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You'd been a romantic your entire life. Growing up watching rom-com after rom-com, reading novel after novel, repeating love song after love song...you get the idea. So naturally, you also loved Valentine's Day. I mean, a literal holiday dedicated to the concept of love? What could be more perfect for you?

Little you spent every year helping your mom decorate for it, daydreaming about the time when you'd finally be old enough to have a real Valentine, hopefully someone to actually love and hold in your arms. At school, everyone gave everyone little paper hearts they'd made in art class. It was nice, but it didn't feel the same as having one particular person in your life to be all romantic with.

So when you finally arrived at eighth grade, old enough to see couples holding hands in the hall, you were certain you were going to finally live out your lifelong dream. You'd even spent months basically courting this one kid in your English class, trying your best to flirt and drop hints whenever you could. Surely, if you gave him enough attention, he would reciprocate, right?

Wrong. God, was that naïve.

That day in February 1985, you received nothing. Nothing in your locker, nothing at your desk, nothing at lunch and nothing all day. You got increasingly desperate, rummaging through everything and anything that might’ve contained whatever kind of Valentine Justin Gruber could’ve left you. Still, nothing.

The worst part? You definitely left something for him. Not just a little slip of paper, not a couple of flowers or a baggie of candy, but an entire box of love and devotion that you’d spent the better part of two weeks putting together. And it would not be inconspicuous. No, it was big, lacy, and vibrantly pink, and you’d left it sitting dead center on his desk. 

Needless to say, you barely survived the coming week. Relentless teasing and jokes followed you wherever you went, poorly hidden whispers behind hands in the halls as you passed, marker ink on your locker that spelled awful names. You were a spectacle, a running joke, an example of what happened when you foolishly poured your heart out to anyone in the endlessly cruel world of middle school.

You considered transferring schools, leaving behind the part of you that loved to daydream and adopting an entirely new, heartless personality. But as things always do, it smoothed over. Seasons changed, you graduated eighth grade, and by next year, your tail was out of your legs. You mostly forgot the sting of embarrassment that followed you around like a shadow, and you went right back to being your usual lovey-dovey self. 

And this time, the object of your affections was Jeffery Davis, from your Biology class. He wasn’t popular, wasn’t particularly a stud, but he was funny enough to make you laugh when you were assigned as lab partners for Freshman year. So the following Valentine’s Day, you prepared a smaller, more discreet box of romance for him. You thought if you just toned it down a little, it wouldn’t scare him off, and you could finally have a successful Valentine. Again, you were dead wrong.

This time hurt possibly worse than the last, because you’d slipped a note into Jeffery’s locker, telling him to meet you in the courtyard after school. It would be low-key, discreet, nothing to worry about. That was what you kept reminding yourself of as you waited at 3:06. And then you had to start reassuring yourself at 3:44, when there was still no sign of him. ‘He’s probably busy,’ you told yourself at 4:32, your legs getting tired from all the pacing. At 5:53, you sat miserably on the bench by the wall, chin in your hands as you kicked rocks. You didn’t even know why, but you stayed until 6:28, long after the sun had set and it started to get chilly. You biked home with a deep scowl on your face that night, furiously blinking away tears. You refused to cry this time. You were stronger than that.

But eventually, the dam fractured. It cracked when you opened the front door to meet your mother, arms folded and a stern expression on her face until she saw the look on yours. It swelled when she stepped forward, asking you what happened and where you’d been. And when you shook your head, the pain in your throat stopping you from speaking, it burst. Your eyes spilled over and your face screwed up into an unattractive sob as your mother held you like a small child. 

After that, the rumors weren’t so cruel. It seemed Jeffery was kinder than Justin in the sense that he didn’t say much to anyone about it, but you still had to peel a sticky note off your locker that was calling you a very unflattering name. Not only that, but Biology class quickly became even worse than gym, with awkward silence filling every quiet moment.

Still, though, life went on. And before you knew it, you were right back where you started, crushing on Dennis Riley, the hottest brunette in Junior year. He was a year older than you, athletic, and the perfect mix of, well, everything. You had learned by now that going all out was begging for ridicule, so all you did this year was write a letter. Just a simple letter, blue ballpoint ink on regular old notebook paper since you were too scared to even use real stationary at this point. The only thing was that it was four pages long, front and back, and you still couldn’t help but doodle little hearts in the margins. 

It took everything in you to slip it into his locker, and several deep breaths afterward to get your heart to beat at a normal pace. You told yourself it would finally be different this time, that Dennis would be the one to actually reciprocate. They say the third time’s the charm, but unfortunately, it seemed that fate had a personal vendetta against you. As soon as Dennis opened the letter, he skimmed through it with an amused expression, showed it to his friend, and had a good laugh before promptly crumpling it up and tossing it into a nearby trash can. You made the mistake of lurking around the corner to watch his reaction, and felt your soul collapse in sync with your poor love letter.

More tears, more embarrassment, and this time, you swore off Valentine’s Day completely. Three failed attempts was more than enough, and you just couldn’t put your heart through any more. So as Junior year rolled around, you buried yourself in college prep, SATs, extracurriculars, and every other thing you could do to keep your mind off love. 

It worked well—late night study sessions, constant activities, and regular club meetings left you too tired to even think about who might be looking your way and whether they were cute. It was almost to your detriment, because Junior year was the year that Mike Wheeler started to notice a particular girl that he so happened to share every class with. 

He sat directly behind you, so it was impossible for him not to stare at the back of your head, wondering what the hell was going on in there, wondering whether any of the thoughts running through it could possibly be dedicated to him. Because the reverse was definitely happening. 

Mike didn’t even know how or when it started. All he knew was that at one point, he had no knowledge of your existence, and then one day, he found himself writing your name in the margins of his notebook.

He had spoken to you all of three times during this school year. Once on the first day of school, when you asked him where the seat assignment chart was. The second time was in October, when you turned around in your seat to hand him a pen after he complained about losing his pencil. He spent the entire day debating himself, going back and forth between returning it and getting to talking to speak to you again, or keeping it as proof that you had actually acknowledged the fact that he was in this realm. He settled for the former, and that was the third time he got to hear your voice addressing him.

Since when did Mike get so desperate? Seriously, he was acting like you were some sort of deity, scrambling at any scrap of your attention you were willing to throw him. And the worst part was that you weren’t even aware of the effect you had on him. Dustin, Will, Max and Lucas chastised him almost every day, telling him to either talk to you or get over it.

But how could he do either? You felt untouchable, always off in your own world or engrossed in something. It was infuriating and endearing at the same time, but eventually, infuriating won out. In the middle of December, you and Mike were assigned together on a paired project for English, and he saw this as the perfect opportunity, if only he could work up the courage to take it. You didn’t talk to him much at first, and when you did, it was only about the project. He tried to change subjects every now and then, steer the conversation toward personal life in an attempt to get to know more about you. But every time, you gave him the shortest, vaguest answers possible, like you were actively avoiding anything like this. Infuriating.

Mike was going to stop trying, he really was. He was going to resign himself to the acceptance of unrequited limerence, maybe write a story or a song about you to try to soothe the longing ache in his chest. But the party had lit a fire under his ass about you, and he knew he was in for a session of verbal abuse if he ever quit trying.

So he kept at it. Every day at school, he talked a little more to you. Even if you responded blandly, he could see the twinkle in your eyes that you tried to hide. He didn’t understand it, but he wanted to. God, he really wanted to. But carts and horses, right?

As Winter Break rolled around, your English teacher advised you to keep working on your projects with your partners, because they would be due the week after break ended. It was annoying, but it provided Mike with the excuse to bike over to your house every day. You felt bad that he was always coming over to your house (and embarrassed because of the knowing looks your mom kept throwing you), but Mike always insisted that your place was more interesting. You doubted it—the Wheelers were better off than your family was—but you didn’t argue.

It was hard to argue with Mike, especially since he possessed the biggest brown puppy dog eyes to ever grace the earth, paired with the fullest, most delicious looking lips you had ever seen on a boy. It was these dangerous feelings that made you shut your mouth tightly around him, scared of accidentally saying something too romantic and landing yourself back in public scrutiny. He was nice, sure, but you had to convince yourself that it was just that—that he was just being nice—so that you didn’t end up with another Valentine’s Day that ended in tears.

Unfortunately for you, though, that resolve didn’t last very long. You were strong for a week and a half, forcing yourself to be boring and dry. But Mike was so damn persistent, so it really wasn’t your fault when you finally cracked, slowly letting conversations drift into easy banter. That was exactly what Mike had been hoping for, and it did not disappoint.

When you allowed yourself to be yourself, you discovered that you and Mike had a lot in common. You both were heavily invested in Star Wars, both loved D&D (he was very surprised), and both liked the Pixies. Along with other things, you agreed that peanut butter should be spread on first, then jam on the other slice of bread, that pineapple on pizza was not an abomination, and that jazzercise was the stupidest thing ever invented.

And every day that you showed a little more of yourself to Mike, you felt a little more comfortable. And Mike? He kept falling harder and harder for you, to the point where one night he caught himself writing his first name and your last name together with the prefix ‘Mr.’…look, it wasn’t his fault if your last name had a better ring to it than ‘Wheeler’!

But aside from that, you could feel the spark. Even if you were too scared to admit it to yourself, you knew that whether you liked it or not, Michael Wheeler had worked his way into your heart. 

Despite spending too much time talking instead of working, you and Mike received a very good grade on your project. And all too soon, January ended and February came rearing its ugly head. This time, you flat out refused to do anything. Your mom knew better than to start decorating for Valentine’s Day, and you knew better than to get ahead of yourself and try to make anything for Mike. 

Just because you had become friends didn’t prove that he liked you that way, and you swore to God that if you had to face another rejection, especially one from Mike, you would simply crawl into a hole and die. So you kept your head down and pretended you didn’t notice all the red and pink streamers being hung up the week of Valentine’s. 

You were so focused on ignoring Valentine’s Day, in fact, that you became blind to the painfully obvious hints Mike was trying to drop to you at school. He started walking with you to classes, closer than necessary, making awful attempts at being subtle. One day, on the way to Algebra II, he brought up the subject of the holiday.

“I know it’s cliché, but I kind of actually like Valentine’s.” Mike shrugged, looking at you from the corner of his eye. “What do you think?”

“I hate it,” you answered, adjusting your backpack strap, “I always get disappointed.”

“What? Oh, me too,” he fumbled, cringing at how quickly he was switching up.

“You hate Valentine’s?” You raised a skeptical eyebrow at him, and he felt heat blooming across the back of his neck.

“Well—I mean—no, I get disappointed. That’s—that’s what I mean.” He wasn’t sure if that was a smooth save or not (it wasn’t), but it was technically true. No one at school had ever really liked him that way, at least not enough to make it known.

“Oh,” you said, “yeah. I used to like it, I guess, but then I just kept…” You sighed, shaking your head. “Nevermind.”

Mike tilted his head, but didn’t press. He wasn’t the best with social cues, but even he could tell it was a touchy subject. He still couldn’t ignore the itch to understand why you had so much distaste for it, though.

“Oh, by the way,” you remembered, and Mike was immediately grateful for the change of subject. “Mrs. Hanson said…”

The fourteenth of February came much sooner than you hoped, and you considered faking sickness and staying home altogether. You slammed the button on your alarm clock as soon as it started beeping, before promptly groaning and pulling the covers over your face.

“Fuck Valentine’s so hard…” you muttered darkly, a deep grimace forming on your lips. You stayed exactly like that for a solid five minutes, willing time to pass you by, until your mom’s voice called up the stairs.

“Honey, time to get up! I don’t care if it’s Valentine’s Day, you’re not missing school!”

It was times like this that you hated that she could read your mind.

You let out the heaviest, most dramatic sigh you could possibly muster, dragging yourself out of bed like your limbs were made of lead. With the most unenthusiastic look plastered onto your face, you got ready for the day and tried your best to disassociate from everything.

Pulling up to school was the worst mistake you’d made in the past half year, because it looked like the entire school had exploded overnight. Pink and red everywhere, over everything, banners spreading across every surface and confetti nestled into every nook and cranny. You were honestly confused; they never went this over the top before—or maybe you were so focused on boys that you just didn’t notice. 

It was like Hawkins high went all out and didn’t even try at the same time, with every kind of decoration you could think of strewn in the halls, classrooms, and even the bathrooms. It made school hell to navigate, and just getting to your locker took twice as long as normal. If this is what Home Ec was working on since the start of the second semester, you felt terrible for them.

You were so overwhelmed by the sheer amount of vibrancy that you didn’t notice the little envelope sitting at the top of your locker, tucked carefully so that it wouldn’t fall and be lost among the sea of tissue paper.

So you went to homeroom and sat down, missing the expectant look on Mike’s face. You tuned out everything until the end of the period, when the bell rang and you sat up, slinging your backpack over your shoulder.

“So, uh,” Mike’s voice snapped you out of autopilot. “Anything interesting happen today?”

You scoffed and shook your head, remarking dryly, “Other than the school looking like the Ghost of V-Day puked all over it?”

Mike gave a weak laugh, “Well—yeah,” he scratched the back of his neck. “Other than that.”

You tilted your head curiously, dropping the sarcasm. “Uh, no, not really. Why?”

You had no idea why, but he looked disappointed. Sad, even. But then he quickly went back to looking normal, and you told yourself you’d imagined it. “Nothing—nothing,” he told you, “just…curious.”

You nodded. “Well, keep me updated if anything happens on your end.”

“I will,” Mike said, hoping that there wasn’t too much longing seeping into his voice.

Mike knew that you weren’t going to give him anything. It was a fact, plain and simple. He knew you hated Valentine’s, he knew why now (from asking around), and he was exactly 65% certain you didn’t feel the same. But even though the odds were not in his favor, he had to try. He couldn’t waste the better part of a school year of effort just to wimp out at the last minute, and if there was anything you deserved, other than the world, it was a real Valentine if you wanted it.

So he walked alongside you to Physics, talking about whatever you wanted to and not being surprised when it was anything but today’s date. Honestly, if he’d gone through the amount of suffering that you had, he’d probably cross out the date from every calendar he could get his hands on.

Second and third period blurred together, and fourth period was barely any different. When lunch finally rolled around, and you had still failed to see the love note in your locker, Mike began to worry. Had he tucked it too far in? Did you really not see it, or were you deliberately ignoring it? Worse still, did you read it and hate it so much you refused to acknowledge it?

You were oblivious to Mike’s inner turmoil as you sat at your table, stabbing violently at mushy peas with a flimsy plastic fork. He’d slid into the chair across from you ten minutes prior, forgoing his usual time with the party to be with you (not that they minded—he kept having to wave off the thumbs ups and knowing looks they were shooting him).

It wasn’t until Mike cleared his throat—a little louder than he meant to—that you actually looked up. “Sorry, did you say something?” You asked, a little guiltily.

“Oh, no,” he assured you, “I just—I was just wondering if you got anything. Like—chocolates or something?”

“What?”

“Well—it’s fine if you didn’t, I was just, like, wondering?” He swallowed, resisting the urge to bang his head against the table.

“Uh…no.” You replied, feeling a little depressed now. “I wasn’t really expecting anything, though.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He felt awkward now. Fuck, why was this so hard? Why were you so clueless?

“No, it’s fine.” You gave him a smile. “I don’t really care anymore.” It was a lie, you both knew it.

“Well…the day’s not done yet. You never know what could happen.”

Your lips curved into a real smile this time, and Mike swore on his life he would do anything to make you smile like that again.

“Thanks, Mike.”

“No problem.”

Mike’s words stuck with you, providing you comfort throughout the rest of your classes. But when you opened your locker to get your books for eighth period, you finally saw it. A light blue corner of paper poking out from the top shelf, something you had definitely not put there. With a crease forming between your eyebrows, you reached up and grabbed it, a suspicion forming in your mind. 

It wasn’t anything huge, just a periwinkle envelope with a little heart drawn on the front in oddly familiar blue ballpoint pen ink. Slowly, as if disarming a bomb, you slid your thumb under the fold and carefully opened it. Your heartrate ticked faster as you pulled out the letter, unfolding it like it might fall apart at any moment. You took a deep breath before you read it.

‘Y/N,

I know this might come as a surprise. I know you probably don’t feel the same way. But I have to say this before I miss this opportunity. The truth is, I really, really like you. Like, so much that it’s embarrassing. And I hate that you’ve never had a good Valentine’s Day, because you deserve it. You deserve it more than anyone else I know.

I don’t really know how to say this in real life, and you probably already know that I’m super awkward. Honestly, if it weren’t for my friends I don’t think I could have worked up the courage to talk to you on my own…anyways. What I’m trying to say is that I want to be yours, and I want you to be mine. And if you’re okay with it, I’d like to take you out sometime. You deserve not just a Valentine, but also a really awesome boyfriend. And I might not fill all the requirements, but I will definitely try my best if you want me to.

Love, (should I sign it like this? Is that weird? Nevermind.)

-Mike’

Your jaw incrementally kept dropping as you read, until your mouth was agape and your eyes as wide as saucers when you finished. Your poor heart—it was beating out of your chest like a rabid animal, your mind racing and short-circutting in a loop. 

What?

What?

WHAT?

…

No wonder he was acting weird.

You folded up the letter, put it back in the envelope, and then clutched it to your chest like it was a winning lottery ticket. Because to you, it might as well have been. Not only did you finally (finally) receive a real, authentic Valentine, but it was from someone you actually liked.

Also—Mike Wheeler liked you. What the fuck?!

You couldn’t believe it. You were so, so, unbelievably happy. You were literally about to jump around and dance, or giggle at some impossible frequency, or do something cliché that teenage girls do when they find out that there’s a teenage boy that likes them. But then the late bell rang, and you nearly leaped out of your skin, snatching your books and scurrying off to class.

Usually, you didn’t think much about sharing all your classes with Mike. You were happy to have a friend, sure, but you were so focused on keeping yourself in line that you didn’t realize just how much about him you were missing. But oh boy, you sure did now.

It didn’t even seem like you understood a single word your teacher had said in this class. You were too busy staring intensely at Mike—almost frighteningly zeroed in on him. The way his fingers tapped against the side of his desk, the way his legs were just a little too long to be cramped up in the little school chair, pulling him into a somewhat awkward position. The twitch in his nose whenever the teacher looked at him, like he was preparing for a possible confrontation; the way he occasionally blinked twice as if pulling himself out of a daydream.

It was so funny, so stupid, how you’d never noticed any of these things, all year, until the moment you realized that Mike Wheeler had noticed you. And suddenly, it seemed like a clever twist of fate that eighth period was the only class that he sat in the seat to the right and in front of you.

Forty-five minutes felt like four hours, and at one point you got restless from staring at Mike so much. He himself felt like he was under a microscope, your eyes burning holes into the side of his head and making his heart race way too fast. He couldn’t focus on anything, anxiety clawing its way up his chest. He was 83% sure it was the wrong move to slip that note into your locker, but now he was completely certain. You hated him, he thought, his pencil hovering over his empty notebook page. You took one look at the letter and were so disgusted by him that he would never be able to speak or even look at you again. He was so ashamed, so embarrassed, that he didn’t even consider the possibility that you might not have been glaring at him. 

But at long last, the final bell rang and the teacher dismissed you. You got up, gathered your things (you hadn’t taken much out to begin with), and just…stood there. Staring at Mike. Even after everyone else had left the room. He didn’t even look at you, too mortified to meet your gaze, but he did linger. When you still didn’t say anything, he assumed that you probably despised him forever and he should leave. He made it to the door, thinking that maybe he had escaped you, but then he heard it:

“…Mike?”

It was so small, so quiet, that he might’ve missed it if it wasn’t just the two of you. He turned slowly, the sound of his joints moving way too loud in his ears. His throat bobbed, and he hesitantly lifted his eyes to meet yours, expecting anger, expecting hatred, disgust, maybe even hurt.

But not wide doe eyes, gazing at him as if he had just hung the moon and stars.

And that stole the breath from his lungs far more than anything would’ve.

“Yes…?” His voice came out hoarse.

“I—” you paused, fingers twitching against the strap of your bag. “I got your letter.”

He nodded slowly, like if he made any sudden movements you would disappear into thin air. You exhaled.

“You…you aren’t just saying those things, right?” It sounded so dumb coming from your lips, like it all could’ve been revealed as a cruel prank at any moment. But the letter was sitting like a boulder in your backpack, and you couldn’t not address it.

Mike shook his head quickly. “No,” his voice cracked and he cleared his throat, adding more firmly, “no. I—I mean it. A-and I get it if you don’t like me like that, or if you don’t like me at all now, but I just—I had to say it, I had to. Because you’ve, like, never had a good Valentine’s Day and I couldn’t stand by and let this one be bad too, and especially since I already…really like you, but I understand if it was too far, if you want I can just leave you alone from now on, or something, I don’t know—”

“Mike.”

“—But I had to say something, ‘cause it felt like I was gonna drown if I didn’t. Because I like you, okay? I’ve been liking you since, I don’t know, September? And that sounds so weird and creepy—”

“Mike.”

“—And I know I’m not really good at explaining this stuff. But sometimes it’s not really my fault, okay? ‘Cause when you look at me sometimes it feels like…yes?”

It seemed his brain finally caught up with his mouth, and he realized that you were trying to talk just as he was about to say something mushy. But too late, you looked interested in what he was going to say.

“Wait, what?”

“What?”

You gave an amused huff. “What did you just say?”

“I—” he panics, “a lot of things. I say a lot of things,”

Your lips spread into a disbelieving smile, and he can’t help but offer a shaky one in return.

“No, Mike,” you roll your eyes, “what was the last thing you were going to say? About when I look at you?”

Oh. There was no getting out of this.

He sighs, dropping his gaze. He mutters something like ‘knees and whatever’, and you squint, laughter bubbling its way up your throat. “What? You’re gonna have to speak up.”

The tips of Mike’s ears tinge red, and he scoffs. “When you…look at me,” he looks like you’re forcing him to admit to a federal crime. “I…my knees, they go…weak.”

Wow, okay. That was a very nice feeling that was blooming through your chest. You stepped forward, making Mike’s eyes flit nervously up to you again. But this time, you were smiling at him.

“Mine too.” You said it quietly, your voice only meant for him. And whatever wire that was connecting the neurons in his brain short circuited momentarily, leaving him speechless. 

A strange, small sound came from the back of his throat, and he swallowed it down, cheeks fading pink. Yours followed, and you gave a little chuckle at the sheer teenage-ness of it all.

“I guess that’s, uh, a good sign, then?” You tilted your head, folding your hands behind your back.

“Guess so…” He took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. “So…do you…what do you…?” He sighed, and you waited. “I mean…what do you think? Of, like, the letter?”

He cringed at his own words, feeling it deep in his soul. But luckily, your lips just widened into a grin.

“I think this is the best Valentine’s Day ever.”

“Yeah?” He said hopefully.

“Definitely.” You took a step closer, your heart beating hard. “And…yes. I, um, want to be your girlfriend.” 

It felt like the most juvenile, immature thing ever, but what were you supposed to say when you were this giddy, this overjoyed? It looked like Mike literally melted, his entire face relaxing into a soft smile. His eyebrows, those overly expressive eyebrows, drew up as his smile morphed into a grin, matching yours.

“Really? No bullshit?” He asked.

“No bullshit,” you confirmed, chuckling. He took a half step towards you, both of your faces softening. Your hands found each other, fingers brushing together before you gently took his in yours, interlacing them.

It was like you were pulled in by gravity, gazing into his deep brown eyes until you felt spellbound by them. And if you were spellbound, then it wasn’t your fault if you moved forward until your chests were separated by a mere three inches, right? And you weren’t guilty if you brought your free hand up to cup Mike’s cheek, correct?

His breath hitched at first—you had never been this close—but he couldn’t help but relax and lean into your touch, his free hand (previously hanging uselessly at his side) hovering over your hip hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure where to touch.

It’s not like you knew what you were doing, but you shifted closer anyway. Both of you leaned in until you could feel the other’s breath ghosting over your faces. You leaned in until you could count the freckles dotting his cheeks, until he could see each of your eyelashes. You leaned in until the tip of his nose bumped yours, and you let out a silent giggle. 

“Can I…?” Mike whispered, eyes flickering down to your lips. You responded by pressing them to his, kissing him for the first time, making him your first kiss. 

But if you had any say in it, it wouldn’t be your last with him.

His lips were warm against yours, just slightly chapped but full and supple. He tasted slightly like cheap Valentine’s candy, the powdery kind that your mom picks up at the value store and leaves in a jar around the house. It took a full three seconds for Mike to kiss you back, but when he did, it was so soft and sweet and emotional that your heart felt like it was going to burst.

You kissed Mike until you were out of breath. Both of you were clumsy and, at times, misaligned, but it was so worth it. Because when you pulled away, panting, his lips followed yours like he would kiss you until he was tempting death if it were up to him. 

“That…” He huffed, out of breath. “You—we, uh—”

You shut him up with another kiss, your fingers sliding from his cheek to his hair, burying themselves in his raven curls. He made a small noise, almost like a yelp, but melted into it, letting his fingers travel over your waist.

It was magical, the way he felt against you, lips moving back and forth in a dance neither of you knew but were determined to learn. And when you two finally pulled away for a substantial amount of time, he asked you:

“Does this mean I can take you out?”

And all you could say was:

“Yes. Obviously.”

A/N: holy wow okay so i actually think this kind of sucks, but i promised i would post something for valentine's day so i will deliver!! thank you guys so much for reading this, i had fun with it and it was my first time writing a kiss scene 😭 (lmfao you can probably tell) Anyways I'm gonna go drink some water now, thank you again for reading and stay tuned for more!

-DMIS

****

When Will introduced you to his roommate, your first impression of Mike Wheeler was that he was an annoyingly attractive douchebag.

It was your third year at NYU when you first met Will Byers in an Art History class - one required for all visual arts majors, whether your interests lay in painting like Will or photography like yourself.

You’d spent your first two years of university in a sort of quiet, perpetual state of loneliness that had drained you of all the bright-eyed enthusiasm you’d had before setting foot on campus. You hadn’t exactly been popular in high school, but you did have a few close friends that you’d hung out with from time to time. Yet, no matter how hard you tried, it seemed impossible to befriend anyone at NYU. Occasionally, you struck up a conversation with people in your classes, but the words seemed to fizzle out the second the lecture ended. No one ever invited you to study with them or grab a quick coffee after a test.

Your roommate situation was no better. Despite the close proximity that your freshman dorm provided, you were unable to connect with your roommate. Your sophomore year had (somehow) been worse, even in an apartment. So, when your lease ended, you were immensely grateful to move into the first cheap studio apartment you could find. Yeah, the walls were paper-thin, and your neighbors frequently played music at full volume, but you would’ve lived in a cardboard box if it meant having your own space.

By the time the fall term started, you’d gotten used to being alone all summer. Alternating between a job stocking books at the local library and watching shitty rom-coms while eating shitty meals, you rarely had to speak to anyone.

So, when Will Byers sat next to you on the first day of class - before the professor had even arrived - and struck up a conversation, you thought he’d mistaken you for someone else.

He’d settled down next to you without hesitation, carefully placing a worn sketchbook and a brand new notebook on the narrow desk in front of him. You’d watched his every move apprehensively, waiting for him to glance over and realize you weren’t who he thought. The lecture hall was only half full, students still trickling in and carrying on quiet conversations.

“Nice camera,” he’d said gently, nodding toward the camera that was visible inside your bag. There was a raspiness to his voice, as if he hadn’t spoken a word before this 8 AM class. “Film, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” you’d stammered, running a finger along the fabric strap you usually had slung around your neck.

“My brother used to have one. Not the same but, um, similar.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “He said it was better than digital.”

“Yes, I agree!” you exclaimed, louder than you meant. You winced. “I like not knowing how the pictures are going to turn out right away. Makes me less of a perfectionist.”

Immediately, you’d regretted talking so much. You weren’t even sure if he wanted to carry on a conversation or if he was just being polite. But he’d laughed then, smiling in a way that made you feel like you’d known this boy forever, and you relaxed.

“I’m Will, by the way,” he’d introduced.

You told him your name, potential for friendship already blossoming in your mind.

After that day, you and Will did a lot together. You studied for exams - even if you weren’t studying for the same class - you compared pictures and paintings before submitting them for critiques, and you frequently got coffee on campus after a long day. Will was easy to talk to, more so than anyone you’d ever met, and you genuinely liked spending time with him. He gave great music recommendations, and in return, you’d recommend books he might like.

Or at least tried to recommend books.

“I’m not much of a reader,” he’d admitted one day in the library, about a month into your friendship. “My roommate, though - his name’s Mike - he’s a creative writing major. I bet the two of you would get along.”

Unfortunately, Will had been wrong. You first met Mike the first time you went over to Will’s apartment, the two of you having planned a movie night after the stress of midterms. While unlocking the door, he’d prefaced your introduction to the elusive Mike with, “He’s a bit quiet, at first, but I really think you guys have a lot in common.”

You’d just nodded, adjusting the tote-bag slung over your shoulder. You were suddenly hyper-aware of every aspect of your appearance. Your clothes, your hair, the makeup that you’d applied twelve hours ago, surely looked terrible at this point.

The door creaked open to reveal an apartment that looked exactly like what you’d expect from two 20-something boys living together. There was a worn couch facing the TV, and every available surface was covered in textbooks, papers, and unopened junk mail. There were empty cups strewn across the coffee table and several pairs of shoes piled up by the door. “I told him to clean this place up,” Will muttered under his breath, kicking a pair of sneakers aside. “Mike?”

A figure appeared from the hallway. With dark, tousled curls and a lanky build, your first glance at Mike Wheeler genuinely took your breath away, something you thought was only possible in movies. He had the dazed look of someone who’d just woken up from a late afternoon nap, cozy in an oversized sweater and sweats. The fabric hung loosely over his figure, soft and worn at the elbows and stretched across his collarbones, revealing a faint sliver of pale skin beneath. When he looked at you from underneath long lashes, you were struck by the deep, limitlessness of his brown eyes.

Will’s roommate was fucking beautiful.

“Mike, this is-” Will began.

“The photography major,” Mike interrupted, shuffling forward so that he was standing right in front of you and Will. He was tall - maybe 90% legs - and you hated that his looking down at you made you flustered.

Shit, maybe your period was starting soon, and that’s why you were ready to jump Mike Wheeler’s bones.

“Nice to meet you,” you said kindly, holding out your hand. Clearly, your social skills had atrophied. Who shook hands anymore?

Mike stared down at your extended hand before slowly grasping it with his own. His palm was warm and soft against yours, and his fingers were just as long and lanky as he was, stained with ink in various places. Right, creative writing major. He must write stuff by hand from time to time.

“Will told me you’re a fan of classic literature,” he said, pulling his hand away, but instead of letting it drop back to his side, he reached up and rubbed his face tiredly.

“Oh, yeah,” you confirmed sheepishly. “I tried to give Will some recommendations, but he said you’d be more interested in all the ‘Dostoevsky nonsense.’ His words. . . Not mine.”

“I did not say Dostoevsky nonsense,” Will scoffed.

“Really,” you asked teasingly, “because I seem to remember those exact words coming out of your mouth-”

Mike yawned, interrupting you again, dragging a hand through his hair. “Dostoevsky?” he repeated, brows knitting together.

You paused, feeling a heat rise to your cheeks. You looked helplessly at Will, who seemed just as bewildered by Mike’s reaction as you were. “Yeah, I mean, I like his stuff. Is there something wrong with him?” You wondered if there was some innate understanding about Dostoevsky that all writing and literature majors had, one that you weren’t privy to as a photography major.

Mike shifted his weight, crossing his arms loosely. “I don’t know, I’ve tried, but his prose feels too messy. He thinks he’s a philosopher when really, he’s not. If you want to read someone who actually understands existentialism, you should read Camus.”

“I thought Dostoevsky came first,” you argued feebly. “I thought. . . that Dostoevsky’s ideas inspired Camus.”

Mike shrugged. “He was, but Camus just executed them better.”

“Mike,” Will hissed through gritted teeth. He looked like he wanted to punch his roommate in the ribs. “You’re being an ass.”

Mike clenched his jaw, looking between you and Will. “Whatever,” he muttered, seemingly offended by Will’s accusation. “I don’t know why I’m arguing with a photography major.”

You recoiled. “Oh, I’m sorry that I don’t have everything about Camus memorized down to his fucking shoe size. I’m just a photography major, after all.”

Mike’s eyes widened a little. “I didn’t mean-”

You pretended to check an invisible watch, feeling petty. “Actually, I forgot I have to be somewhere. Right now. Nice to meet you, Mike.” You turned to Will. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

Turning on your heel, you threw the front door open. Yeah, you and Mike had plenty in common. You hadn’t even made it to the living room before butting heads. Looks like you wouldn’t be spending much time at Will’s apartment, after all.

When you’d reached the sidewalk, the late autumn air nipping your flushed cheeks, you heard Will calling your name. You ignored him, instead continuing your angry path home. There was a feeling of shame and embarrassment coiling in your gut, one that made your hands shake with rage. You rarely spoke to new people, yes, but you’d never had someone be so outright mocking as Mike Wheeler.

Will called your name again, the sound of his Converse pounding on the pavement resounding as he ran to catch up with you. Unfortunately, his long legs made it easy for him to cut you off.

“Will, please just let me go home,” you pleaded.

“I don’t know why Mike was acting like that,” Will said, slightly winded and completely ignoring your request. “Fuck, you walk fast.”

“Your roommate thinks I’m an idiot,” you said.

“He does not think that,” Will replied immediately.

“He basically said it.”

“He didn’t mean it like that. . . I don’t think. No, no, he didn’t. Mike’s just like that sometimes. He gets into these modes where he thinks he’s having a debate and forgets there’s, like, a person attached. You just got defensive quicker than most people.”

“Oh, so I’m an idiot and too defensive?”

“What? No, I didn’t-”

Will broke off when he saw your smile.

“Tocuhé,” he said. “Listen, I’m sorry. I really thought you guys would get along.”

“It’s fine,” you said. “I mean, it’s not, because it’s not your apology to make, but I think I’m just gonna go home.”

Will studied your face. “Okay. But, this doesn’t mean you’re banned from the apartment or anything. I’ll make him behave.”

“Good luck with that,” you scoffed. Then, you stepped forward and pulled him into a quick hug. He hugged you back without question, and it made your chest ache a little.

The entire walk back to your apartment, you occupied yourself by replaying the conversation with Mike until you were sure you could’ve recited it word for word. It wasn’t fair, really, how he was already infiltrating your thoughts like that. And it especially wasn’t fair that the attraction you felt toward him hadn’t completely gone away.

****

Over the course of the next six months, Mike was unfortunately integrated into your study sessions and coffee runs with Will. Every time Will told stories about their childhood, you expected to suddenly find Mike endearing - figured maybe you’d just gotten off on the wrong foot, maybe he’d been having a bad day, and eventually the two of you would get along. Will seemed to have the impression that the more time you and Mike spent together, the easier the residual detestation from that first meeting would dissolve.

But that never seemed to happen. Your relationship with Mike developed into one of combative bickering and biting insults that sometimes left you genuinely hurt. Each time he mocked an interest of yours, you mocked one of his right back. You insulted each other’s taste in music, fashion sense, and favorite authors. Every late night spent at the apartment ended in you and Mike hurling names at each other before you stormed out or Mike disappeared into his room.

Nothing was off limits. Mike called you boring, you called him stuck-up. He said your vinyl collection was pathetic, and you said his admiration for the Beatles was embarrassing. If you showed up with a bookmarked copy of Jane Eyre, you’d never hear the end of it. And if he so much as took a picture, you made sure to pick apart the lighting and framing until he groaned and deleted it.

It wasn’t even like siblings who got along from time to time. You and Mike never got along. Even if Mike agreed with you, you argued anyway. Sometimes, you even resorted to pranking each other, as childish as that was. You’d substituted the sugar for salt for his coffee more times than you could count, and he’d, admittedly, managed to trick you with fake bugs a mortifying amount.

It was unfortunate, too, all this bickering, because you still found Mike ridiculously pretty when he kept his mouth shut.

As the weather warmed, the three of you started spending more time outside, sitting in the grass and basking in the spring sunlight. One afternoon in April, when the temperature crept into the mid-70s, Mike fell asleep beside you while you and Will debated the logistics of capturing shadows in photographs versus paintings.

Neither of you bothered waking him, so when Mike finally stirred, cheeks and nose flushed pink with sunburn and grass in his curls, you felt a few dormant butterflies begin to flutter in your chest.

By the time the year ended, you hadn’t exactly expanded your social circle beyond Will Byers and Mike Wheeler. Still, you were content with how your life had changed.

It was early June when Will invited you to come home with him to Hawkins, Indiana.

“I don’t want you to be alone this summer,” he explained after you’d initially shot down his invitation. “You can stay with me - I have a sister, Jane, so you can sleep in her room. Or on the couch. Whichever you like. My mom wants to meet you, though. You don’t have to stay all summer, but I wouldn’t be mad if you did.”

“Will, I have to work,” you said. “I can’t afford to pay rent on my apartment if I’m not working, and I can’t afford to keep an apartment that I’m not living in.”

“Then move in with Mike and me!” Will exclaimed. “We want a new place, anyway, so the three of us can find an apartment for when we get back. It will be way cheaper.”

“I don’t know,” you began slowly. “Mike hates me, and I hate him. I think putting us in such close proximity might lead to a homicide.”

“Mike doesn’t hate you,” Will insisted.

You gave Will a pointed stare. “Mike and I have spent the last eight months actively insulting each other to the point of tears.”

Will looked startled. “He’s made you cry?”

“No, no,” you backtracked, even though, yes, Mike’s words had occasionally brought you to tears. Never in front of him, but sometimes, in the privacy of your own apartment. “I mean hyperbolically, but my point still stands.”

Will sighed and stirred his iced coffee with a straw. The two of you were at your usual table at your usual campus coffee shop. “Just think about it, please? Not the apartment thing, but the Hawkins things. Even if you just stay for a few weeks, it would make me really happy.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. “Fine, I’ll think about it.”

What you didn’t tell Will, however, was that you were on board with the idea the second he’d brought it up. As summer encroached, you’d been dreading the idea of being alone again. You (secretly) hadn’t renewed your lease, deciding that you’d figure out your living situation at the end of June when it became necessary. Was it a bad idea? Yeah, probably, considering you would be homeless in two weeks, but if you went to Hawkins. . .

The road trip took an entire day.

The three of you had loaded your bags into the trunk of Mike’s Toyota Camry and set off on the 12-hour drive to Hawkins, Indiana. You’d spent the last week putting your furniture and other belongings into a cheap storage unit that you’d rented for the summer. Although if worst came to worst, maybe you could just live in the storage unit.

Of course, Mike had mocked you for your giant suitcase, backpack, duffel bag, and other, smaller suitcase.

“Jesus, are you planning on moving in?” he’d asked when he and Will pulled up, staring down at your pile of luggage. You frowned at him, shoving your duffel bag into his chest.

“Sorry, I don’t plan on wearing the same three outfits all summer,” you snapped before pointedly adding, “thanks for helping me load all my stuff into the car.” Mike stumbled slightly from the force of your push and rolled his eyes.

Will was in the front seat when you climbed into the car. He looked back at you and grinned. “I literally can’t even begin to describe how happy I am that you’re coming,” he said, handing you a coffee.

“Thank you,” you smiled, taking a long sip. Lugging all your stuff downstairs had not been an easy task. Behind you, Mike cursed loudly as he dropped your suitcase on his foot. “Hey, careful with my stuff, Wheeler!”

“This shit is too heavy. I can barely lift it!”

“Hit the gym then, sweetheart, it was pretty easy for me,” you taunted. Will laughed, fiddling with the radio.

When Mike finally managed to wrestle your stuff into his trunk, he climbed into the front seat, grumbling under his breath about how high-maintenance you were. You chose to ignore it, content with your drink and the snacks Will had begun to hand you. You resolved not to work Mike up for the duration of the drive, especially since he was behind the wheel. You didn’t know if Mike was above crashing the car just to shut you up.

The first hour of the drive was filled with conversation between you and Will.

“So, my mom is probably going to make, like, way too much food when we get there,” he said, half-turning in his seat to look at you. “Don’t feel like you have to eat everything - or any of it, for that matter.”

“I would never turn down a home-cooked meal,” you said.

“She’s also going to ask you a million questions,” he added apologetically. “She likes knowing everything about my friends.

“Yeah, and I’m sure you won’t mind talking about yourself,” Mike cut in, looking at you in the rearview mirror, his sunglasses low on his nose.

You narrowed your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Will groaned softly. “Can we not do this already?”

“We’re not doing anything,” said Mike.

“You started it,” you shot back.

“We’ve been in the car for forty-five minutes,” Will muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

“I just meant that you talk a lot,” Mike explained.

“I wish you’d stop talking.”

By the time the city gave way to long stretches of highway, Will had fallen asleep. The initial adrenaline of road tripping had worn off, and the three of you had lapsed into genuine silence. Will’s head lolled gently against the window with each bump in the road, his breathing slow and even. You glanced at him every so often, half-hoping he would wake up and fill the space.

You shifted in your seat, tucking one leg beneath you and reaching for your watered-down coffee. Your gaze drifted forward despite yourself, landing on the back of Mike’s head - on the curls at the nape of his neck, the curve of his nose from that angle, and the way one hand rested lazily at the top of the steering wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh in time with the song playing low through the speaker. In another life, he probably would’ve made a great guitarist with those long, deft fingers of his.

“Why are you staring at me?” Mike asked suddenly.

Your eyes snapped up to meet his in the mirror again. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Sure.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know that I wasn’t allowed to look straight forward.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t, but you were looking at my hands.”

“No, I was not,” you argued. “You are so unbelievably conceited. You think I’m constantly thinking about you.”

“Because you are constantly thinking about me,” Mike replied.

“Only about how much I despise you,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “And how peaceful life would be if you lost your ability to speak.”

“Charming,” Mike said. “We can go back to sitting in silence.”

He turned up the music, seemingly forgetting that Will was sleeping right next to him. Will jerked awake, startled.

“Are you two arguing again?” Will mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

“No!”

****

You settled into life in Hawkins quite easily.

Will’s mom, Joyce, was beyond welcoming, and his sister, Jane - who everyone called El, although you didn’t really understand how they got that from Jane - was the sweetest and visibly excited to have another girl in the house. She asked you endless questions about NYU and your friendship with Will, just as eager and intense as Joyce had been the first night.

The rest of Mike and Will’s friends - who had affectionately been dubbed ‘The Party’ from their childhood D&D days - wormed their way into your heart just as quickly.

Dustin talked your ear off within the first five minutes of meeting you, bouncing between topics so fast you could hardly keep up. Lucas was tamer in his enthusiasm for meeting you, asking genuine questions about the city and your major. Max, whom you learned was Lucas’s long-term girlfriend, seemed wary at first - which you understood - but she soon became one of your closest friends.

Other than El, of course.

El seemed to cling to you like you might go back to New York at any moment. She loved listening to you talk about your camera and your classes. She was more interested in your answers than anything Mike and Will had to say. Sharing a room meant the two of you stayed up late, giggling about celebrity crushes (you introduced her to the movie Heathers, and she quickly became just as obsessed with Christian Slater as you were), and you taught her how to develop film photographs using the Hawkins High dark room, which was open even during the summer. She took pictures of you frequently, something you weren’t used to, but you came to appreciate it. El had an eye for photography.

Somewhere between the late-night movies sprawled across the floor of Mike’s basement, the shared meals at the Byers’ kitchen table, and the lazy afternoons wandering around Hawkins with nowhere in particular to go, you began to feel like you belonged here.

Yeah, corny, but whatever. It was true.

Alas, Mike Wheeler was still there.

If anything, the Party’s acceptance of you seemed to change something in him.

The bickering didn’t fade, but rather deepened. A comment here, a jab there - small things that built into full-blown arguments before either of you could stop them. Sometimes it happened in front of everyone, drawing groans and eye-rolls as they’d come to expect the dynamic between you and Mike. You’d become professionals at getting under each other’s skin.

Of course, there were moments where his words landed just a little too hard. You were sure yours did, too. You told yourself that the tightness in your chest whenever he looked at you a second too long was simply anger. That the way your stomach flipped when he laughed - really laughed - was just lingering resentment. That the way your heart dropped when he insulted you was just. . . well, you didn’t really have an explanation for that.

As the weeks progressed, you grew exhausted with the slights and fights. You’d never had to see Mike every day before this, and everything became predictable. Mike would say something, you’d snap back, he’d escalate, and you’d follow. The two of you were stuck in a loop, and you began to dread it.

There was one night when everyone was gathered in his basement, music playing softly in the background while you and El flipped through one of your photo books. With each picture El looked at, it was impossible for you not to preface it with some excuse for why it wasn’t perfect.

“Why do you overthink everything you do?” Mike asked from where he was sprawled on the floor. From anyone else, it would’ve seemed like a genuine question, but it came from Mike.

You looked at him. There was a faint smirk tugging at his lips, already anticipating your reaction. Something in your chest sank.

“Okay,” you said after a second.

Mike frowned, propping himself up on his elbows. “You’re not going to say anything?”

You shrugged, turning your attention back to El. “Does it matter?”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then the moment passed as if it hadn’t happened. But it had happened, and you couldn’t unsee the look on Mike’s face. Like he was excited for your response. Like he wanted to argue with you.

When you realized that you didn’t have to say anything back, he began to push harder.

“Did you forget how to talk?” he asked one afternoon when you’d didn’t rise to one of his usual comments. The two of you sat in Lucas’s yard while everyone else ran through the sprinklers, laughing and squealing with childlike delight.

“Is it a crime to not argue with you all the time?”

“You always argue with me.”

“Yeah, and I’m sick of it.”

“Oh,” said Mike, looking down at his lap. You waited for him to say something, but instead, he just stood and joined the others.

It all came to a head at the lake sometime in August.

By then, the heat had settled into everything, clinging to your skin no matter how long you stayed in the shade. It had been Max’s idea to go swimming, deciding that it was too hot to do anything else.

The lake was louder than usual that day - music playing from someone’s shitty portable speaker, voices echoing, and the occasional splash breaking through it all. You kicked off your shoes and waded into the water, letting out a sigh at how refreshingly cool the water was.

You weren’t a fan of swimming - at least not getting your hair wet - so you retreated to sitting on the pier, watching all your friends splash around. Occasionally, El or Will would swim over and wet your legs to make sure you didn’t get too hot.

About an hour or two into your lake day, Mike climbed out to get water. He came up behind you, shaking his hair so that it sprayed all over you.

“Fuck off!” you exclaimed, shielding yourself. He grinned at you.

“Are you ever going to get in the water?” he asked, taking a swig out of his water bottle. While he wasn’t looking, you couldn’t help but let your eyes drift to the flat expanse of his stomach. You’d seen him shirtless a few times since meeting him - mostly when he got out of the shower and decided that getting a snack was more important than putting a shirt on - but there was something about the way that sun glinted off his wet skin and the way his swim trunks hung low on his hip bones that made your mouth dry.

“I don’t like swimming,” you admitted, kicking your feet in the water to emphasize your point.

“Who doesn’t like swimming?”

“Me.”

“What are you afraid something’s down there?” he teased, sitting down next to you. You scooted over aggressively, scratching the skin of your thighs against the worn wood of the pier, and glared at him from underneath your sunglasses.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” you said. “If there was something down there, it would probably go for you first. Might think you’re a brother or some sort. You look weird enough to be a sea creature.”

Mike snorted softly, taking another sip of his water. “Oh, were you not just ogling my abs?”

“You don’t have abs,” you shot back, embarrassed to be caught. “Those are called ribs, Wheeler.”

“Girls seem to love my ‘ribs,’” he shrugged.

“You’re a fucking virgin.”

“I am not.”

“Yes, you are. Will told me.”

“Will,” he hissed under his breath. “Whatever. Being a virgin doesn’t mean no one’s ever blown me.”

“Men, maybe.”

“That’s homophobic.”

“You’re homophobic.”

“My best friend is gay.”

“So is mine. So am I.”

Mike recoiled. “You are?”

You nodded, suddenly unsure why you were telling Mike this. “Yeah, so what? I dated a girl in high school.”

He looked down at the water. “I didn’t know that.”

“Obviously. I never told you.”

“Will never told me that either.”

“I’ve never told Will,” you admitted. “I just. . . never thought to bring it up.”

“Oh.” He paused. “Do you only like girls?”

“Trying to figure out which slur to call me?”

“No, what? No, I was just. . . wondering if you’ve ever dated a guy.”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m just curious.”

You hesitated. “Yeah, I did, once. He was. . . kind of shitty, honestly.”

Mike’s head whipped toward you. “Did he-?”

“No, he didn’t,” you interrupted, swallowing thickly. “He just cheated on me. A few times.”

“A few times?” Mike repeated. You nodded.

“It’s really none of your business, though.”

“. . . Right. Sorry,” he said, and for once, he sounded genuinely apologetic that he’d pried into your personal life. “Well, nice chat, but I’m getting back in the water with the fun people.”

“Whatever. Have fun.”

“Oh, I will,” Mike retorted.

You weren’t quite sure how it happened. Maybe while he was getting to his feet, one of his gangly limbs, which he still struggled to control (he was like a 21-year-old Bambi), knocked you off balance. Or maybe he did it on purpose, unable to last more than ten minutes without getting on your nerves.

However it happened, it was your final straw.

When you surfaced, spluttering from the shock of the water, your hair was plastered to your face, your sunglasses having slipped off your head and now lost to the depths of the lake.

“Fuck, I didn’t mean to-” you heard him say.

You ignored his stammering apology, tears stinging your eyes as you swam toward the pier. He reached out to you to help hoist you up, but you smacked his hand away aggressively. You would’ve much rather struggled than accept his help at this point.

He said your name in a pleading tone.

“I don’t want to talk to you, Mike,” you muttered, already gathering your things - your towel, your book, your water bottle - and scooping them up into your arms.

“It was an accident, I swear-”

“I don’t care!” you cried, whirling on him. He stumbled back slightly, and you almost wish he had gone crashing into the lake, too. Ideally, in the shallow end, so maybe he would break his stupid neck. “Ever since I met you, you have done nothing but try to make my life miserable! You make fun of all of my interests, my clothes, my voice, my major, and I’m supposed to believe that you didn’t mean to push me into the water? Give me a fucking break.”

In the midst of your explosion, the rest of the Party had begun to swim over, interested in why you were yelling at Mike this time.

“Hey, is everything okay over here?” Will asked, his wet hair clinging to his forehead.

“No, it’s not,” you snapped. You were dripping all over the pier and onto your stuff - the cover of your book was splattered with droplets from your hair and jaw. “Mike thought it would be funny to push me into the water.”

“I did not push you!” Mike argued, exasperated. “It was an accident.”

“Not cool, Mike,” Lucas said, climbing out of the water. The rest of the Party followed his lead, joining you and Mike on the long pier. “You know she doesn’t like swimming.”

Mike threw his hands in the air. “It was an accident!” he exclaimed again. “I was standing up and-”

“I’m leaving,” you interrupted. “Will, El, I’ll see you two at home.”

El said your name in a similar pleading tone as Mike had done just moments before, but this time, you weren’t swayed. You turned on your heel and began to storm down the pier. You were so angry that you could almost feel it radiating off your body, turning all the lake water into angry steam (and no, it wasn’t because of the sun).

“Mike, go apologize,” you heard Will insist sternly behind you. You scoffed under your breath. As if Mike would ever give you a genuine apology.

“Why should I apologize?” you heard Mike say faintly.

“Because you have been nothing but a dick to her!” Max said.

You didn’t hear the rest of the conversation.

The pavement of the parking lot was scalding underneath your bare feet, and you had to pause to slip on your shoes. You were beyond uncomfortable - your heart pounding, your swimsuit dripping, your arms full, your eyes being blinded by the light. But what made everything worse was the unabashed tears that had begun streaming down your cheeks the moment you turned around, and your friends could no longer see you.

You felt. . . humiliated. Maybe it was an overreaction - it was just the lake, after all. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? If it had been anyone else, you would’ve accepted it as an accident or even been more willing to accept it as a joke. But it was Mike. Mike Wheeler, who had done nothing but be a jerk to you since the moment you met. It was draining to be around him, and you just didn’t understand what you had done to him. Had your comment about Dostoevsky almost a year ago really been enough to garner such detestation? Or was there more to it? Were you and Mike just incompatible on a fundamental level? A molecular level, even?

You sighed, looking around the crowded lot. Mike’s car was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Lucas’s. You stalked back to the curb and sat down, beginning to towel your hair dry, defeated. You’d just have to sit here until everyone got tired because you were way too embarrassed to go back.

Someone sat down next to you.

“I’m sorry,” Mike whispered. There was a good foot of distance between the two of you, as if he was afraid to get too close. “I really am.”

“It’s fine,” you muttered, keeping your face turned away so that he couldn’t see that you were crying. “I overreacted, I guess.”

“I meant about. . . everything. I’m sorry about everything.”

“It’s fine,” you repeated.

Mike stayed silent. You wanted to look at him, know what he was thinking - it was impossible to know what he was thinking. You wondered if he was actually considering his words before he spoke. 

“I’ve never really had any friends,” you said before he could say anything else. Mike remained silent, content to let you speak. “Not in high school and not in college. Not until I met Will.”

You shifted slightly, dropping your hands to your lap, but continued to stare straight ahead at the rows of cars.

“I’d honestly gotten used to being alone - Will can attest to that. That’s why he invited me along, I guess. He didn’t want me to be alone. And I was so excited to meet your friends. I’ve never really belonged anywhere, never really had a friend group of my own. That first night, after I met everyone, I couldn’t even sleep because I was so happy that I’d found a group of people who actually seemed to like being around me.” You paused to laugh dryly. “It’s so stupid to say that out loud, but this whole summer has been. . . the best of my life. I’ve never had girl friends like El and Max to do makeup and go shopping with. And Dustin never tried to embarrass me whenever I nerded out over photographers. Lucas is always so willing to go on impulsive, late-night shopping runs with me. And Will. . . I love Will more than I’ve ever loved anyone. He’s my best friend, and I’m sorry if you feel threatened by that, but I don’t think Will would ever choose me over you, if that makes you feel better. Even so, it’s nice to believe that someone could choose me. If you weren’t there.”

“If I wasn’t there,” Mike repeated hollowly.

An apology - I didn’t mean it like that - lingered on your tongue, but the words remained clotted there. You couldn’t bring yourself to apologize right now.

“Do you wish Will had never introduced us, then?”

You shook your head faintly. “No, I guess not because. . . well, the worst part of it all is that I liked you.”

“Liked me?”

“When I first met you, god, I thought you were so fucking. . .” you almost said pretty, but stopped yourself. “I had the tiniest crush on you, I guess. Even after the whole Dostoevsky/Camus conversation. I kept hoping that maybe you were just having a bad day, that one day we’d start getting along.”

Mike looked at the side of your face, startled. You saw his eyes widen in your peripheral vision.

“Obviously, that never happened, though,” you scoffed. “You really were - are - just an annoyingly attractive douchebag.” 

“I didn’t -” he started, then stopped, like he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. “I didn’t know you felt like that.:

“Of course you didn’t,” you said flatly. “You don’t know anything about me. At least not anything that you can’t make fun of.”

“That’s not. . .” he ran a hand through his damp hair, visibly frustrated with himself. Or maybe with you.

You heaved a sigh. “I’m going back to New York tonight, I think.”

“You’re what?” Mike blurted, completely ignoring every other aspect of the conversation.

“Yeah,” you said. You don’t know where the idea came from, but out of nowhere, you’d suddenly realized that you wanted to go home. You had an apartment to find, a storage unit that was getting more and more expensive, and you needed to find a job for the next school year. Maybe the library would take you back.

“You’re supposed to be here for three more weeks.”

“I know, but I just can’t keep doing this with you every day. It’s exhausting, Mike. It makes me feel like I’m back where I started - like I don’t belong anywhere, like I’m just. . . irritating everyone.”

There was a long stretch of silence.

“You’re not irritating.”

You let out a weak, humorless huff. “You literally spend all your time pointing out everything that’s wrong with me.”

“I thought you liked it.”

You stared at him, for the first time since he’d sat down.

“I thought you liked arguing with me,” he clarified quickly, his words rushed. “You always had something to say back. I figured if it actually bothered you, you would’ve-”

“What? Said something? Left?” you cut in. “Like I’m doing now?”

He flinched.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding slightly. “Exactly.”

You adjusted your grip on your things, suddenly unsure what to do with yourself. “I’m just gonna walk back to the Byers’, I guess. You can tell Will everything. I’ll see you back in New York.”

You left Mike Wheeler sitting on the curb, his words, his excuse, churning through your brain.

I thought you liked it.

****

You settled back into routine quickly. Things, miraculously, worked out for you after arriving back in New York. You couldn’t find a studio apartment that was available to rent on such short notice, but you did find an older couple who was offering up the upstairs half of their house in exchange for chores and errands. You were a little upset, admittedly, that you wouldn’t be living with Will, but it was probably better in the long run.

You were given your job back at the library and relegated to shelving books for hours on end in a stuffy basement, but it was a much-needed break from the chaos of that summer. You found solace in putting your headphones on and listening to Alanis Morrisette and Fleetwood Mac. You enjoyed your evenings of instant noodles and reruns of Twin Peaks. You began to prepare for your final year at university, handing in your resume for different internships, talking with your advisor over email, and curating your class schedule. You faintly wondered if you would have another class with Will.

Speaking of Will, he had returned home from the lake that day to find you packing your stuff, sniffling as you went. Wordlessly, Will had wrapped you in a hug and let you cry into his chest.

“I understand,” was all he said. He drove you to the bus station the next morning, before the sun was even up.

Mike Wheeler showed up at your door two weeks after you left Hawkins.

“Dear, there’s a boy at the door for you!” called Mrs. Alvarez, one of your elderly landlords. 

Mrs. Alvarez frequently smelled of that floral perfume most old women smelled like, infecting the whole house with it. Mrs. Alvarez had become a sort of mother figure toward you in the short time you’d lived upstairs. The three of you - Mr. Alvarez included - made a routine of having dinner together as often as possible, Mr. Alvarez cooking, Mrs. Alvarez making dessert, and you doing the shopping. They entertained you with stories of their youth, and you kept them updated on the events of the outside world. You didn’t tell them anything about what you’d been doing over the summer, though. That would be a story for another time.

You knew, as soon as Mrs. Alvarez said there was a boy at the door, that it was Mike.

You shut the book you’d been reading frantically, forgetting to slide a bookmark into place. Jumping to your feet, you checked your reflection in the mirror and smoothed down your hair. Your face was bare of makeup,  but Mike had seen you without makeup before, right?

“I’m coming!” you called back, quickly applying lip gloss. Why did you even care what Mike thought? The two of you had parted on terrible terms.

He was standing in the entrance hall, holding a bouquet of flowers and looking terribly out of place. In the two weeks since you’d last seen him, his hair had gotten slightly longer, brushing the tops of his shoulders. He was sunburnt, too, his cheeks and nose blooming pink along with parts of his forearms. When he saw you coming down the stairs, he seemed to freeze, as if he hadn’t actually expected you to appear.

You weren’t quite sure why you’d come down, either, honestly.

“He won’t be staying the night, will he?” Mrs. Alvarez whispered in your ear as you passed, quirking an eyebrow. That was the one rule - no boys were allowed to stay the night.

“Of course not, Mrs. Alvarez,” you assured. Mrs. Alvarez nodded, content, and disappeared back into the kitchen. You turned your attention to Mike. “Upstairs.”

He obeyed, his feet moving before his mind could process the order. You stormed up the stairs, not looking back, but you heard his thundering feet behind you. He was completely incapable of being quiet.

You led him into your room. There were still a few unopened boxes stored in the corners - mostly ones that contained stuff you no longer had any use for, such as kitchen appliances. The walls were mostly bare, too, except for your favorite posters that you’d hung over your bed.

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?” you demanded, stopping in the center of your room. Mike stuttered to a stop, looking around at your new space. You couldn’t remember if he’d ever been in your studio before - he must have, right? - but he seemed completely fascinated by this insight into your life.

“I brought you these,” he blurted out, thrusting the bouquet into your chest. They were roses, simple, but they smelled sweet, and you couldn’t help but bury your nose in them and inhale. The stems were a bit crunched, as if Mike had been gripping them tightly the entire way here.

“Thank you, but you didn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, er, Will told me,” Mike said, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “I came to apologize.”

“You already apologized,” you reminded, placing the roses down on your desk.

“Yeah, but not very. . . well,” he said. He chewed on his bottom lip. “I think I messed up.”

You crossed your arms, leaning back slightly against your desk. “Yeah. You did.”

Mike nodded immediately. “I know,” he said, quietly this time. He glanced around your room again, like he needed to look at anything that wasn’t you. “I’ve just been thinking. A lot.”

“Congratulations,” you muttered. “That’s new.”

He almost smiled. You were reminded of how nice his lips were, and you mentally kicked yourself. Not the time!

“I thought you liked it,” he said, echoing his words from before. “The arguing. I thought it was. . . I don’t know. Our thing.”

“It wasn’t a thing,” you said. “It was you being mean and me not knowing how to stand up for myself.”

Mike deflated. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds about right.”

That threw you off. “What, you’re not going to fight me on that? Insist that I was the one in the wrong?”

“No,” he said simply and paused. “I don’t really think I get to argue with you right now.”

You looked down at your socked feet. Silence stretched between you, thick but not quite as suffocating as it had been back in Hawkins that day at the lake.

“So,” you said after a moment, gesturing vaguely. “You took a bus? Or did you manage to event teleportation just to ruin my day again?”

“I drove,” he said.

You blinked. “You drove.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s twelve hours, Mike.”

“Thirteen,” he corrected absently. “I hit traffic.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.”

Another pause. You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve, suddenly very aware of how small your room felt with him in it. How familiar he looked standing there. How. . . how much you’d missed him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said finally.

“I did,” he said. “I really did.”

“Why?” you swallowed, looking away again.

“I didn’t like how we left things. And I didn’t like that. . . you left because of me.”

“Not everything-”

“Just let me finish,” he said quickly. You pressed your lips together but nodded. He exhaled. “I didn’t realize how much I was hurting you,” he continued. “I mean, I knew we argued, obviously, but I thought it was - equal, I guess. Like we were both just. . . doing it.”

“We were, for a while, I suppose,” you said quietly.

“Yeah, but not for the same reasons.” Mike shifted his weight, his gaze finally settling on you fully. “I think I was doing it because it was the only way I knew how to talk to you. Like if I stopped, then we’d just. . . not talk at all.”

You frowned.

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know it doesn’t make sense. It’s stupid. But every time we mocked each other or argued, it meant you were paying attention to me. And I-” he stopped, jaw tightening briefly. “I didn’t really think about what it felt like for you. And then you just. . .  stopped. Near the end.”

Of course. The photo book. The basement. The way Mike looked stunned at your resistance to arguing.

“I thought you were just tired or something. I didn’t realize that you were sick of it. I didn’t like that you stopped. . . engaging with me. I think I misunderstood from the beginning.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we first met,” he explained, “and we had that whole conversation about Dostoevsky-”

You let out a small, disbelieving breath. “You mean when you called my interpretation pretentious?”

“I didn’t call it-” he stopped himself. “Okay, yeah, I kind of did.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I thought that was. . . I thought we were teasing each other. That that was just how we were going to talk.”

“And so you just kept going,” you said flatly.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I didn’t realize I’d already crossed a line. Like I said, I didn’t think we would talk if there wasn’t that arguing.” He sighed. “Will told me.”

Your stomach dropped slightly. “Told you what?”

Mike hesitated, as if saying it out loud made him uncomfortable. “That I made you cry.”

You looked away immediately, your throat suddenly tight.

“I thought I was being clever,” he continued. “Or funny, or whatever. I’ve never been very good at having friends either, I guess.”

Mike took a small step closer.

“I miss you,” he said.

Your breath caught.

“I miss talking to you,” he clarified, but it didn’t lessen the weight of it. “Even if it was messed up. Even if it was. .  like that.”

“That’s a pretty low bar,” you scoffed, but your voice had gone softer.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But, there’s something else.”

Your stomach dropped slightly. “Okay?”

He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “I’ve had a lot of time to think,” he said slowly. “Like. . . a lot. Driving here, especially.”

You waited.

“I don’t think I hated you.”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “That’s your big realization?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I mean. . . I definitely acted like I did. But that’s not what it was.”

He hesitated again. And then, finally-

“I think I was in love with you. I think I am in love with you.”

You stared at him, your mind struggling to catch up. “You’re lying,” you accused automatically.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you insisted.

“I’m not,” he repeated.

You shook your head, taking a small step back. “You don’t just show up at someone’s door and decide you’re in love with them.”

“I didn’t just decide. I think I have been for a while.”

“That’s not better.”

“It is for me,” he shot back, but immediately softened. “I mean, it doesn’t fix anything, obviously, but it’s not random.”

You began pacing in front of your window. “Mike,” you said, “you made me feel like I was stupid. You made me feel like every time I opened my mouth, you were just waiting to tear it apart. Why do you think I’d want this? Any of this?”

“I don’t,” he said immediately. “I don’t think you want it. I just needed you to know that it wasn’t because I didn’t care about you.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling cold despite the stuffy air in your room. “What do you want from me?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you here? Why did you drive thirteen hours to give me flowers and confess your love to me?”

“I just wanted to see you. I wanted to say all of this to your face instead of letting it just sit there and rot in my head.”

“And now?”

“Now. . .” he glanced down briefly. “If you tell me to leave, I will.”

Part of you wanted to slam the door in his face. To protect yourself.

But another part, the worst part, remembered the late nights and stupid arguments that sometimes made you laugh. And looking back, you realized that sometimes he would look at you like you were the only person in the room.

“I don’t forgive you,” you said.

“I know,” he replied.

“I’m still angry. So angry.”

“You should be.”

“And I don’t know if I believe you.”

“That’s fair.”

You exhaled shakily. “But. . . I don’t want you to leave. Not yet.”

His expression softened. “Okay.”

You gestured vaguely toward the floor, your bed, anywhere but directly at him, “Just sit or something. You’re making it weird, standing there.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay.”

He moved carefully and sat on the edge of your bed. You stayed where you were for a second, then eventually sank down onto the chair by your desk. You stood up again. You couldn’t decide what you wanted to do.

Then, in a bold move, you crawled onto your bed next to him and lay down, hoping he’d take the hint. He stayed sitting on the edge of the bed for a moment longer than necessary, hands resting loosely on his thighs.

“You can’t stay the night,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Right, sorry.”

“Stop saying that, too.”

He grinned faintly. “What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. Can you just. . .” you swallowed, “. . . can you just hold me? For a little?”

Mike goes still.

“Even if you’re lying about everything,” you continued so you didn’t take back your request, “I want to know what it would feel like. If you meant it.”

Mike nodded and, carefully, moved closer. Lying down next to you, he’s stiff as a board until you shuffle toward him, leaning into him. It’s then that he wraps his arms around you, steady and warm. You press your face into him before you can overthink it, like if you hesitate even a second longer, you’ll lose courage entirely.

Mike adjusts immediately. One arm under you, the other resting across your back, holding you carefully. You can hear his heartbeat pumping away in his chest.

“Can I say something?” he whispered. You hum in approval. “I think about this a lot. Holding you like this. That’s sort of what made me realize I was in love with you.”

Your fingers curled slightly in his shirt.

“I’m really sorry,” he whispered. “I do love you.”

started drinking coffee way too young because he used to think it was cool, and now has a crippling caffeine addiction.

⤷ he insists on going to local coffee shops even though he really only gets black coffee.

⤷ always gets either an everything bagel or a salt and pepper bagels.

very pretentious, and slightly gatekeep-y about his interests, music, dnd, and movies in particular.

crashed out for like a week when disney bought marvel.

has never played fortnite because he believes something awaits him in the divine for resisting.

definitely either works at a movie theater or one of those trading card and video game stores in the mall.

is the dude asking “did you know tame impala is just one guy?”

has an extensive physical media collection and is very serious about it, if you have a suitcase player be prepared for a lecture.

very critical of movie and tv adaptations of comics, x-men in particular.

big fan of the ren faire and he dresses up weather you do or not.

big david lynch & wes anderson fan, LOVED twin peaks when he first saw it and was convinced it made him niche.

⤷ takes letterboxd way too seriously.

like in the show he’s had the same backpack since kindergarten, but it’s a navy blue jansport.

⤷ you two have matching C-3P0 and R2-D2 lego keychains

⤷ he has so many random pins on his bag, in middle school he used to get a small rush from stealing them from hot topic

got into the hardcore scene through eddie and is randomly at local shows like at least once a week.

has wired headphones, airpods, and over the ear headphones, and wears them so much you’re concerned for his hearing.

literally carries his nintendo switch everywhere with him.

⤷ it was supposed to be a family switch but no one else plays it but him, and holly who has an animal crossing island she does not play about.

really into resident evil, legend of zelda, and metroid.

lowkey has a black thumb, this guy CANNOT keep a plant alive to save his life.

still a massive star wars nerd, has all the lego sets and is very annoying to build them with, but he’s nice to you at least.

⤷ was gifted the lego millennium falcon a couple years ago, and when dustin thought he lost a piece mike crashed out.

into cosplay but won’t admit it for some reason?

⤷ you guys have been anakin and padme, zelda and link, for the past couple halloweens. he and the party also have very detailed costumes for the ren faire.

he has a blue lava lamp he loves, with lots of band stickers on it.

instead of a calculator watch he gets the new apple watch every time one comes out.

his room is covered in posters, he goes out of his way to find vintage ones, and half the time he doesn’t even frame them.

⤷ this being said he found one a vintage “the empire strikes back” poster and that is framed, it is his prized possession.

during quarantine he did the minecraft window trend and he has them to this day.

lowkey uses 2 in 1 shampoo/ conditioner i’m sorry.

⤷ please convince him to get a curly hair routine, please.

only started wearing cologne after he asked lucas for advice when he first realized he had a crush on you.

⤷ smells like bergamont and cedarwood bc he saw that on a label of a candle in your room.

a very extensive funko pop collection.

still very into old movies, like the aforementioned star wars, but also ghostbusters back to the future, eraserhead, the labyrinth, back to the future, akira, top gun etc.

he’s so unathletic. used to fake sick to get out of the mile in p.e.

bisexual & autistic but vaguely in denial about both.

⤷ very bad social awareness. genuinely you will have to apologize on his behalf sometimes because he mad a face. his defense is always “but i didn’t say anything!”

⤷ severely hyperfixates, in season 1 he played dnd for 10 hours straight, imagine what he could do with the internet.

⤷ has an extensive dice collection, they are all color coded.

has such awful posture it’s genuinely concerning.

he’s upper middle class but still wears his converse beat to literal hell.

also has the dirtiest pair of docs you’ve ever seen.

acts embarrassed or aloof about matching things but secretly loves it.

⤷ he feels it’s a tangible reminder of your tether to eachother.

he is so bad at expressing his emotions verbally, so he always prefers to resolve arguments over text.

⤷ the first time he said i love you was also over text.

⤷ very thorough when explaining his side of things or perspective, frequently used analogies and repeats points of emphasis when explaining himself

⤷ has a tendency to be really defensive at first so he likes to pause and gather his thoughts before he responds

⤷ even though he’s super defensive he actually blames himself for everything.

he knows he’s bad with words so he really tries to show you he loves you in other ways, like remembering things about you and noticing if things are off, or if you change something.

⤷ this being said he’s still surprised if you happen to notice anything is off with him, even though, frankly it’s usually very obvious since he doesn’t have the best control over his facial expressions.

one of those smart people that doesn’t get that not everyone understands everything he does.

⤷ but if you ask him to explain something to you he’s actually really good at it! especially chemistry and math.

complains so much. about everything.

has an extensive collection of vintage sweaters and graphic t shirts.

always wears baggy clothes because he doesn’t like to feel the texture of clothes on his skin.

swears up and down reaction pics are corny but always laughs when they’re sent in the party gc.

literally the erm. actually 🤓☝️ guy.

has a particular fondness for uncrustables

he’s clingy but really shy about it.

⤷ really likes when you lay and just put your whole weight on top of him.

lowkey has a savior complex so he loves to do things for you, he just likes to feel needed!! please ask him for things!!!

had a very long and dedicated adventure time phase.

⤷ he was fin the human for like 3 halloweens in a row when he was a kid.

buys everything that reminds him of you but is so awkward about giving it to you as if you aren’t literally his partner.

he is so. easy. to ragebait. but he’s also really good at ragebaiting everyone else.

HATES bright overhead lights.

has so. many. tiktok reposts. so many.

he still actively uses discord.

he has the ikea monkey stuffed animal.

such a yapper, always wanting to infodump.

got into nascar through his dad when he was young to try and bond, and as he got older and started to resent him he switched to f1.

always swears he liked things before they were cool

active radiohead listener

so good at planning dates because he HATES when plans change, especially last minute, but he’s also like always late.

so dense. like has no idea you like him back until max just gets annoyed enough to out you.

sometimes mimics eddie since he perceives him as cool, confident and well liked among people he thinks are cool.

has medication for anxiety but always forgets to take it.

still incredibly awkward and dorky but that’s just part of his charm.

big fan of thrifting, flea markets and farmers markets.

once you were painting holly’s nails and he felt left out so he had you paint his black, and now he regularly has black nail polish on.

he argues with teachers a lot and gets annoyed when you have to respect people just because they’re figures of authority

has surprisingly neat handwriting

such a narc about his interests, like i cannot stress this enough.

honestly very insecure after being bullied for his appearance all of his childhood, and tiktok did NOT help. he genuinely has a hard time fathoming he’s attractive to you.

still bites his nails when he’s anxious, nervous, or even just thinking really hard.

he’s decent at coding and has python installed on his laptop.

still very into counterculture and alternative culture i’m not falling for the finale/ epilogue propaganda.

still ran the A/V club in middle school, and in highschool joined Science and Quiz bowl.

says he doesn’t believe in ghosts but is also genuinely terrified of them.

even though he talks a lot it takes a while for him to actually open up, and when he does he acts like he’s really casual and not a big deal as if he didn’t just drop the most insane lore on you.

⤷ when he told you about the incident with the quarry he glossed over it while explaining he had a fear of heights and you literally had to ask him to double back because, of course, that’s insane mike.

does not like to cry in front of people he finds it literally humiliating.

⤷ the first time he cried in front of you was during a fight because he couldn’t get his words right and he was frustrated at himself and worried you were angry with him and once he realized he was crying he literally turned around and tried to hide his face.

⤷ mike hates hates HATESSSS when one of his close friends are mad at him, everyone else he doesn’t really care but if it’s you, lucas, will, jane, or dustin it genuinely makes him sick until he’s forgiven.

the heat of mike's body envelopes you as you lay on your bed, his body crawling over yours familiarly. you're not quite sure if it's mike's warmth in particular that you like, or just the warmth of a body in general.

his lips touch your cheek, his voice whispering a gentle "is this okay?" against your skin that makes the rhythm of your heart stutter. he's so sweet. this is so sweet. he's perfect for you, really. he checks in, he does anything for you, and he really, truly gives you his all. whatever he can give you, it's yours.

upon receiving your consent, mike pulls his head back to look you in the eyes, like he's making sure you really mean it. you give him a small smile, hoping that any traces of melancholy are undetectable to his wide, endearing eyes. god help this boy.

his lips touch yours, and your eyes squeeze shut out of habit, probably a little too tightly to be natural. but this is what you should want, right? mike has it all. he comes from a nuclear family, grew up in a small town in indiana, and is on his way to completing his college degree. he's the right choice for you, for your future. he'll give you the stability you need to carry you through life.

deep down, you're not quite sure if you really know mike, or if he knows you. sure, you know the basics of what he likes, how he grew up. you know his favorite songs, his favorite foods, his favorite pair of jeans. he was a nerd in school, spending his days playing d&d with his best friends. he's a mama's boy, but he's a little estranged from his dad. he's a middle child, and his sisters whipped him up into shape to be the man he is today.

but is that really knowing someone?

you don't know his fears. not his real ones. you know he's scared of spiders and heights. he always has to sleep with a nightlight, so you can assume he's scared of the dark. but you don't know what truly scares him, what keeps him up at night and haunts his subconscious when he's asleep.

you don't know why he acts the way he does most of the time. why he wakes up in the middle of the night and reaches out for you on the other end of the bed, or why he seems to be hyperaware of his surroundings at all times, or why he always has to ask if you remember key memories in your life. of course you'd remember your first date, does he have that little faith in you? where the hell does that come from?

you don't know where he gets his inspiration from for his fantasy novels, or why he pours long hours into world building and developing character arcs that are unlikely to see the light of day. you don't know why he does several rewrites of each story, puling new imperfections out of thin air.

you do know how he kisses--much like how he is right now. he kisses you leisurely, but he sucks the life out of your lips like he's trying to pull all the blood beneath the thin skin. his hands always rest on your waist, sometimes going down to your hips. when he's really needy, he'll wrap his arms around you and pull you closer to him until he overwhelms your five senses. he wants you.

you do know that when you're with him, your brain never seems to shut off. every time you laugh, you force it to be a little louder, a little brighter. even if you genuinely mean it. you hold his hand, and you can't stop thinking about the way your fingers don't perfectly line up. they don't fit like a perfect puzzle piece like it's described in the movies. you think of him whenever a new song about heartbreak comes on the radio, but not necessarily the ones about eternal love and devotion.

you do know that you have no reason to be unhappy. there's no reason to dwell on the emotional connection (or lack thereof) that you guys truly have. whenever someone asks how the two of you are, you say things are great. you nod to emphasize your words, like it'll make every syllable true if you nod fast enough.