letting you lean on him. Letting you take everything you need, because at the end of it all. It’s still him. It’s always been him. Everyone else is just temporary.

Mike swallows. He holds onto that. He has to. Because the alternative- the alternative is this being different. And something about this feels different. Because this guy, he’s not like the others. He’s not awkward, or weird, or trying too hard. He’s not someone Mike can quietly dismiss. He’s, right.

Mike forces his hands to stay steady against the bleachers. Because for the first time, he’s not sure you’ll come back. And that thought, it scares him more than anything else.

“Hey,” you say softly. He looks at you. “You’re okay with it? Right?” That question. God. You’re actually asking him. Like his answer matters. Like he matters in this decision.

Mike smiles. Gentle. Careful. The version of himself you’ve always known. “Yeah,” he says. “I just want you to be happy.” And he does. He really does. That part isn’t a lie. But there’s something else underneath it. Something quieter. Something he doesn’t say. Come back to me, please.

You nod, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Okay.” And for a second, he could swear you almost look disappointed.

Mike knows something’s wrong the second Dustin goes quiet. Dustin never goes quiet. “So-” Dustin starts, then immediately stops, eyes flicking past Mike. “Oh.” Oh?

Mike frowns. “What-” Then he hears it. Your laugh. Not far. Getting closer. His stomach drops before he even turns around. And yeah. There you are. Walking toward the table like you always do, same smile, same easy steps. But this time, you’re not alone.

The guy next to you is exactly what Mike expected. Which somehow makes it worse. Tall. Confident. Blonde in that effortless way that looks like he’s never had a bad haircut in his life. Letterman jacket slung over his shoulders like it belongs there. Like he belongs there. Like he belongs with you.

“Hey!” you say, bright as ever, like nothing’s changed.

Mike forces himself not to react, hoping his face doesn’t speak for him like it usually does. “Hey,” he mutters.

You hesitate for half a second. Just enough to notice. Then you keep going anyway. “Um- this is-” you start, glancing at the guy beside you.

He steps in smoothly, like he’s done this a hundred times. “Jason,” he says, offering a hand. “You’re Mike, right?”

Mike looks at it. Then at him. Then back at the hand. He shakes it. Because he’s not that much of an asshole. “Uh- yeah.”

Jason smiles. Easy. Friendly. Not fake. That’s annoying. “You mind if we sit?” you ask. It’s your table. You’ve always sat here. But now you’re asking. Like something changed.

Mike shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “Go ahead.” You sit next to him. Not as close as usual. Jason takes the spot beside you. Too close. Mike hates it instantly.

Conversation starts. Or tries to. Dustin says something about a game. Lucas adds onto it. Will nods along. Jason keeps up easily. That’s the problem. He fits. He laughs at the right times. Says the right things. Doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try too hard.

Mike was really hoping he’d be annoying. Or stupid. Or at least a little bit of a jerk. But no, he’s nice. Of course he is. “And you’re in band, right?” Jason says, glancing at Mike. There’s no judgment in it. Which somehow feels worse than if there was.

“Yeah.” Mike says flatly.

“That’s cool,” Jason nods. “You guys were awesome at the last game.”

Mike almost laughs. Almost. “Awesome?” he says, tone ever so snarky.

“Yeah. Halftime was sick.”

A judging smirk threatens to twist on his lips. “Right. Sick.”

You glance at him. Quick. Sharp. Like that wasn’t the answer you expected. Jason doesn’t seem to notice.

“Takes work man,” he says. “Respect.”

Mike picks at the edge of his tray. “Sure.” There’s a pause. Small. But heavy. Then you speak again.

“You remember that one time?” you say, looking at Mike. “When you dropped your sticks mid-performance and still somehow didn’t mess up?”

Mike blinks.

“Yeah,” he scoffs, playfully with you, not sour, never sour with you. “Because you were literally laughing at me from the sidelines.”

“I was not-”

“You were.”

You grin. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Jason looks between you. Curious. “What happened?” he asks.

Mike answers before you can. “Nothing. I fixed it.”

“Technical difficulties with a backward hat,” you say. “He always fixes it though.”

Something in Mike’s chest twists. Because that- that’s yours. That understanding. That history. Mike shrugs again, but there’s something sharper in it now. “It’s not that hard when you’ve been doing it forever.”

You nudge his arm lightly. “You’re allowed to admit you’re good at something, you know.”

Mike glances at you. Then at Jason. Then back at you. “S’not really my thing.” It keeps going like that. Little comments. Nothing obvious. Nothing anyone could really call him out on. But they stack. Quietly. Relentlessly.

“You know, she hates that movie,” Mike says at one point when Jason mentions it. “Says the ending makes no sense.”

“I never said that.”

“You did,” Mike insists. “At my house. Like, two weeks ago.”

You frown slightly. “I said it was confusing, not that I hated it.”

“Same difference.”

Jason laughs lightly, arm slinging around your shoulder. “Guess I’ll have to rewatch it with you and get your official verdict.”

Something in Mike snaps, just a little. “Good luck,” he mutters. “She changes her mind like every five minutes.”

“Wow,” you say lightly. “Okay.”

“I’m kidding,” Mike says quickly. But it doesn’t land right. Not this time.

Jason, to his credit, doesn’t react badly. If anything, he just smiles, glancing at you. “I’ll take my chances.” Of course he will. Why wouldn’t he? Everything about this is in his favor. Mike hates how easily he says it. Hates how comfortable he looks sitting there. Hates how right it all seems.

The worst part? He doesn’t even mess up. Not really. The only thing Mike can find, the only thing, is that Jason doesn’t know you. Not like he does. Not the small things. Not the specific things. Not the way you always pick the red Skittles first. Not the way you tap your fingers when you’re thinking. Not the way your smile changes when it’s real.

So Mike clings to that. Grabs onto it. Uses it. Every chance he gets. By the time lunch ends, the tension is thick enough that even Dustin doesn’t try to joke about it. You stand, gathering your things. Jason does the same. “I’ll see you later?” he asks you.

You nod. “Yeah.” Then you look at Mike. There’s something there. Something questioning. Something he doesn’t want to look at too closely. “Bye, Mike.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Bye.”

The second you’re out of earshot- “Dude,” Dustin says.

Mike drops his head into his hands with a groan. “I know.”

“No, like- seriously,” Lucas adds. “What was that?”

“I said I know.”

“That guy’s nice,” Will says quietly.

Mike groans. “I know!”

“Oh my God! That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Dustin throws his hands up. “You’re just mad because you can’t even hate him!”

Mike exhales sharply, leaning back in his chair. Because yeah. Maybe it did look like that. But that’s not it. Not really. It’s worse. “He just-” Mike starts, then stops. Because how does he even say it? He runs a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t know her.”

Lucas raises an eyebrow. “It’s been, like, a week.”

“Exactly,” Mike says. “And he’s acting like- like-”

“Like her boyfriend?” Dustin finishes. Mike shuts up. Because yeah. That. But the truth sits heavier than that. Because for the first time, it doesn’t feel temporary. And no matter how much Mike tries to poke holes in it, he can’t.

And what kills him the most is that this ‘Jason’ had so easily scored the goal Mikes been staring at for years, and even if he’d tried to prevent it, he couldn’t.

It starts small. It always does. A comment here. A look there. A joke that lands wrong. Mike tells himself it’s nothing. That it doesn’t matter. That he’s just adjusting. But then it keeps happening. And happening. And happening.

Until one day, he hears himself mid-sentence, “And he probably doesn’t even know you hate-” And he stops. Because you’re looking at him. Like you’re over it, over him. And something in his chest drops so fast it almost makes him dizzy.

“Mike,” you say quietly. Not mad. That’s worse. “I don’t hate it.”

He nods quickly. “Yeah. I know. I just-”

Jason glances between the two of you, not tense, not defensive, just… aware. He’s not fighting Mike. He’s not pushing back. He’s not giving Mike a reason to justify any of this. He’s just there.

Mike hates how easy it would be to turn this into something ugly. But every time he gets close, he sees your face. That slight drop in your expression. That quiet disappointment. And it makes him feel wrong. Not jealous. Not hurt. Just wrong.

“Dude, you need to stop.” Dustin’s voice cuts through everything later that day, sharp and serious in a way Mike doesn’t hear often. They’re in the basement. Same place as always. But it doesn’t feel the same. Nothing does.

“I know,” Mike mutters, pacing.

“No, like- actually stop,” Dustin says. “You’re being kind of a jerk.”

“I said I know.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?” Mike doesn’t answer. Because he doesn’t have one. Or maybe he does, and it’s just not something he wants to say out loud.

Lucas leans back in his chair, watching him. “You’re not even mad at the guy-”

“Right. I’m not-”

“You’re not,” Lucas repeats. “That’s the problem.”

Mike runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Then what do you want me to do?” he snaps. “Just sit there and- what, watch it happen?”

“Yes,” Dustin says immediately.

Mike stares at him. “What?”

“Or do something about it,” Dustin shrugs. “Or get over it. Or-” He hesitates. Just slightly. “Or stop being friends with her.”

The room goes quiet. Mike laughs. Short. Bitter. “Yeah, okay. That’s not happening.” But even as he says it, something twists. Because part of him knows. Knows that what he’s doing now? This in-between? It’s worse. For him. For you. For everything.

“You can’t keep doing both,” Dustin says, softer now. “You can’t act like this and still expect things to stay the same.”

“They’re not the same,” Mike mutters.

“Exactly.”

That night, Mike doesn’t pace. He doesn’t distract himself. He doesn’t pretend. He just stands in his room. Looking at everything. Really looking. And suddenly it’s all you. Everywhere.

The photo on his desk, both of you grinning, too close to just be friends but never anything else. The dumb bracelet you made him three summers ago. The folded note tucked into his mirror. The stupid little trinket you insisted he keep because it ‘looked like him.’

His chest tightens. Because none of this is casual. None of this is light. It never has been. He crosses the room slowly, opening his drawer. The box. Old. Worn. Familiar. The lid still reads, ‘Mike the Brave’

He almost laughs. Almost. Because there’s nothing brave about this. Nothing brave about staying quiet for years. Nothing brave about loving someone in a way that never asks for anything back. Nothing brave about slowly turning into someone he doesn’t even recognise, just because he can’t handle losing you.

Mike swallows hard, setting the box on his bed. He opens it. And starts filling it. The photos go in first. Then the bracelet. Then everything else. Every small piece of you he’s been holding onto like it meant something more than it did. Like it could keep you here. Like it could make this enough.

He finds the letters last. Stuffed in the back of his drawer. You always wrote him, for every occasion, sometimes for no occasion at all. His favourite part was always the end ‘All my love’ written in your pretty handwriting.

He stares at them for a long time. Then folds them neatly. Adds them to the pile. His hands shake a little as he closes the lid. Because this isn’t just letting go of a crush. Or a phase. Or something temporary. This is years. Of quiet. Of hope. Of love. Of you.

Mike rests his hands on top of the box, staring down at it. Because the truth is, he could keep going like this. Keep pretending. Keep sitting beside you. Laughing. Helping. Waiting. Always waiting. And maybe, maybe you’d come back. Like you always have. Maybe this would end the same way.

But what if it doesn’t? What if this time you stay? What if this time you’re happy? And what if he ruins that because he couldn’t just let you go? Mike exhales slowly. Because that’s the part he can’t live with. Not the heartbreak. Not the distance. Not even losing you.

But becoming someone who hurts you just to keep you close. Not like that. Not ever. He picks up the box. Holds it tighter than he means to. Because if loving you means anything, it means this. Letting you have something good. Even if it’s not him. Even if it never will be.

The bus smells like rubber and cheap cologne. Mike takes the seat in the very back. Of course he does. It’s where he always sits when he doesn’t want to be seen. When he doesn’t want to talk. When he doesn’t want to exist anywhere except the space inside his own head.

The box rests in his lap. Heavy. Heavier than it should be. It’s just cardboard. Just old junk. Just… you. He tightens his grip around it, thumb pressing into the worn edge of the lid where the letters curve, ‘Mike the Brave’ Yeah. Right.

He exhales sharply and leans his head back against the window, staring out at the darkening sky. The moon’s just starting to show, pale and quiet against the fading blue. He reaches into his bag and pulls out his Walkman, slipping the headphones on like armor. The faint crackle of the tape fills his ears, drowning out the bus, the voices, the thoughts.

Almost. Not quite. Because even here, you’re still there. Your stickers are still on the plastic casing. Faded a little. Peeling at the corners. Your initials scratched lightly into the side next to his. He runs his thumb over them without thinking.

Would things be different if you weren’t a cheerleader? If he wasn’t- him? If he could just be better? The kind of guy that makes sense standing next to you. The kind of guy no one questions. The kind of guy who doesn’t feel like a mistake.

Mike closes his eyes. Because it doesn’t matter. None of that matters. What matters is, he got to love you. Even if it was quiet. Even if it was stupid.

The buses pull in. Lights too bright. Voices too loud. Everything too much. Mike stays seated for a second longer than everyone else, gripping the box like it might disappear if he lets go.

When he gets off, meeting the party already crowded out of their bus, Lucas’s eyes drop to the box immediately. A look passes over his face. “…You sure about this?”

Mike doesn’t answer right away. Because no. He’s not. But he nods anyway. “Yeah.”

Outside, everything blends together. Students. Lights. The field in the distance. Mike’s friends merge with the rest of the crowd, but he feels separate from them. Like he’s moving through it instead of being part of it. Like he’s already halfway gone.

He tells himself he’s not looking for you. He’s lying. Because the second you’re in his line of sight, everything else disappears. You’re standing a little off to the side. Not with the full crowd. With him. Jason’s arm is draped around your shoulders, easy and natural, like it’s always been there. Like it belongs there.

Mike stops walking. Just for a second. And something inside him twists. Hard. Because you’re smiling. That same smile. The one that used to make everything go quiet. Now it just makes everything louder. Brighter. Worse.

His stupid jacket suddenly feels too tight again. The collar pressing into his neck. The fabric stiff and suffocating. A costume. A joke. A reminder. Lucas sighs beside him, low enough that only Mike hears it. “…Man.” A small nudge to his arm. “Not too late to change your mind.”

Mike doesn’t look at him. Can’t. Because his eyes are still locked on you. On the way you lean into Jason just slightly. On how easy it looks. On how right it looks.

The game is a blur. A mess of noise and motion and muscle memory. Mike plays harder than he should. Hits the drum sharper. Faster. Like he’s trying to drown something out. Or break it. His arms ache. He barely notices.

Because every time, every single possibility, is eyes find you. And every time, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at Jason. Cheering for him. Smiling at him. Running to him. The final whistle blows. And it happens again. Like it always does.

Cheerleaders spilling onto the field, laughter and excitement and adrenaline carrying them forward. Mike doesn’t look away this time. He makes himself watch. Because maybe if he sees it clearly it’ll finally feel real.

He hates how right he is. Your arms are around Jason’s neck. Not his. You’re laughing. Saying something he can’t hear. And Jason kisses your cheek. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like it’s his right.

Mike’s chest drops. Not the rollercoaster kind. Not the light, floating kind. The other kind. The kind that feels like something’s gone wrong. Like something’s about to derail. The drum harness comes off. The sticks hit the ground. The hat- God, that stupid hat- gets ripped off and tossed somewhere he doesn’t even see.

He needs- air- or space? Anything but this. He turns and walks. Fast. Then faster. Until he’s off to the side of the school, away from the lights, away from the noise, away from, everything.

He sits hard on the ground. Elbows on his knees. Head in his hands. The box drops beside him with a dull thud. His chest rises and falls too fast. Too sharp. “Shit,” he mutters. This is worse than he thought it would be. So much worse.

He knew it would hurt. He just didn’t know it would feel like this. Like something’s being pulled out of him. Like all those years of quiet hope finally breaking. Footsteps. He hears them before he looks up. Light. Familiar. His stomach twists.

“Mike?” Your voice. Soft. Careful. Too close. He closes his eyes for a second. Of course you followed him. Of course you did. The footsteps stop in front of him. He forces himself to look up. And there you are. Looking at him like that. Like you care. Like you’re worried. Like he matters. It almost makes it harder.

“Hey,” you say, quieter now.

Your hand lifts, like you’re about to touch his arm. Then stops. Halfway. Like something’s holding you back. And yeah. He feels it too. That line. That shift. That difference. His gaze drops to the box sitting between you.

He nudges it forward with his foot. Can’t quite bring himself to hand it to you properly. “What’s… that?” you ask. You already know. He can see it in your face. In the way your expression changes before he even says anything.

Mike swallows. Hard. “It’s just-” His voice cracks slightly. He clears it. “Stuff.”

“Mike-”

“I can’t do this anymore.” The words come out faster than he expects. Like they’ve been waiting. Like they’ve been sitting there for years.

Your face falls. “Do what?”

He shakes his head, pushing himself up slightly, but not standing. Not yet. “This,” he says, gesturing vaguely between you. “Us. I-” He stops. Because saying it out loud makes it real. Makes it final.

And for a second, he almost backs out. Almost says it’s fine. Almost lies. But then he thinks about lunch. About the bleachers. About the field. About you running to someone else. And he can’t.

“I think it’d be better if we just-” he swallows again. “If we weren’t… like this anymore.”

Your eyes fill immediately. And that almost breaks him. Because he did that. “I don’t understand,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know, I’m just-” He laughs, more a scoff at himself, but it’s empty. “I’m not- good at this.”

You shake your head, stepping closer despite yourself. “Did I do something?”

“No,” he says immediately. “No, you didn’t-” Everything. You did everything. Just by being you. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why-”

“Because I can’t-” he cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “I can’t keep pretending like this is enough.” Silence. Heavy. Thick.

Your gaze drops to the box again. Then back to him. And something in your expression shifts. Like you get it. At least a little. “Mike…” your voice breaks.

He can’t look at you. If he does, he won’t do this. “You- you looked good tonight,” he blurts out instead. God. That’s not what he meant to say.

“I mean- the cheer was good- I just-” He shakes his head, stepping back. “I’m sorry.”

And then, before you can stop him, before you can say anything else, he turns. And walks away. He doesn’t look back. Because if he does, he won’t leave. And this is the only way he knows how to not ruin you. Even if it ruins him instead.

The radio won’t shut up. It’s not even loud. It’s just there. Filling the room with something that isn’t you, but somehow still feels like you. Every song sounds like something you’d hum along to, something you’d steal the headphones for, something you’d ruin on purpose just to make him laugh.

Mike sits on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor. The phone is right there. Three steps away. He keeps looking at it like it might move. Like it might ring. Like it might fix this. He drags a hand down his face.

Because it would be so easy. Just call. Just say it was a mistake. Just say he didn’t mean it. Just say he’s sorry. You’d answer. Of course you would. You always do. And you’d sound relieved. And maybe a little hurt. And maybe you’d forgive him. And everything would go back to the way it was.

Back to sitting beside you. Back to your hand on his arm. Back to pretending that was enough. Mike’s chest tightens. Because that’s the problem. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough. And if he goes back, he knows exactly what will happen.

He’ll fall right back into it. Every look. Every touch. Every almost. And this time it’ll be worse. Because now he knows what it feels like to lose you. The radio shifts songs. A softer one. Slower. The kind you’d close your eyes to.

“God,” he exhales, reaching over and shutting it off completely. The silence is immediate. Heavy. But at least it’s honest.

School is worse. So much worse. Because you’re everywhere. Or you could be. That’s the worst part. Mike gets there early. Earlier than he ever has before. He walks into class and sits down immediately. Not next to your seat. Not anymore.

He picks one further back. Off to the side. Safe. Detached. By the time you walk in, he’s already looking at his desk. Like you don’t exist. Like you’re not scanning the room. Like you’re not pausing, just slightly. When you realize. He doesn’t look up. He can’t.

Because if he sees your face, if he sees what he did, it’ll be over. He’ll cave. Immediately. And if he doesn’t see anything, if you look fine, if you look unbothered. It might be selfish, but truthfully, that might be worse. So he stares at his notebook. Pretends to care about whatever’s written there. Pretends he doesn’t feel it. The shift. The absence. The space where you used to be.

Lunch is silent now. Not literally. His friends still talk. Still joke. Still try. But it’s not the same. Because there’s an empty space at the table. Not physically. Emotionally. Mike doesn’t fill it. He just sits there, picking at his food. Listening without hearing.

Every now and then, he catches a glimpse of you across the cafeteria. Sitting somewhere else. With him. Jason leans in when you talk. You smile. Laugh. And it looks painfully normal. Like nothing’s missing. Like you didn’t just lose him. Mike looks away every time. Too slow. Too late.

The games are the worst. Because that’s where everything used to feel close. Connected. Now it’s just distance. He still plays. Still marches. Still hits every beat. But it’s mechanical now. Empty.

His eyes still find you. They always will. That hasn’t changed. Probably never will. You’re out there. Cheering. Bright. Beautiful. Like nothing touched you. Like nothing broke. And when the game ends, he doesn’t wait. He doesn’t watch. But he knows. He knows you run to him. To Jason.

That your arms wrap around his neck. That you smile like that. That same smile. It was never his. Not really. But God, he misses pretending it was.

One afternoon, he almost messes up, badly. He turns a corner too fast. And there you are. Right there. Closer than you’ve been all week. You both stop at the same time. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Your eyes meet his. And there it is. Not unbothered. Not fine. Your eyes are a little red. Your expression softer. Careful. Like you don’t know what you’re allowed to say anymore. “…Hi,” you say.

Mike’s throat goes dry. Because this is exactly what he was avoiding. He swallows. Forces himself to nod. “Hey.” It sounds wrong.

Everything about this feels wrong. You shift your weight slightly. Like you want to step closer. But don’t. “Are you… okay?” you ask. You shouldn’t be asking that. Not after what he did.

“I’m- I’m fine,” he says quickly. Too quickly.

You nod. But you don’t believe him. There’s a pause. Long enough that it starts to hurt. “Mike, seriously, what-” you start.

And Mike panics. Because if you say anything more, if you push even a little, he’s done. “I gotta go,” he blurts out. Your words stop. Your expression falls, just a little. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t give himself time to change his mind.

Shoulder brushing yours for half a second, and it’s like electricity. Gone just as quickly.

The AV room is supposed to be empty. That’s why Mike goes there. Always has. It’s quiet. Dark if he wants it to be. Tucked away enough that no one just wanders in. It’s safe. Or it was.

He’s sitting at the table, elbows braced, staring at nothing in particular when the door slams open, and then shut. Hard. Mike startles, head snapping up, and there you are. Breathing a little heavier than normal, eyes sharp, something boiling just under the surface. Oh. Oh no.

“-You don’t get to just- just decide this!”

The words hit him before he can even process what’s happening. He blinks. “…What?”

“Don’t,” you snap immediately, stepping further into the room. “Don’t- act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Mike’s mouth opens. Closes. Because he does know. Of course he knows. “I just-” he tries.

“No, you don’t get to ‘just’ anything,” you cut in, pacing now, hands moving as you talk. “You don’t get to drop me like that and then just- what- avoid me? Like I did something wrong?”

“You didn’t-”

“Then what is it, Mike?” Your voice cracks, not weak, not small; but sharp, frustrated, angry. It echoes in the room. And he- he just sits there. Mouth slightly open. Like he’s about to say something. Like he wants to. But nothing comes out. Because there’s too much. Too many years. Too many almosts. Too many things he never said.

“You won’t even look at me,” you continue, your voice shaking now despite how hard you’re trying to keep it steady. “You changed your seat, you won’t talk to me, you- what- pretend I don’t exist now?”

“I’m not-”

“You are!”

He flinches. Actually flinches. And still he can’t get the words out. Because how is he supposed to explain this without breaking everything even more than he already has?

“How am I supposed to just- be okay with that?” you demand. “You don’t even- you won’t even tell me why!”

Silence. Heavy. Thick. Mike’s chest feels tight. Too tight. He swallows, gaze dropping to the floor. Because he can’t look at you. Not when you’re like this. Not when he did this. “I’m doing it because- because it’s better,” he says finally. Quiet. Flat. “It’s better this way.” The second the words leave his mouth, he knows. Wrong answer.

Your expression shifts immediately. The anger doesn’t disappear. But it cracks. Something sadder slipping through underneath. “Don’t,” you say, softer now. “Don’t do that.”

Mike’s jaw tightens. “I’m not-”

“If you want to lie to me, fine.” you cut in. “Lie.” That hits. Harder than anything else you’ve said. “But don’t lie to yourself.”

He looks up at that. Finally. And for a second, he almost breaks right there. “I’m not,” he says. But it’s weak. You both hear it.

You shake your head, a quiet, disbelieving huff leaving you. “That’s… that’s what hurts the most, you know?” Mike’s chest tightens. Your voice isn’t angry anymore. Not really.

“I used to not even have to ask,” you continue, blinking quickly. “You’d just tell me things. Everything. I didn’t have to guess or- pull it out of you or-” Your voice wavers. “I just miss you.”

That almost ruins him. “I’m right here,” he says, too quickly.

“No, you’re not,” you shoot back immediately. “You’re not. Not anymore.” Silence again. And this time it hurts more.

You step closer. And then you shove him. Not hard. Not enough to actually move him. Just enough. “I hate you, Mike.” It’s weak. Shaky. Not real. He knows it. You know it. Still, it lands.

You shove him again, eyes welling a little more. “I hate you.” Again. And again. Each one softer. Less force behind it. More emotion instead. “I hate you-” Your voice breaks. And that’s it. That’s the breaking point. Because he can’t just stand there and take it.

Not when you’re crying. Not when you’re hurting. Not because of him. His hands move before he can think. He catches your wrists mid-shove. Gentle. Careful. But firm enough to stop you. “Hey- hey-” his voice is rough now. “Stop-”

You struggle for half a second. Not really trying to get away. Just needing to do something. “Don’t-”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts. It spills out of him. Real. Desperate. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-“ He pulls you forward. Into him. One arm wraps around your back. The other comes up, hand cradling the back of your head, pressing you gently into his chest. Like he’s been wanting to do for years.

You go still. For a second. Then you fold. Your arms come up around his torso, gripping the fabric of his shirt like you need something to hold onto.

And Mike holds you. Tighter than he should. Closer than he’s allowed. “I’m sorry,” he keeps saying, voice low, almost breaking now. “I didn’t mean- I didn’t want to-”

You don’t say ‘I hate you’ again. You just stay. Breathing uneven. Holding onto him. His shirt a little damp from the few tears you’d shed. Like you don’t want to let go either.

After a moment, you pull back slightly. Not far. Just enough to look at him. Mike tenses immediately. Like he thinks you’re about to leave. Like he thinks this is where it ends again.

“I just-” he starts, words tripping over each other now. “I’ve always- I mean, I just-” God. He’s doing it. Rambling. Because if he doesn’t say it now, he never will.

“I’ve always loved you, okay?” it spills out. “Like- not just- not just as a friend, I mean, I- since forever, and I know that’s stupid and I know it’s too late now because you’re with Jason and he’s- he’s good and I’m not and I just-”

Your lips press against his. It’s quick. Sudden. Almost like you’re shutting him up. Mike freezes. For a split second. Brain catching up. Heart slamming against his ribs. And when you pull back, he just stares at you. Like he doesn’t trust what just happened. Like he’s waiting for it to be taken back.

You don’t. You just look at him. And that’s all it takes. Because this time, he doesn’t overthink it. Or maybe he does. But he doesn’t let it stop him. His hand comes up, cupping your cheek. And then he leans in. Kisses you. For real.

It’s not soft. Not hesitant. Not careful. It’s everything. All at once. Years of wanting. Weeks of losing you. Days of pretending he could let you go. All of it crashes together in that moment.

His other hand tightens slightly at your back, pulling you closer without even realizing it. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. You kiss him back just as hard. Just as sure. And that’s what makes it feel real.

Not one-sided. Not imagined. Not something he made up in his head a thousand times before. This is you. Choosing him.

The kiss deepens, not in a rushed or reckless way, but in a certain one. Serious. Intentional. Like something being decided without words. Mike exhales softly against your lips, like he’s been holding his breath for years. And maybe he has.

The backs of your thighs hit the table, he quickly hooks his hands under them and sits you on the edge. The surprised moan that escapes your lips only encourages him. One hand at your waist, pulling you closer, the other bracing on your thigh. Gripping.

“M’fuck I love you,” he murmurs against your lips. The hand at your waist sliding to your lower back, unapologetically shoving your pelvis to his.

“I need you, Mike- love you-“ you whine, hips blatantly rolling into his. His jeans already tight, dick already painfully hard for you, all for you.

“Yeah? Fuck that’s- I’ll give it to you, anything you- anything you want,” he stutters at every buck of your hips. Was this even real? It felt way too fucking good to be true, and it just kept getting better.

His lips find your neck, perfectly aggressive, quickly finding that sweet spot. Your hands come up to cradle his neck, nails lightly scraping the hair at the nape of his neck. And fuck- your moans and whimpers so close to his ear now, he could cum in his jeans right now.

As he works purple and red marks into your skin, your fingers fumble with his belt, the clink of it echoing. The sound of his zipper undoing felt erotic, the room already felt hot, air thick with heat.

And the his lips trailed lower, and lower, and lower. He paused after leaving a kiss right above where you needed him, big pleading eyes heavily dilated, “Please- I need this- need to taste you,”

His hands eager to push up your cheer skirt when you nodded reassurance, but not rushed. His slender fingers guiding your panties down your legs, the sight of the string of arousal that connected you to them making him lightheaded. He was just glad you didn’t grimace when he tucked them into his back pocket.

He left tender, open mouthed kisses along the insides of your thighs, then pulled back enough to meet your eyes. “Fuck- so pretty, so perfect.”

He was enough of a man to not tease you any longer, his nose nudging your clit before his tongue pushed gently, the vibration of the hum he let out against you only making it better. And then his finger prodded at your entrance, slipping in with ease, like you were inviting him in.

And then another, curling right against that spot. His other hand pulling your hips tight against his face. You could swear he was torturing you when he pulled out just before you were about to-

“Sorry- sorry, I just- I need to feel you, really feel you, please.” Oh. You’d almost forgotten how bad you wanted to feel him too after getting caught up in the high of how good his mouth and fingers were already doing.

“Mike- fuck- yes, need you inside,” you whine. Unknowingly sending more blood rushing straight to his dick. Palming him through his boxers for a second, his head falling to your shoulder with a groan. And then both jeans and boxers were being shrugged down to his ankles, he pulled back.

For some reason this was the moment you both flushed, you’d already done so much in the span of a few minutes but this- this was bigger. He was bigger. Longer. The tip red and eager, already dribbling precum, twitching noticeably when your fingers wrapped around the base.

His eyes flutter closed, lips ghosting yours, “Your sure?” And he’s answered by the feeling of you lining him up to your hole. Hand gripping tight on your thigh as he pushed in, slow, gentle. Already panting as he bottomed out, pressing a lazy kiss to your lips.

“I’m not- fuck- I’m not gonna last long- m’sorry,”

“S’okay Mike, just- move like-“ your hips roll to guide him. Objects on the table clattering with every thrust, his pace quickened the closer he got.

“W-wait, Mike-“

He pauses immediately, “Shit- did I- did I hurt you?”

You shake your head no, “Just- go slower- promise it’ll feel, so much better,” And he does, this time he manages to get deeper, more focused. And fuck- this was better, and that was the problem, because now that coil in his lower back was growing dangerously tight.

“M’gonna- where do I-“ and then your legs wrap around his hips, pulling him close as your walks flutter around him. Your own release prompting his, hot, thick ropes of cum pumping deep into your velvety walls.

You both made sweet sounds that neither of the other had heard before, that candidness was the real intimacy. And as you both catch your breaths and come back down, your lips catch his with a gentle kiss, “I love you,”

His heart stutters, “I’ll love you forever,” he says, hands a little tighter at your waist. Maybe you weren’t so parallel after all.