Reader Imagines

She didn't mean any harm—you don't think, at least—but you still needed to get out of the house. She also wouldn't be upset with you for leaving the house, but she would definitely ask questions. Questions with answers that you didn't feel like telling her. 

Eddie essentially lived alone, which was really convenient on nights like these. After you came home and found your drunk mother particularly frustrating to be around, the two of you got into a fight. She wouldn't remember the next morning, but you would. 

You let yourself into the trailer after driving to Eddie's place, not bothering to knock on the door. You two essentially had an open doors policy—especially when it came to escaping from familial problems. 

You closed the front door quietly and made your way to his bedroom. His door was closed, and you did your very best to open it quietly to not wake him. 

His dark hair was a mess, all over his face and pillows. His pale chest and arms were exposed, but his waist was tucked beneath a flannel blanket. His right cheek pressed into the pillow and his mouth hung slightly open, pushing his lips out each time he exhaled. You grinned at the sight of him and felt better in his presence. 

He was a heavy sleeper, and you really didn't need to wake him up at that very moment, so you quietly kicked off your shoes and slid into bed next to him. You grabbed his left hand and tucked yourself in close to him, setting his hand on your waist. He grumbled in his sleep a little, shifting his head against the pillow. 

"Hi," he softly mumbled, pulling you in tighter. "You good?"

You had been better, but you didn't feel like waking him up so he could listen to a retelling of the same story he'd already heard plenty of times about your mother. 

"Yeah," you assured him. "Just wanted to get out of the house." 

He nodded quietly, still keeping his eyes closed, and then kissed your forehead tenderly. He rested his chin on the top of your head and fell right back to sleep. 

He woke up before you the next morning, only half-remembering falling asleep with you. What he didn't remember was talking to you last night. I hope I didn't miss something bad he thinks to himself. 

He gets the idea to make you breakfast, so he slyly tries to pluck your arm off his torso and place it onto the bed. The movement woke you up, and you opened your eyes to see his face looking a little embarrassed. 

"Mornin'," he softly says. He looks like he's worried he disturbed a peaceful dream. 

"Hey," you reply, giving him a little grin. 

"I was gonna let you sleep," he says, settling back into a comfy position with you. He rests his right elbow on the bed, holding his head up with his hand. His left hand tucks some hair behind your ear and cups your cheek so he can lean in for a quick kiss. You hum in response. 

"I can make us breakfast," he adds. But he doesn't move. He stays still, just looking at your face because he thinks you're just—so pretty. 

You nod and push the blanket down your legs, giving you enough mobility to swing your right leg over his waist and straddle his hips. You quickly release your chest onto his, laying on top of him. 

"In a minute. I'll go with you." 

He giggles in response, placing both of his hands on your waist and slowly sliding his hands up and down your body. 

"If you're this tired, you can just relax," he insists. "I'm offering, really."

You shake your head and pull him in tighter, repeating, "In a minute, then I'll come with you." 

He nods softly and halts his protest. His hands lift off your back slowly until only the pads of his middle fingers remain in contact with your skin. He draws swirls and squiggly lines up and down your spine and hips, squeezing his eyes shut and taking in the sensation. The pressure against his body, the softness of your skin, the cushion of the bed. 

"Okay," you declare, placing your palms on his chest and pushing your body up. "Let's go make breakfast." 

For a moment, you're sitting up on his lap with one thigh on either side of him. His chin is tucked down, and his eyes look up at you like he's a little fawn. His hands rest comfortably on your hips, encouraging you to rock back and forth a little. 

"Or," he suggests, "we could stay here a little longer?" He applies pressure to your hips, pushing you down into his own groin. 

Your eyes close instinctively and your head drops forward a little as you release a sigh. 

"That a yes?" he mumbles, his voice gruff. 

"Mhm," you reply with a nod. 

His right hand trails up to your neck, pulling your face down to his as he sits up, meeting you with a kiss. 

Comfort was not always a given at your home—but Eddie always knew just what to do to help you relax a little. 

-

You cut your eyes and flipped the magazine back around. "Don't mock me, J."

"Does that sound like something I would do?"

"Indubitably," you announced, dramatically turning a page.

"No," said Jonathan. "It's just, it's exactly like you said." It was obvious he was trying hard to stay serious, to keep that shy smile of his from taking over. "I can't believe it."

Laughing, you tossed the magazine at his face.

He dodged, but only barely, too busy laughing right along with you.

If Joyce was home, now would've been when she'd knock on Jonathan's door. Exhausted, yet kind as ever, she would've reminded you both that it was quarter past nine and she had work in the morning. Just...try to keep it down, okay?

If Will was home, then approximately five minutes ago would've been when he'd invited himself inside, settling on Jonathan's bed to hover sweetly over the top of you and Who's dating? while craning his neck for a better view of the magazine.

But they were both out right now. Joyce working a closing shift at Melvald's, and your favorite drama queen playing D&D at a friend's house.

It was only you. Only Jonathan.

And The Clash, of course.

"You're insufferable," you eventually told him, still glaring playfully.

Jonathan squeezed your foot. "Says the one obsessed with crappy magazines."

"Oh I'm sorry, J — am I too lame for you? Is my love for pop culture ruining your street cred?"

Another laugh framed his pretty brown eyes with the most precious crinkles. "Who says street cred?" he asked incredulously.

"Lame-os, apparently."

It was his turn to cut his eyes. "If either of us lame," he contended, "it's definitely me."

The urge to frown was unbearable, but you tried resisting it.

Jonathan talking down on himself was a frequent occurrence. He'd always been insecure, even back in elementary school when you were both too young to know why older kids picked on him for his too-big coat and out-of-style sneakers.

High school had made it worse, though. A lot worse.

Sometimes you wished all of Hawkins High could see Jonathan the way you saw him. Understatedly funny with impeccable music taste; a photographer NYU would be lucky to teach; smarter than half this damned town and caring to a fault.

Other times — selfish, greedy times — you were glad they didn't.

Hawkins didn't deserve Jonathan, anyway.

Gently, you nudged him in the stomach with your foot. "If you're lame, then I'm lame by association," you told him. "Which actually means you're not lame at all, because I—" you laid a hand on your chest "—am the coolest person to ever exist."

"Didn't you just call yourself a lame-o?"

"Have you never heard of a joke, J? A bit of witticism? An old chestnut, even!"

With a groan that was both embarrassed on your behalf and thoroughly amused, Jonathan tossed his head back against the bed. "Great," he said to the ceiling. "So we're both lame."

You had full intent to argue for argument's sake, to make some exuberant claim as to why you were the furthest thing from lame (as if you weren't spending a Saturday night on your best friend's bedroom floor raving over celebrity romance while wearing fuzzy socks with cat in rainboots on them) when the room went totally silent.

The album had ended.

Jonathan lifted his head.

The two of you shared a look.

And then—

You shrieked when Jonathan shoved your feet of his lap, both of you scrambling to get off the floor. His room became a flurry of limbs and shouts and shoves, each fighting the other to cross the mere feet that separated you from the decrepit vinyl shelf.

Jonathan beat you.

"No fair," you whined. He was already lifting The Clash record off the platter and sliding it back into its sleeve. "You picked the last two albums. It's my turn, Byers!"

"You know the rules," he teased. "You snooze you lose."

"We should play rock-paper-scissors for it."

He dragged a finger over the records on his shelf, deciding which to play next. "You wouldn't say that if I was the one who lost."

"It's not losing if the competition's rigged!"

This whole Race to the Record Player thing was an unfair challenge. Not only were his legs longer than yours, but he had home-field advantage! His room was in such disarray that if you ran too fast, you were likely to twist your ankle on a lone Converse living under a denim jacket.

Jonathan turned his head to smile at you. It was so boyish and sweet, so unknowingly adorable, that you almost forgot to stay mad at him.

"You know," he said, "no one likes a sore loser."

An Oh, phooey! was already halfway up your throat when he slid a record out and showed it to you for approval.

One look at the cover and your Oh, phooey fizzled into a gasp.

"You're kidding!"

Jonathan's taste was eclectic but leaned into post-punk rock territory. Talking Heads, Joy Division, The Psychedelic Furs. Spending so much time with him meant you had come to love all those bands too — but unlike him, you weren't immune to the bubblegum bite of the pop-music bug.

Cyndi Lauper was your new favorite artist.

And now — in Jonathan's beautiful, beautiful hand — was her first ever studio album, She's So Unusual.

Released less than a week ago, there was no way he'd gotten it without spending a pretty penny. A valuable penny. One that could've been given to Joyce for extra groceries or put aside to replace the starter in his car. He could've even bought himself a new record, instead of spending hard-earned money on an album he wouldn't even listen to outside of your presence.

"Remember when I called you insufferable?" you asked.

He tipped his head to one side, pretty brown eyes crinkling as he pretended to think. "Vaguely."

"Well consider this my apology."

Before he could react, you lifted onto your toes and grabbed his face in your hands, pressing a sweet kiss to his cheek. His skin was soft, a little prickly where he'd missed a few spots shaving. He turned red so fast you felt warmth bloom under your lips. When you pulled back, admiring his new cherry complexion, you decided you liked making Jonathan blush.

Trying to seem unfazed, Jonathan busied himself with putting the record on. "I'll take it under consideration," he said, but the awkward way he cleared his throat before speaking made it obvious: you were definitely forgiven.

He lowered the needle. Money Changes Everything floated through his room, a lively beat that made your bones tingle.

You flopped backwards onto his bed, sighing comfortably. It smelled like him, bar soap and laundry detergent. If he hadn't turned to face you, you probably would've buried your nose in the sheets.

"So." You needed to talk. Otherwise you'd spend too much time admiring how cute he looked, unsure what to do with his hands, unable to hold your gaze but incapable of looking away. "Will," you said.

Concern took him immediately. "What about Will?"

You laughed. "Calm your engine, sports car. I was just gonna ask if he was going to the Snow Ball."

The infamous middle school dance was next weekend. An old teacher of yours had reached out to ask if you'd help with snacks for it, and you maybe promised to bake and ice two hundred cupcakes by next Friday — a venture you fully planned on wrangling Jonathan into.

Jonathan shrugged. "I don't know...I think so."

"Good," you chirped. Because if he'd said no, you would've had to conjure a last-minute plan to convince Will that school dances were So Cool and not Life Ruining Awful. "What about you?"

He gave you a look. "I'm pretty sure I aged out of middle school dances."

You chucked a pillow at him. "Not the Snow Ball, dummy. Our dance."

Winter's Dream, they were calling it. They being Hawkins High's budget friendly planning committee consisting of cheerleaders and theater kids. According to the fliers, the whole gym would be transformed into an ethereal frozen paradise — cotton ball clouds strung from the ceiling along with papier-mâché snowflakes; plenty of twinkle lights; fake snow covering the linoleum.

They had made crowns, too, for whichever lucky students were voted to be the Winter King & Queen. Everyone was gossiping over who would be crowned queen.

There was no doubt who would be king.

Jonathan edged towards the bed. Sat, and immediately started fiddling with a stray thread on his black jeans. "I don't know. Probably not."

"Trick question." You shot up straight, knocking your shoulder into his. "You're definitely going. So, onto our next question: who are you gonna ask to be your date?"

You expected him to say 'I don't know' again.

Instead, he reluctantly replied: "Who's your date?"

You bit your lip against a smile. "No one."

"No one's asked you?"

"No one worth saying yes to." Truth was, there was only one person you'd say yes to. "Connie heard that Steve Harrington's gonna ask me on Monday, but you know Connie. You'd be better trusting a call-in psychic."

"You love call-in psychics."

"But I don't trust them," you said, bumping his shoulder again.

Jonathan kept picking at the thread on his jeans.

On accident, he snapped it right off.

"Well...if Steve asks," he started, still focused on his lap, "will you...I don't know, say yes, or..."

Do you want me to say yes?

"I'm offended," you said solemnly. "Honestly, you're supposed to be my best friend, J! If you don't know that I'm gonna tell Steve Harrington where to shove it, then who will?"

He forced a chuckle. "I don't know...I mean, it wouldn't so...strange, I guess, to think maybe you'd actually want to go with him."

"Why? Because he's got nice hair and a BMW?"

Brown eyes flicked to yours in a sidelong look that said Uh, yeah?

Your jaw fell. "Don't tell me you really think that a BMW is all it takes to win me over."

"Of course not," defended Jonathan. Then, with a too-shy smile: "I think nice hair is all it takes to win you over."

You reached back for his other pillow and whacked him in the face with it. He burst out laughing, stole the pillow, and tossed it clear across the room.

That didn't stop you.

You swatted his arms, his chest, shouting I can't believe you! and Take it back, dummy! Jonathan just kept laughing, dodging hits and trying to catch your wrists, failing and resorting to tickling your sides.

You didn't know how you ended up on top of him. Only that you were, both of you smiling and breathless, your hands pinning his wrists to the bed on either side of his head.

In the background, Time After Time hummed so softly you worried he could hear the sound of your heart fluttering wildly in your chest.

"I take it back," you mumbled, making his brow furrow. "Turns out you really are insufferable."

"Because I don't think you're immune to King Steve's charm?"

"Because you're an idiot." You let go of one of his wrists. His chest froze mid-breath, your fingertips grazing just above his eyebrows, brushing a strand of hair to the side. "Steve Harrington's not the only boy with nice hair, y'know."

Pretty brown eyes were blown wide, his throat working around a swallow. "My hair is...bad."

"To you, maybe." He never complained, but you knew he'd never liked that they didn't have enough money for his hair to be anything but a product of love and kitchen scissors. "I think it's perfect," you whispered, when what you meant was I think you're perfect.

Because he was, wasn't he? Always playing along with your silly Hollywood gossip, buying records he wouldn't like because he knew it'd make you happy.

How could I ever want Steve Harrington, you wondered, when Jonathan exists?

Stupidly, you murmured, "Hey."

He said it back, just as stupid.

"I've got an idea," you said. "What if we go to the dance?"

You weren't sure his eyes could get any wider. "As...friends?" he asked.

"Or a date," you suggested too quickly. "Unless you think it'll hurt your street cred, being spotted with some pop culture lame-o."

"What happened to being the coolest person to ever exist?"

"Depends on the moment." And right now, you certainly felt like a lame-o.

Jonathan considered a long moment, gazing at you all the while.

Finally, he said, "I don't have anything to wear."

"I'm sure we could find something."

"I don't have a BMW, either."

You cut your eyes and leaned in so close that the tips of your noses nearly touched. "If you allude to Steve Harrington even one more time," you threatened, "I promise to smear blue icing all over your face."

His brow furrowed. "And you just...keep icing on you, or...?"

"Did I not tell you?" you asked, knowing full well you hadn't. "I signed us up to bake two hundred cupcakes for Will's dance."

"Two hundred?!"

"Oh, c'mon! It's for your brother," you told him. "I'll even let you lick the whisk!"

"Is that supposed to convince me?"

"Convincing implies choice, which last I checked, I didn't give you."

An easy laugh tumbled from his lips. Without thinking, he brought the hand you'd freed up to your waist, squeezing light enough to make you squirm at the tickling sensation. "Have you ever considered that maybe you're the insufferable one?" he asked.

You shook your head. "Not even once."

His gaze flitted to your lips. You thought of all the times you'd wanted kiss Jonathan over the years, imagining what it'd be like to feel the warmth of his mouth and taste his toothpaste on your tongue, and wondered if maybe, just maybe, he'd been wanting to do the same.

He brought his hand to your face. Grazed his knuckles along the curve of your cheek, so soft you could barely feel it.

He swallowed. Asked, "Can I—"

The door swung open.

Will stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, a cheerful "I'm home!" cut short when he caught sight of you straddling his older brother.

None of you spoke.

Then Will darted back into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him as he shouted, "ABOUT TIME!"

You immediately started laughing.

"This isn't funny," Jonathan protested, cheeks flushed. "You know he can't keep a secret. He's gonna tell Mike, who's gonna tell his sister, who's probably gonna tell the whole school and then—"

You shut him up by running your fingers through his hair.

"So. About that dance," you said. "Are we going?"

He looked at you like you were crazy. Like he was so sure this was all some mistake, a prank gone too far. You couldn't actually want him to be your date, and any minute now he was counting on you to remember that, to say so and send all the surreal beauty of this moment crashing down around him.

But that never happened.

So he gave you a faint teasing smile and said, "Pick me up at eight."

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

a/n | don't mind me, just thinking of all the ways the Winter's Dream dance could go (+ making cupcakes with Jonathan). ugh.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Mike didn't laugh. He didn't punch her back. He just stared at her, his lips pressed into a thin line, his patience finally snapping like a dry twig. He reached out, his hand closing around her wrist—not roughly, but with a sudden, grounding firmness that stopped her laughter in its tracks.

“Stop calling me that,” Mike said, his voice quiet but echoing in the cramped basement.

Mike’s hand lingered on her wrist for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The air in the basement felt suddenly thin.

Then, Y/N’s eyes softened, but not with romantic realization. She reached her free hand up and pressed her palm to Mike’s forehead.

“Oh, man,” she muttered, her face full of genuine concern. “You're getting that 'leader stress' again, aren't you? You get so moody when you've been DMing for too long. You’re right, I’ll stop teasing. You’re not just a good friend, Mike. You’re the most reliable person I know.”

She patted his cheek—two light, platonic taps—and turned back to the map. “Anyway, I move my Rogue to the hidden corridor.”

Dustin let out a long, wheezing hiss of air. Max leaned over and whispered to Lucas, “I owe you five dollars. She’s actually hopeless.”

Mike sat there, his hand still hovering in mid-air where her wrist had been. He felt like he’d just run a marathon only to find out the finish line had been moved to another state. He took a slow, steadying breath, trying to regain his composure. He was a “mature teenager” now. He could handle this.

“Right,” Mike said, his voice a bit strained. “Reliable. Thanks.”

As the game continued, the “slow burn” intensified. It was in the way Y/N naturally gravitated toward him. When Eddie described a particularly gruesome monster, she didn't shrink away; she unconsciously leaned her weight against Mike’s side.

Mike went rigid. He could feel the heat radiating from her through his thin t-shirt. He knew he should probably move, or at least say something, but he found himself subtly shifting his arm so she could lean more comfortably.

He looked down at her. She was chewing the end of her pencil, completely focused on Eddie’s narration. She had no idea that her proximity was making Mike’s heart beat like a trapped bird.

“Wheeler,” Eddie’s voice cut through the fog. Mike looked up to see Eddie smirking at him from behind the DM screen. Eddie tapped his own temple and mouthed, ‘Patience, Grasshopper.’

Mike shot him a look that could have killed a Mind Flayer.

The air in the Wheeler basement was heavy with the scent of stale popcorn and the rhythmic thump-thump of Will’s nervous leg. It had been a year since the gates of the Upside Down were sealed for good, and life in Hawkins had returned to a dull, peaceful roar. But for Mike Wheeler, peace was a myth.

He sat on the edge of the worn-out sofa, his posture straighter than it used to be, his shoulders broader. He was a “mature teenager” now, as Nancy liked to mockingly put it, but sitting next to Y/N Hopper made him feel like he was constantly walking a tightrope.

“I’m just saying,” Y/N said, her voice bright as she leaned over the Dungeons & Dragons map. She didn't notice the way Mike’s breath hitched when her elbow brushed his. “If we’re going to survive the cave, Mike needs to stop being so overprotective of my Rogue. I can handle a few goblins, Wheeler.”

Mike didn't look at the map. He looked at her profile—the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating, a habit she’d had since they were ten. “It’s called a formation, Y/N,” he said, his voice dropping into that lower, firmer register he’d developed lately. “I’m the Paladin. It’s my job to make sure you don't get hit.”

“But you’ve literally blocked every attack aimed at me for the last three hours,” she laughed, turning to face him. Her eyes were inches from his. “You’re such a good friend, Mike. Seriously. Best protector ever.”

Behind them, the sound of a plastic die hitting the floor was followed by Will’s muffled groan.

“I can't do this anymore,” Dustin whispered, loud enough for everyone but Y/N to hear. El reached over and patted Dustin’s arm, her eyes fixed on the ceiling in silent prayer.

Mike didn't flinch, even though the ‘friend’ comment felt like a physical weight in his chest. He just held her gaze, his dark eyes intense. He wanted to tell her that he didn't care about the formation. He wanted to tell her that he’d block every hit for her for the rest of his life if she’d just look at him differently.

“I'm just doing what needs to be done,” Mike said, his tone steady and strangely commanding.

“See?” Y/N chirped, turning back to the group, completely missing the heat in his stare. “So reliable. Right, El?”

Jane, sitting on the floor, looked from her sister to Mike. She saw the way Mike’s knuckles were white as he gripped his character sheet. She saw the way Y/N was already reaching for a bowl of pretzels, totally unaffected. El sighed, a long, weary sound. “Yes. Very... reliable.”

Eddie, leaning back in his "throne" at the head of the table, watched the exchange with a mixture of pity and amusement. He’d seen Mike development at school, seen him get firmer, seen him try to navigate the minefield of being Jim Hopper’s favorite target—but watching him get friendzoned by the girl he’d clearly die for was the greatest tragedy Eddie had ever witnessed.

“Alright, alright,” Eddie intervened, sensing the atmospheric pressure in the room was reaching a breaking point. “Before our Paladin here bursts a blood vessel being 'reliable,' let’s take a ten-minute break. I need a smoke, and Wheeler looks like he needs to put his head in a bucket of ice.”

Y/N stood up, stretching her arms over her head. “Good idea. Mike, you want to help me find those extra sodas your mom hidden in the garage? I bet I can find them faster than you.”

Mike stood up, his height now towering over her just enough to be noticeable. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable but definitely not “platonic.”

“You're on,” he said, his voice firm.

As they headed for the stairs, Eddie leaned over to Dustin and Lucas. “Five bucks says she thinks he’s helping her with the soda just because he’s 'helpful' and not because he wants five minutes alone with her.”

“No, thanks,” Lucas muttered. "I like my money."

Eddie threw his head back against his chair with a groan that sounded like he was in physical pain. “I can’t do it,” he announced to the ceiling. “I am a man of great resolve, but I cannot witness another 'you’re such a good friend' comment without actually losing my mind. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion for three years straight.”

Max took off her headphones, rubbing her temples. “She’s not even doing it on purpose. That’s the worst part. She genuinely thinks he’s just being 'reliable.' He caught her from falling earlier and I’m pretty sure she thought he was just practicing his 'Paladin' moves.”

“It is... painful,” El added softly. She loved her sister, but even she was starting to feel the secondary embarrassment. “Mike’s heart is very loud. Y/N is very deaf.”

“We have to do something,” Dustin said, slamming his hand on the table, making the miniatures rattle. “Mike is becoming a shell of a man. Did you see his face when she patted his cheek? He looked like he wanted to walk back into the Upside Down and stay there.”

Lucas leaned forward, lowering his voice. “We can’t just tell her. Mike would kill us. He wants her to 'realize it on her own' because he’s a romantic idiot.”

“He's trying to be 'firm' now,” Max noted with a smirk. “Have you noticed? The deeper voice, the staring, the whole 'I'm a mature teenager' act. It’s actually working on everyone except the person it’s intended for. Hopper looks like he wants to reload his shotgun every time Mike breathes in Y/N’s direction, so clearly he gets it.”

“Exactly!” Dustin pointed at Max. “Even the Chief sees it! If we don't intervene, Mike is going to try some 'firm' move, Y/N is going to mistake it for a sibling argument, and Mike is going to move to Alaska out of shame.”

Eddie leaned in, a devious glint in his eyes. “What if we create a situation? Something she can't interpret as platonic. A little pressure. A little... atmosphere.”

“No,” El said firmly. “They need to talk. Mike needs to use his words.”

“Mike’s 'words' currently consist of staring at her like a kicked puppy,” Lucas pointed out.

The garage was cool and dim, smelling of motor oil and the lingering scent of autumn air pushing through the cracks in the door. It was a sharp contrast to the chaotic energy of the basement, and for Mike, the silence was almost worse. It made every rustle of Y/N’s jacket sound like a landslide.

Y/N was already humming to herself, scanning the shelves with a flashlight. “I’m telling you, Mike, Karen definitely hid the root beer behind the Christmas decorations. It’s her classic move.”

Mike didn't answer. He stood by the workbench, watching the way the flashlight beam danced across her face. He was trying to practice “the look”—the one Eddie told him made him look like a “leading man” and not a “scrawny squire.” He kept his posture relaxed but firm, leaning back against the wood, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Found them!” she exclaimed, hoisting a heavy plastic-wrapped flat of soda. She turned around, beaming, and immediately tripped over a stray garden rake.

Before she could even gasp, Mike was there. He moved with a coordination he definitely hadn't possessed at twelve. He caught her by the waist, his large hands steadying her instantly. The soda flat stayed balanced against his chest as he pulled her upright, keeping her flushed against him to ensure she had her footing.

The air in the garage suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.

“Careful,” Mike murmured. His voice was low, vibrating right near her ear. He didn't let go immediately. In fact, his grip tightened just a fraction, his thumbs brushing against the fabric of her shirt. He was being firm, grounding her, waiting for the “lightbulb” moment to finally flicker on in her eyes.

Y/N looked up at him, her breath hitching. Her hands were resting on his forearms, feeling the lean muscle there. For a second, she just stared, her eyes wide.

This is it, Mike thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. She has to feel this. She has to.

“Whoa,” Y/N breathed. A small smile broke across her face. “Your reflexes are getting insane, Mike! Is that from all the basketball you've been playing with Lucas? Or is it like... a nerd thing?”

Mike’s soul practically left his body. He slowly closed his eyes, letting out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a growl.

“It’s not a nerd thing, Y/N,” he said, his voice strained. He finally released her, though he took the heavy soda flat from her arms with one hand as if it weighed nothing.

“Well, whatever it is, keep it up,” she said, completely oblivious to the internal crisis he was having. She reached up and playfully ruffled his hair—the ultimate "best friend" move. “You’re like a human safety net. I’m lucky to have a best friend who’s so fast.”

She grabbed a few loose cans and headed back toward the basement door, leaving Mike standing in the shadows of the garage.

“Best friend,” Mike repeated to the empty room, his voice flat. He looked down at his hands, which were still tingling from the feeling of holding her waist. “Reliable. A safety net.”

By the time the basement door creaked open and Mike stepped through, holding a flat of soda with an expression of grim determination, the group was perfectly, suspiciously silent.

From the top of the stairs, he heard the basement door open and Dustin’s muffled voice ask, “Did anyone die in the garage? Is there a body?”

Mike straightened his shirt, set his jaw, and began the long walk back down to the “miserable” audience waiting for him.

Mike stopped at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing them all. “Why are you all staring at me like I just grew a second head?”

“We aren't!” Lucas squeaked, his voice two octaves too high. “We were just... discussing the... political climate of the Underdark. Right, Max?”

“So political,” Max agreed, nodding aggressively.

Y/N hopped down the last few steps, clutching two cold cans. “You guys are weird. Mike, give them the drinks before they start vibrating out of their seats.”

As Mike handed out the sodas, he caught Eddie’s eye. Eddie gave him a slow, pitying thumbs-up. Mike just sighed, feeling the weight of the “friendship” harder than the crate of soda.

When the session finally ended, Y/N stood up and stretched, her shirt riding up just a fraction. Mike immediately looked at the floor, his ears turning a bright, traitorous red.

“Hey, Mike?” Y/N asked, grabbing her jacket. “My dad’s picking me and El up in ten, but I forgot my bike at the library earlier. Can I hitch a ride on your handlebars to the end of the block so I can meet him there? It’ll save him the U-turn.”

“Yeah,”Mike said, grabbing his keys with a bit more force than necessary. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”

“Come on, El!”

As they headed for the stairs, Dustin leaned over to the rest of the group. “Place your bets now. Does he try to hold her hand on the bike, or does he just suffer in silence for another three years?”

The Palace Arcade was a neon-soaked fever dream of synthesized music and the frantic clicking of joysticks. It was the perfect place for a “setup”—or so the group thought.

Eddie had cornered everyone earlier that day with a plan he called “Operation: Space Out.” The goal was simple: isolate Mike and Y/N in a cramped space and wait for the proximity to do the work.

“The Dragon’s Lair cabinet is in the back corner,” Eddie had whispered. “The screen is glitchy, the lighting is dim, and there’s barely enough room for one person, let alone two. It’s a pressure cooker, boys. A pressure cooker.”

There’s progress.

“It’s definitely the wiring,” Y/N said, squinting at the flickering screen of the Dragon's Lair machine. “If I just jiggle the joystick while you hold the cabinet steady, I bet we can get the colors to stop bleeding.”

Mike didn't need to be told twice. He stepped into the narrow gap between the machine and the wall, effectively boxing Y/N in. He leaned his weight against the side of the cabinet, his arm extending over her head to grip the top.

From the safety of the Dig Dug machine across the room, Dustin and Lucas were “playing,” but their eyes were glued to the back corner.

“Look at the height difference,” Dustin whispered, frantically moving the joystick on his game, yet the game still displayed the same screen. “He’s doing the 'wall-lean.' That’s a classic move. He’s basically hovering over her.”

“And it’s not even a part of our plan. It’s just the way they are—well, the way Mike is,” Max muttered, not looking up from her own game.

Back in the corner, Mike was trying to stay focused. But with the arcade's crowded Saturday night rush, people kept pushing past, forcing him to step even closer to Y/N. Their shoulders were pinned together. He could smell the strawberry lip gloss she’d applied earlier and the faint scent of the laundry detergent she used.

“Mike, look!” Y/N pointed at the screen, her hand accidentally brushing his chest. “The colors stabilized! Quick, put a quarter in.”

Mike didn't reach for his pocket. He just looked down at her, his expression uncharacteristically stern. He was tired of being the “reliable friend” who fixed her games. He wanted to be the guy who made her breath catch.

“I’m out of quarters,” Mike lied, his voice low and steady. He didn't move an inch, keeping her trapped in the small space he’d created.

“Oh, I have one!” Y/N started to dig into her pocket, but because the space was so tight, her hand got stuck against his hip. She laughed, looking up at him with that wide, innocent grin. “Oops. Little cramped in here, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mike said, his gaze dropping to her lips for a second before snapping back to her eyes. He didn't pull back to give her room. Instead, he leaned in a fraction more, his voice dropping to a firm, quiet command. “Stay still. You’re going to trip again.”

Y/N froze, her hand still resting near his pocket. For the first time, her smile wavered. She noticed the way his jaw was set, the way he wasn't looking at the game at all, but at her—with an intensity that made her stomach do a weird, fluttering flip she usually only felt on a roller coaster.

“Mike?” she whispered, her voice losing its playful edge. “You okay? You’re acting kind of... intense tonight.”

“I'm fine,” Mike said, his heart hammering so hard he was sure she could feel it through his shirt. “I'm just tired of playing games, Y/N.”

Max, Lucas, and Dustin,across the arcade, losing their minds and slapped each other’s hand excitedly.

The moment was shattered as Eddie swung by, draped in his leather jacket, eyeing the two of them with a grin. “Everything alright in the 'Tension Nook'? Or should I bring you two some oxygen?”

Y/N blinked, the spell breaking as she stepped out from under Mike’s arm, laughing nervously. “Mike’s just being a grump because we’re out of quarters. Come on, Wheeler, let’s go see if El won that giant stuffed bear at the crane machine.”

She grabbed Mike’s hand—not a romantic lace of fingers, but a quick, “come on” tug—and pulled him toward the exit.

Mike followed, his shoulders sagging as he walked past the group. Max had her mouth open, in disbelief, while the other two silently cursed Eddie from across the room.

The “flutter” in the arcade didn't go away. It stayed with Y/N all the way to the walk home, sitting in her chest like a stray spark from a fire. But because she was a Hopper, her first instinct wasn't “romance”—it was “medical emergency.”

“Maybe I’m getting a cold,” she muttered to herself as she sat on her bed later that night, El watching her from the desk.

“You are not sick,” El said, tilting her head. “Your heart is just... loud. Like Mike’s.”

Y/N laughed it off, but the next Friday, the group decided to turn up the heat. Eddie had “acquired” a key to the community pool for a late-night, after-hours swim. “No monsters, no gates, just vibes,” he had promised.

The Hawkins public pool was closed to the community, but Steve had the keys, and the “Party” had the snacks. The neon blue of the underwater lights hummed, casting dancing reflections against the concrete. It was supposed to be the perfect summer night. But for Y/N, the pool wasn't a playground; it was a vast, shimmering void waiting to swallow her.

Max and Lucas were splashing each other near the shallow end, while Eddie was busy trying to convince Dustin that he could do a backflip off the diving board without dying.

Mike was already in the water, his damp hair pushed back, revealing the sharp lines of his face. His white, damp shirt sticking to his body, highlighting every curse of his body. He looked... different in the moonlight. Leaner. More solid.

The pool was a shimmering expanse of deep, shadowed blue, illuminated only by the underwater lights. To the rest of the group, it was a playground. To Y/N, it was a void.

She sat on the concrete edge, her toes curled tightly over the water. She could hear Eddie’s laughter and the splash of Dustin hitting the water, but it all sounded like it was happening behind a thick pane of glass. Her breathing was becoming shallow, her heart racing—not with a “flutter” this time, but with cold, sharp anxiety.

“Hey.”

The voice was low and grounding. Mike was already in the water, but he wasn't splashing around with the others. He was right there, positioned at the edge of the pool directly in front of her.

Y/N sat on the edge, shivering slightly in the night air. “Is it freezing?”

“Only if you're a wimp,” Mike challenged. He swam over to the edge where she sat, looking up at her. The water beaded on his shoulders, reflecting the blue light. “Jump in. I'll catch you.”

“I can swim, Mike,” she lied, her heart did that annoying flutter again.

“I know you can,” Mike said, his voice dropping into that firm, no-nonsense tone. He reached up, his large hands gripping the edge of the pool on either side of her thighs, effectively anchoring her there. “But I said I’d catch you.”

She looked pale, her confidence replaced by a rigid, silent tremor.

Mike was already in the water, chest-deep. He wasn't splashing or playing. He was standing perfectly still, his eyes locked on her. He reached out his hands, palms up.

“I'm not jumping, Mike,” she whispered, her voice trembling just enough for him to hear. “I can't. I told you, I don't like not being able to feel the ground.”

Mike’s expression shifted instantly. The teasing smirk vanished, replaced by a look of intense, focused care. He swam even closer, reaching up to rest his large hands on the concrete on either side of her thighs again. He didn't look at the pool; he looked only at her.

“Look at me, Y/N,” he commanded. It wasn't a suggestion. It was that firm, “leader” voice, the one that made her feel safe even when the world was ending.

She forced her eyes down to meet his.

“I’m right here,” Mike said, his voice dropping to a soothing, steady register. “I’m six-foot-something. My feet are on the floor. The water is only at my chest. If you step in, you aren't going under. You’re coming straight to me.”

“It’s too much, Mike,” she whispered, her breath coming in shallow hitches. “It feels like... like there’s nothing underneath.”

“There's me,” Mike countered firmly. “I’m right here. I’m not going to let your head go under. Not even for a second. Trust my hands. Trust me. I’ve got you.“

Y/N took a shaky breath. Slowly, she reached down and took his hands. Slowly, painfully, she sat on the edge and slid in.

The moment the cool water hit her waist, she gasped, her fingers digging into Mike’s shoulders so hard her knuckles turned white. He didn't flinch.

Immediately, Mike’s hands moved from her fingers to her waist. He stepped forward, closing the distance until there wasn't an inch of space between them. He pulled her flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around her like a vice.

He just stepped closer, his arms wrapping fully around her waist, pulling her flush against him so she could feel his heartbeat.

His grip was warm and incredibly solid. She eased herself off the edge, and the moment the cool water hit her waist, she let out a small, panicked gasp.

“See? You're okay,” he murmured. “You're okay. I'm the anchor, remember?”

Y/N buried her face in the crook of his neck, her fingers clutching the damp fabric of his shirt. She was shaking, but the solidity of him—the way his heartbeat was steady against her own—began to pull her back from the ledge of panic, her legs instinctively brushing against his as they treading water.

“See?” Mike murmured, his face inches from hers. “Not cold.”

“Yeah,” Y/N whispered, her hands resting on his shoulders to stay afloat. “Not cold at all.”

For a long moment, the rest of the world disappeared. The splashing from the others felt miles away. Mike’s grip on her waist was firm, steady, and entirely un-platonic. He didn't move away. He waited, his eyes searching hers, practically begging her to finally put the pieces together.

“You're standing?” she whispered into his skin.

“Firm on the ground,” Mike promised. He shifted his grip, one hand staying on her waist while the other moved to the back of her head, shielding her, holding her close. “You’re safe. I’m not letting go.”

Across the pool, the splashing had stopped. Dustin, Lucas, and Max were staring in stunned silence. Even Eddie had gone quiet. They were seeing a young man who looked like he would burn the whole world down before he let a single drop of water frighten her.

“He's literally holding her like she’s the only thing keeping him afloat,” Max whispered, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

Y/N didn’t even register the weight of Mike’s words, but before she could process the intensity behind it, a small wave from Eddie splashing nearby sent a spray of water toward her face.

The sensation of water over her nose and eyes triggered a primal panic. Her breathing hitched into a sob, and she started to scramble, her hands splashing wildly as she tried to climb him, her eyes blown wide with terror.

She let out a tiny, startled sound and squeezed her eyes shut, burying her face back into Mike’s chest. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn't a breath of air between them.

“Hey, hey,” Mike whispered, his voice softening instantly. He turned his back to the rest of the pool, using his body as a literal shield to block any more splashes. “It was just a little water, Y/N. I’ve still got you. I’m not moving.”

“You are breathing,” he assured, his tone incredibly calm, steady, and unyielding. “Your face is dry. You’re standing on the bottom. Feel the floor. Put your feet down.”

“I... I can't,” she whimpered, her body still shaking.

“Yes, you can. I’m holding you. I’m not letting go.” He shifted his grip, one hand on the back of her head, the other pressing into the small of her back, holding her together. He leaned in until their foreheads touched. “Close your eyes. Just listen to me.”

He stayed true to his word. While the others eventually went back to their chaos—Dustin trying to prove he could hold his breath for three minutes while Lucas timed him—Mike remained an island of stillness in the shallow end.

Slowly, Y/N’s grip relaxed from a panicked squeeze to something softer, though she didn’t pull away. She felt the cool water swaying around her waist and the contrasting heat of Mike’s skin. She realized, in a hazy, distant way, that Mike was incredibly warm. And solid. And he smelled like chlorine and the peppermint gum he always chewed.

“You did it,” he said, a small, proud smile finally breaking through his serious expression. “You went in. That’s a win.”

Y/N let out a long, shaky breath, her "bratty" edge returning just a tiny bit as the terror faded. “I hated every second of it. I’m never doing that again. You're a jerk for making me go that deep.”

Mike let out a huff of a laugh, reaching up to wipe a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb. “There she is. I was wondering when you'd start complaining again.” He had shifted his hands so they were resting firmly on her hips, keeping her steady as the water bobbed around them.

“Better?” Mike asked after a few minutes.

Y/N finally peeked up at him. She was still close enough to see the individual droplets of water clinging to his hair to his forehead. “Yeah. Sorry. I know I’m being a brat about the water. I’m probably ruining the hangout for you.”

Mike’s expression went uncharacteristically soft, a small, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned down just a fraction, his gaze flicking over her face with a gentleness that would have made the rest of the group fall over in shock.

“You aren't ruining anything,” he said firmly. He reached up with one hand, his thumb catching a stray drop of water on her cheek and brushing it away with agonizing slowness. “I’d stand here all night if it meant you weren't scared.”

Y/N felt that flutter again, but she pushed it down, chalking it up to the adrenaline of the pool. “You’re too nice to me, Wheeler. Seriously. If I were you, I would’ve pushed me in the deep end by now.”

Mike let out a short, huffed laugh, his fingers lingering on her jaw for a second too long before he dropped his hand back to her waist. “Yeah, well. You aren't me.”

“True,” she teased, starting to feel a bit more like herself. She gave his shoulders a playful little squeeze. “I’m much shorter. And I have better hair.”

“Debatable,” Mike countered, his dark eyes sparkling with a mix of frustration and genuine affection.

The moment was pure, sugary fluff—the two of them swaying slightly in the blue-lit water, Mike being the perfect, protective anchor while Y/N slowly found her courage again. She didn't notice the way Lucas and Max were watching them from the steps, whispering to each other about how “disgustingly domestic” they looked

“Okay,” Y/N said, taking a deep breath. “I think I can try to stand on my own now. But don't go far.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mike said, his voice back to that low, firm tone. He slowly loosened his grip, but kept his hands hovering just inches from her sides, ready to catch her the second she wavered.

As she tested her footing, she beamed at him, a bright, triumphant smile. “See? Teamwork!”

Mike just sighed, a fond, tired sound. “Yeah. Teamwork.”

Y/N went back to his arms slowly, her eyes searching Mike’s. The fear was receding, replaced by that confusing, warm heat. She noticed the way he was looking at her—not with the “reliable” look of a best friend, but with a raw, desperate tenderness that felt... heavy.

“You really are a good friend, Mike,” she whispered, her voice hitching. “You always save me.”

Mike’s jaw tightened. For a second, his eyes darkened, and he looked like he was finally going to say it. He leaned in, his forehead almost touching hers.

“Y/N?” he said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet air.

“Yeah?”

“Are you still going to tell me tomorrow that we're just 'good friends'?”

The question was direct. It was the firmest he’d ever been. Y/N opened her mouth to give her usual cheerful response, but the words died in her throat. She looked at the way his wet lashes framed his eyes, the way his jaw was set with a desperate kind of courage.

Before she could answer, a loud SMACK echoed across the pool.

“MY BACK! EDDIE, I THINK I BROKE MY ENTIRE BACK!” Dustin yelled from the diving board area.

The spell broke. Y/N blinked, the “oblivious”mask sliding back into place, though it looked a little shakier than before. “Oh my god, Dustin!”She paddled back, slipping out of Mike’s arms. “Mike, go help him! You're strong!”

Mike stood in the chest-deep water, his hands empty and his head tilted back toward the stars. He let out a long, frustrated groan that was lost in the chaos of Dustin’s “injury.”

Across the pool, Max looked at Lucas and shook her head. “We’re going to be sixty years old and she’s still going to be calling him 'strong' and 'reliable' while he carries her groceries.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Eddie muttered, helping a groaning Dustin out of the water. “Next Friday. The Byers’ flat. We’re playing Spin the Bottle. I don't care if it’s cliché. We are ending this.”

While the neon lights of the pool were miles away, the Hopper cabin was silent, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.

Jim Hopper sat at the kitchen table, a lukewarm cup of coffee in front of him. He was trying to be “the cool dad.” He was trying to respect Y/N’s “post-Vecna freedom.” But he was also a cop, a father, and a man who had seen Mike Wheeler’s face every time Y/N walked into a room for the last seven years. He didn't trust it.

“El?” Hopper called out, glancing toward the living room.

Jand was sitting on the floor, the static of the TV acting as a soft white noise. She had the blindfold on, her head tilted back. She was “observing.”

“Is she okay?” Hopper asked, his voice a mix of genuine concern and protective suspicion. “She’s not... crying? No monsters?”

In the void of her mind, she saw them. She saw the blue water of the pool. She saw her sister, Y/N, clinging to Mike like he was the only solid thing in a liquid world. She saw the way Mike’s hands were clamped onto Y/N’s hips—not as a friend, but as someone who never wanted to let go. She saw the way Mike was looking at her sister, his expression so raw and full of pining that it made El’s heart ache.

She saw Mike lean in. She saw the firm way he held her. She saw the sheer, unadulterated romance of the moment.

A single bead of blood trickled from her nose. She pulled the blindfold off, blinking back into the dimly lit cabin.

Hopper was standing over her now, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed. “Well? Is she safe? What’s the Wheeler kid doing?”

She wiped the blood with her sleeve. She looked at him—who was currently vibrating with 'protective-dad' energy—and then she thought of Mike’s desperate face in the pool. If she told the truth, Mike would be banned from the house until the year 2099.

“She is safe,” El said, her voice steady. “They are... playing.”

“Playing?” Hopper repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Playing what? Marco Polo? Grab-the-Wheeler’s-Neck?”

“They are swimming,” she lied, picking her words carefully. “Y/N is afraid of the water. Mike is helping her stand. Like a... coach. Very professional.”

Hopper exhaled a long breath, his shoulders dropping about an inch. “A coach. Right. Useful. Good. As long as he’s keeping his distance.”

“Yes,” El said, her eyes flickering toward the TV static. “Much distance. They are like... two poles. Far apart.”

“Good,” Hopper grunted, heading back to the kitchen. “If I find out he’s being a 'brat' or getting too close, I'm gonna start making him do push-ups every time he rings the doorbell.”

El waited until he was gone before she let out a long, heavy sigh. She looked at the blank TV screen. She felt bad for lying, but she felt worse for Mike. Her sister was protected by a wall of obliviousness that even a psychic couldn't break through, and Mike was currently fighting a war on two fronts: Y/N’s heart and Hopper’s shotgun.

“Mike,” El whispered to the empty room, “you are in trouble.”

A BBQ at the Byers’ house was the closest thing to a “peace treaty” Hawkins could offer. The air was thick with the smell of charbroiled burgers, Joyce’s famous potato salad, and the sweet, heavy scent of summer grass.

It was supposed to be relaxing, but for the “Miserable Group,” it was just another chance to watch the Mike-and-Y/N tragedy unfold in real-time.

Mike was stationed at the grill with Jonathan, trying to look busy so he wouldn't have to endure more of Eddie’s “romantic advice.” He looked good—tshirt sleeves rolled up, a bit of soot on his cheek, and that firm, focused expression he wore whenever he was trying to prove he was useful.

“Hey, Wheeler,” Jonathan murmured, flipping a patty. “You’ve been staring at that one burger for five minutes. I think it’s dead.”

Mike snapped out of it, his eyes darting to the picnic table where Y/N was laughing at something Max had said. “I'm just... making sure it's medium-well. That’s how she likes it.”

Jonathan chuckled. “Of course. God forbid the girl gets a burger that isn't perfect.”

Across the yard, Y/N was holding court. She was wearing one of Mike's old flannels over a tank top—a fact she’d brushed off as “just grabbing the first thing I saw”—and she looked perfectly at home.

“You're wearing his clothes again,” Max whispered, leaning in close to Y/N.

“It was cold! And Mike doesn't mind,” Y/N said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s like a brother, Max. A very tall, very grumpy, very warm brother.”

Max made a sound like she was choking on a grape. “A brother. Right. Because brothers look at their sisters the way Mike is looking at you right now.”

Y/N turned her head. At the grill, Mike had stopped talking to Jonathan. He was standing there, tongs in hand, his gaze fixed on Y/N with an intensity that could have cooked the burgers without the charcoal. When their eyes met, he didn't look away. He didn't do the shy wave. He just gave her a slow, firm nod, his eyes trailing over the flannel she was wearing—his flannel.

Y/N’s face heated up. She turned back to the table, her heart doing that weird, frantic skip again. “He’s probably just making sure I don't spill mustard on it. He’s very protective of his stuff.”

“He’s protective of you, you idiot,” Max muttered, but Y/N was already distracted by Hopper walking over.

Hopper was the human equivalent of a thundercloud. He walked up to the grill, eyeing the way Mike was handling the meat. “Wheeler. You're overcooking that. Give it here.”

“I've got it, Chief,” Mike said, his voice surprisingly steady. He didn't back down. He stood his ground, maintaining eye contact with the man who could legally end him. “Y/N likes them this way. I’m handling it.”

The table went silent. Dustin stopped mid-bite. Lucas held his breath.

Hopper squinted, his mustache twitching. He looked at Mike, then at his daughter, then back at Mike. “Handling it, huh?”

“Yes,” Mike said firmly.

Hopper grunted, a sound that could have meant anything from ‘I respect your initiative’ to ‘I'm burying you in the woods later.’ He stomped away toward Joyce, leaving Mike standing there, slightly breathless but victorious.

“Whoa,” Dustin whispered as Mike walked over to the table a few minutes later, placing the perfect burger in front of Y/N. “The Paladin just stood up to the Final Boss.”

“Here,” Mike said to Y/N, ignoring Dustin. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear—a gesture so natural and yet so intimate that Max actually had to look away to keep from smiling. “Eat before it gets cold.”

“Thanks, Mike,” Y/N said, her voice a little softer than usual. She looked up at him, and for a fleeting second, the platonic label felt incredibly wrong. She felt like a brat for how much she enjoyed him taking charge like that. “You're... really good at this.”

“I know,” Mike said, his voice a low, confident rumble. He sat down right next to her—not across, not at the end, but so close their shoulders were pressed together.

The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the Indiana sky in bruised purples and burnt oranges. The fire pit was crackling now, the sharp scent of woodsmoke replacing the smell of charred meat. This was the “found family” at its best—a circle of survivors who had traded trauma for toasted marshmallows.

But even in the peace, the Mike-and-Y/N magnet was pulling harder than ever.

As the evening chill set in, the group migrated toward the fire. Eddie had produced an acoustic guitar from the trunk of his car and was strumming something low and melodic, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like a slowed-down version of a Metallica song.

Y/N was huddled on a log, still wearing Mike’s flannel, which she had now buttoned all the way up to her chin. She looked small against the backdrop of the flickering flames, her eyes bright and reflective.

Mike didn't even ask. He simply moved a stray cooler out of the way and sat down on the log next to her. Because the log was uneven, they were forced to sit flush against one another. Mike draped a heavy arm across the back of her shoulders—not quite touching her yet, but creating a barrier between her and the rest of the world.

“You’re shivering,” Mike noted. It wasn't a question; it was an observation made with that new, protective firmness.

“I’m fine, Mike. It’s just the wind,” she insisted, though a traitorous chill shook her shoulders right as she said it.

Without a word, Mike shifted. He didn't just put his arm around her; he pulled her firmly into his side, tucking her head under his chin. His hand came down to rest on her upper arm, rubbing circles through the thick flannel to warm her up.

Across the fire, Joyce Byers leaned her head on Hopper’s shoulder, watching the two teenagers with a knowing, maternal smile. Hopper, on the other hand, was staring into the fire, his jaw working as he gripped his beer can a little too tight.

“Hop,” Joyce whispered, nudging him. “Look at them. They’re happy.”

“He’s too close,” Hopper grunted, though there was less bite in it than usual. “He's within the six-inch radius. He knows the rules.”

“He's keeping her warm,” Jane added from Hopper's other side, her voice calm and factual. “She is cold. He is a heater. It is logical.”

Hopper sighed, a long, defeated sound. He didn't get up to separate them. He just took another sip of his drink and looked away.

Back on the log, Y/N felt like her brain was melting. Usually, she’d make a joke about Mike being a “human space heater,” but she couldn't find the words. The way his chest rose and fell against her temple was rhythmic and grounding.

“Mike?” she whispered, so low only he could hear.

“Yeah?”

“Everyone is looking at us.”

Mike didn't pull away. If anything, he tightened his grip, his fingers digging slightly into her shoulder in a way that felt possessive and certain. “Let them look. Are you warm?”

“…Yeah,” she breathed. “I'm warm.”

“Good. Then stay put.”

Dustin leaned over to Lucas, his face illuminated by the fire like a conspiratorial goblin. “Look at Wheeler’s face. He looks like he just won the lottery. He’s actually doing it. He’s being... bold.”

“He can’t let go of her for one second,” Max whispered, a smirk playing on her lips. “She tries to act like it’s nothing, and he just leans in harder. It’s hilarious. She has no idea what to do when she can't laugh it off.”

As Eddie started playing a softer, more recognizable ballad, the chatter died down. For a moment, the “miserable group” wasn't miserable. They were just kids who had survived the dark, watching their two best friends finally—finally—occupying the same space without a monster between them.

Y/N closed her eyes, letting the heat of the fire and the heat of Mike Wheeler lull her into a sense of perfect safety. She still told herself it was “just Mike.” But as he rested his cheek against the top of her head, she found herself hoping the fire would never go out.

The transition from the backyard to the living room was seamless. As the fire died down, the air got just chilly enough that the lure of the Byers’ cramped, warm living room became irresistible.

They settled into a circle on the floor, the yellow light of the lamps casting long, flickering shadows. Hopper and Joyce had retreated to the porch with a bottle of wine, their muffled laughter a distant safety net.

“We’ve spent the last three years fighting monsters, literal and metaphorical. I think we’ve earned a night of complete, childish, idiotic fun. No world-ending stakes. Just a game.”

Y/N leaned back against the sofa, her legs stretched out near Mike’s. “What kind of game, Munson? If you say Truth or Dare, I’m going to bed.”

“Better,” Eddie smirked, reaching behind a stack of records and pulling out an empty glass bottle. “Spin the bottle. Old school. But with a twist—the 'Heaven' closet is the hall one. Seven minutes.”

A chorus of groans and nervous laughs went around. Mike sat perfectly still. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips. He glanced at Dustin, who gave him a thumbs-up so frantic it looked like he was having a spasm.

He produced an empty glass Coke bottle with the flourish of a magician. “The rules are simple. Spin the bottle. Whoever it lands on, you and the spinner get seven minutes in the hall closet. No talking about D&D, no talking about the Upside Down. Just... seven minutes of heaven.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, leaning back on her elbows. She was still wearing Mike’s flannel, looking comfortable and entirely unaware that she was the target of a high-level tactical operation. “Eddie, this is so cliché. We aren't twelve.”

“Cliché is a classic for a reason, Hopper!” Dustin chimed in, far too quickly.

Mike sat directly across from Y/N, his face a mask of practiced calm, though his pulse was visible in his neck. He caught Lucas’s eye, who gave him a sharp, subtle nod.

“I'll go first,” Max said, giving the bottle a casual flick. It landed on Lucas. They both shrugged and disappeared into the hallway. They retreated to the closet with a chorus of “Get a room!” from Dustin.

When they returned seven minutes later—Max looking smug and Lucas looking a little dazed—the air in the room had shifted. It was Y/N’s turn.

“Your go, Rogue,” Eddie said, his grin widening.

Y/N reached out and gave the bottle a healthy shove. It hissed against the hardwood floor, spinning in a blur of green glass. As it started to slow, it was pointed directly at Dustin.

Dustin’s eyes went wide with horror. He looked at Jane.

Jane sat perfectly still, her gaze fixed on the bottle. She didn't move a muscle, but her brow furrowed in concentration. Just as the bottle was about to click to a stop in front of Dustin, it suddenly—and impossibly—shuddered. It jerked a full forty-five degrees to the right, sliding against the friction of the floor until the neck was pointing straight at Mike Wheeler.

A single, tiny drop of blood escaped her nose. She wiped it away by pretending to stretch.

“Oh!” Dustin shouted, sounding way too relieved. “Would you look at that! Mike! What are the odds?”

“The bottle has spoken,” Eddie declared, standing up and sweeping a hand toward the hallway. “Seven minutes. Don’t have too much fun.”

Y/N stared at the bottle, then at Mike. Her heart gave a violent, panicked thud. “That... that didn't look like it was going to land on him.”

“Physics is a mystery,” Lucas said solemnly.

“Statistically improbable,” Will added, hiding a smile behind his hand.

“Gravity is weird in this house,” Eddie said with a wink, standing up to open the closet door. “The bottle doesn't lie, Rogue. Wheeler, take her away.”

Mike stood up first. He didn't wait for her to make a joke or a protest. He stepped toward her and offered his hand, his fingers steady. “Rules are rules, Y/N. Unless you're scared?”

That did it. Y/N’s pride flared up. She took his hand—finding it much sticky with sweat, and more solid than she expected—and stood up. “I'm not scared of a closet, Wheeler.”

“Good,” Mike said, his voice dropping into that low, firm register. “Because it's a small closet.”

The group watched in breathless silence as Mike led her down the hall. The door clicked shut, the sound echoing in the quiet house.

“Go,” Dustin whispered the second they were out of sight. "Everyone, to the door. Quietly!"

Y/N took his hand, her fingers trembling slightly, and let him lead her into the cramped, dark closet.

The door clicked shut, plunging them into darkness.

The closet was small, filled with the scent of Joyce’s winter coats and cedar. It was so tight that Y/N had to step between Mike’s feet just to fit. She could feel his warmth radiating off him, more intense than the bonfire.

The darkness in the closet was so thick it felt like a physical weight. Every sound was magnified: the muffled laughter of the group in the other room, the ticking of a clock somewhere in the hall, and, most prominently, the sound of Mike’s breathing.

“Mike?” Y/N whispered. She shifted her feet, her sneakers squeaking against the hardwood. “Can you move your arm? You’re kind of... squishing a parka into my head.”

She heard a faint, huffed sound—the ghost of a laugh. “Sorry,” he murmured.

She felt him shift, but he didn't move away. Instead, he moved his arm higher, his hand resting on the top shelf of the closet. The movement brought his body even closer, the front of his shirt now brushing against the flannel she was wearing. His flannel.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yeah. Better.”

The silence returned, but it wasn't the comfortable silence they usually shared while watching movies or biking to the quarry. It was charged. It felt like the static electricity that builds up before a lightning strike.

Y/N’s hand was still resting on his chest, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. She realized she should probably move it, but her arm felt heavy, and the steady, rapid thump-thump of his heart under her palm was strangely grounding.

“It’s really dark in here,” she said, her voice barely a breath. It was a stupid thing to say—obviously it was dark—but she needed to break the tension before she did something impulsive, like lean into him.

“I don't mind the dark,” Mike said. His voice was low, vibrating through his chest and into her hand. “Do you?”

“No. It’s just... quiet.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Mike asked. He moved his other hand, the one that had been at his side. Slowly, as if giving her every chance to pull away, he reached out. His fingers found her chin, his touch light but firm, tilting her face up just a fraction.

Y/N’s breath hitched. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel him looking at her. The retort she had prepared—something about him being a ‘bossy coach’—died in her throat.

“You're usually so loud,” Mike noted, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Always talking. Always making jokes. You're never this quiet.”

“Well, you're usually not this... close,” she countered, her voice trembling slightly.

“Maybe I should be,” Mike murmured.

He didn't lean in for a kiss. He just stood there, holding her face in the dark, his thumb brushing slowly against the line of her jaw. It was a terrifyingly intimate gesture, one that didn't fit into the “best friend” box she had kept him in for years.

“Mike,” she whispered, her heart doing a frantic somersault. “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know about you, but I'm waiting,” Mike said, his tone shifting into that firm, certain register.

“Waiting for what?”

“For you to stop pretending,” he said quietly. “For you to realize that I didn't land on this spot because of the bottle. I've been standing in this spot for years, Y/N. Just waiting for you to notice.”

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the sound of their shallow breathing. Y/N felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff. Part of her wanted to crack a joke, to call him a “drama queen” and laugh it off so they could go back to the way things were—safe, easy, and platonic.

But the way his thumb was tracing her jawline made it impossible to laugh. It was too deliberate. Too firm.

“I'm not... I'm not pretending,” Y/N whispered, though even to her own ears, the words sounded weak. “We're just... we're Mike and Y/N. We’re the duo. You’re the one who keeps me from doing stupid things, and I’m the one who makes sure you don't take everything so seriously.”

“Maybe I want to be serious,” Mike countered. He leaned in just an inch more, his forehead almost touching hers. “Did you ever think about that? That maybe I’m tired of being the ‘duo’ if it means I have to pretend I don't feel like my lungs are failing every time you smile at me?”

Y/N’s fingers tightened on his shirt, bunching the fabric. “Mike...”

“You’re a brat, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, affectionate growl that sent a shiver straight down her spine. “You’re stubborn, and you’re oblivious, and you treat me like a piece of furniture you can just lean on whenever you’re tired. And the worst part is? I let you. I let you because I’d rather be something to you than nothing at all.”

He let out a shaky breath, his resolve wavering for just a second before it hardened again. “But I'm done being a ‘good friend’ today. Just for seven minutes. I want to know if you actually don't see it... or if you're just scared.”

Y/N felt a lump in her throat. For the first time, she couldn't hide behind her obliviousness. He had stripped it away, leaving her exposed in the dark. “I'm not scared,” she lied, her voice cracking.

“Liar,” Mike whispered.

He didn't kiss her. Instead, he tilted his head down, resting his forehead against hers. It was a grounding, heavy pressure. In the pitch black of the closet, with only the scent of cedar and Mike surrounding her, Y/N finally let herself feel it—the way her heart hammered when he was near, the way she constantly sought him out in a crowded room, the way his flannel felt more like home than her own clothes.

Suddenly, a muffled thud came from the other side of the door, followed by a frantic “Shhh!” and the sound of someone’s sneakers scuffing the floor.

“Dustin, you're on my foot!” Will’s hissed whisper was unmistakable through the wood.

“I can't hear anything! Are they even talking?” Max’s voice was a low thread of frustration.

The spell didn't break, but it shifted. Mike didn't jump back. He didn't even flinch. He just stayed there, his forehead against hers, his hand still firm on her jaw. He was waiting for her move.

“They're going to open the door in about sixty seconds,” Mike murmured, his breath warm against her lips. “Seven minutes is almost up.”

Y/N looked up, even though she could only see the faint outline of his eyes. “And then what?”

“And then,” Mike said, his voice regaining that steady, protective firmness, “you have to decide if you're going to walk out that door as my best friend... or if you're finally going to let me be honest with you and accept it.”

The air in the closet was vibrating. Y/N’s heart was drumming against her ribs, and Mike was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. She opened her mouth, her pulse thundering in her ears—maybe to say his name, maybe to finally close the gap—but the choice was stolen from her.

CRASH.

The closet door didn't just open; it groaned under the weight of three teenagers who had been leaning far too hard against the wood. Dustin tumbled in first, landing on his hands and knees, followed by Lucas, who narrowly avoided stepping on him. Max managed to stay upright, but she was clutching the doorframe, her face flushed with a mix of excitement and “caught-red-handed” guilt.

“Uh... hi!” Dustin squeaked, looking up from the floor at Mike’s shoes. “The seven minutes... it felt like ten? Time is a flat circle, right?”

The yellow light from the hallway flooded in, blinding and harsh.

Mike didn't move immediately. He stood there, his hand slowly dropping from Y/N’s jaw, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. The look on his face wasn't embarrassed; it was devastating. He looked like a man who had just watched his entire world crumble inches before the finish line.

Y/N felt the sudden light like a slap. The realization of where she was, who was watching, and what Mike had just said hit her all at once. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her chest.

“Y/N?” Mike whispered, his voice low and searching, ignoring the trio on the floor.

She couldn't look at him. If she looked at him, she’d cry, or scream, or kiss him—and with her friends staring and her dad just through those walls, she couldn't do any of it. Her confidence had completely evaporated, replaced by a raw, suffocating fear.

“I... I can't,” she murmured, her voice barely a thread. She didn't look up, her eyes fixed on the hem of his shirt. “I’m sorry, Mike. I’m sorry.”

Before he could reach for her, before he could say another word, she stepped over the group, her foot almost catching on Dustin’s as she practically sprinted down the hallway.

“Wait, Y/N!” Lucas called out, but she didn't stop.

She burst into the porch, her eyes darting the familiar, towering silhouette of Jim Hopper by the door, talking to Joyce. He looked up, his protective instincts flaring instantly at the sight of his daughter’s pale face and wide eyes.

“Hey, kid? What’s wrong?” Hopper asked, his voice dropping into that low, rumble of concern. He stepped toward her, his eyes already flicking toward the hallway to see if Mike was behind her.

“Dad,” Y/N said, her voice trembling. She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, her fingers shaking. “I'm tired. I... I want to go home. Please. Can we just go home?”

Hopper’s gaze sharpened. He saw the way she was vibrating with tension, the way she refused to look back at the “miserable” group now standing awkwardly in the hallway. He looked over her head and caught Mike’s eye.

Mike was standing at the end of the hall, half-hidden in the shadows, looking like he’d been struck by lightning.

“Yeah,” Hopper said, his voice unusually soft as he put a heavy, protective arm around Y/N’s shoulders. He shot Mike one last, warning glance—not one of anger, but of deep, suspicious curiosity. “Yeah, let's get out of here. El! Get your shoes. We're leaving.”

Y/N didn't say goodbye to anyone. She didn't look back as the front door clicked shut behind them, leaving the “miserable group” standing in a silence that felt heavier than any monster they had ever fought.

The car ride back to the cabin was suffocating. The only sound was the low rumble of the Blazer’s engine and the occasional click of Hopper’s turn signal. Hopper kept glancing in the rearview mirror, his eyes shifting between Y/N’s ghost-pale face and El, who was staring out the window with a look of deep, quiet guilt.

Hopper knew better than to push right then—he could feel the ozone in the air, the kind that preceded a total meltdown.

The moment they crossed the threshold of the cabin, Y/N didn't even take off her shoes. She bolted for the bedroom she shared with El, the door closed shut with a finality that made Hopper pause in the hallway, hand hovering over the wood before he ultimately sighed and let it go.

Inside, the room was dim. Y/N collapsed onto her bed, still wrapped in that oversized flannel—Mike’s flannel—and pulled her knees to her chest. A moment later, the door creaked open. El slipped in, moving like a shadow, and sat on the edge of the mattress.

“Y/N,” El said softly. She reached out, her hand hovering before resting on Y/N’s trembling shoulder. “Are you... hurt?”

“I'm fine,” Y/N choked out, but her voice betrayed her. She sat up abruptly, her hair a mess, her eyes red-rimmed. “No, I'm not fine. I'm a mess, El. Everything is a mess.”

El tilted her head, her dark eyes filled with a wisdom that far outstripped her years. “The bottle... it was not an accident. I moved it. I am sorry.”

Y/N froze, her breath hitching. “You... you did that? Why?”

“Because Mike's heart is so loud,” El explained simply, her voice dropping. “And because I thought you knew. I thought you were just... waiting.”

“I wasn't waiting! I was breathing!” Y/N suddenly stood up, pacing the small square of floor. “In that closet... it was so small, El. And he was so close. He wasn't being 'good old Mike.' He was being... firm. He was so sure of his words, and it was so much. It was too much.”

She stopped, leaning her forehead against her knees. “He told me he was tired of being my friend. He told me I was a brat for not noticing. And the worst part is, I wanted to say something back. I wanted to tell him that I think I’ve been scared of this for years because if I lose him as a friend, I have nothing. But then the door opened, and everyone was staring, and I just... I couldn't breathe. I felt so pressured to have the 'perfect' answer, and all I had was panic.”

She turned back to El, her voice dropping to a broken whisper. “I said I was sorry and I ran away. I left him standing there in the dark, El. He looked like I’d just kicked him in the chest. How am I supposed to ever look at him again?”

El stood up and walked over, pulling her sister into a steady, grounding hug. “Mike is the Paladin,” she murmured. “He is stubborn. He will wait. But you must be honest. Not with him... with yourself.”

Y/N clung to her sister, the weight of the night finally crashing down. The obliviousness was gone, replaced by a terrifying, beautiful clarity that she wasn't ready for.

The next few days were a masterclass in avoidance. Y/N had mastered the art of the “Hopper Exit”—slipping out of the back of the arcade the moment she saw a lanky silhouette at the front door, or suddenly having “too much homework” the second a walkie-talkie crackled with Mike’s voice.

But Mike wasn't the only one feeling the heat. The “Miserable Group” was currently operating under a cloud of intense, collective guilt.

“We are the worst friends in the history of Hawkins,” Dustin lamented, slumped over a booth at Benny’s Burgers. “Actually, scratch that. We are the worst friends in the history of the Tri-State area.”

“I told you the door was unstable,” Lucas muttered, staring miserably at his fries. “But no, you had to lean in for the ‘prime acoustic’ position.”

Max didn't even argue. She just stared at the entrance, waiting. When Mike finally walked in, he looked like he hadn't slept since the 1980s began. His eyes were shadowed, his jaw was tight, and he moved with a grim, focused energy. He didn't even look at them as he slid into the booth.

“She's still not answering the walkie,” Mike said, his voice flat. He didn't ask for a burger. He didn't ask how they were. “I went to the cabin. Hopper told me if I stepped on the porch again, he’d make sure I spent the rest of my life in a cast.”

“Mike, look,” Dustin started, his voice cracking with sincerity. “We blew it. We know we blew it. We owe you. Big time.”

Mike finally looked up, his dark eyes flashing with a spark of that new, firm intensity. “You don't owe me an apology. You owe me a chance to talk to her without three idiots falling through a door.”

“Consider it done,” Eddie said, sliding into the booth next to Mike with a determined look. “The Party has reached a consensus. We’ve been ‘observing’ her habits. She’s avoiding the arcade, the basement, and your house. But she still goes to the library on Tuesdays to return her sister’s books.”

“The library,” Mike repeated, his mind already working. “There’s only one exit.”

“And we,” Lucas said, pulling out a set of walkies, “will be the perimeter. No one gets in or out of that aisle until you’ve said what you need to say. Not even the librarian.”

The Hawkins Library was a tomb of hushed whispers and the smell of old paper. Y/N moved through the stacks like a ghost, her hood pulled up, eyes darting around. She felt like a fugitive. Every time someone cleared their throat, she expected it to be Mike.

She reached the back of the “Science Fiction” section—the quietest corner of the building—and let out a shaky breath. She just needed to drop off the books and get back to the safety of the Blazer.

Click.

The sound of a door locking echoed from the end of the aisle. Y/N spun around, her heart jumping into her throat.

There, standing at the end of the narrow row of bookshelves, was Mike. He wasn't leaning. He wasn't hiding. He was standing dead center, his arms crossed, his expression incredibly firm. Behind him, she could just see the top of Dustin’s curly hair through the glass of the door, holding a “Section Closed for Maintenance” sign.

“You've been fast, Y/N,” Mike said, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet. He started walking toward her, his boots thudding softly on the carpet. “But I can handle your pace.”

“Mike, please,” Y/N whispered, backing away until her heels hit the base of the bookshelf. “I told you... I’m sorry. I can't do this right now.”

“You've been saying ‘I can’t’for three days,” Mike said. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of her, so close she had to tilt her head back to see his face.

“I'm not letting you run away this time,” he said, his voice a low, steady command. “The group is guarding the door. Your dad is at the station. It's just us. No pressure, no audience. Just tell me why you're running.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes welling with frustrated, panicked tears. “Because I don't know the answer, Mike! Because everything was fine, and now I can't even breathe without thinking about what you said in that closet! You’re my best friend, and I’m terrified that if I say the wrong thing, I’ll lose the only person who actually handles me.”

“Hate me, shoot me, hit me,” Mike murmured, his gaze softening but his stance remaining unyielding. He leaned in, his nose inches from hers. “But don’t avoid me. You’re never going to lose me. Do you really think I'd walk away after seven years just because you're scared?”

He reachef out one hand, his fingers gently catching her chin to keep her from looking away. “Be honest with me, Y/N. For once. Forget the group, forget your dad. When I held you in the water... when I held you in the closet... did you really feel nothing?”

The silence of the library felt heavy, but for the first time, it didn't feel like it was suffocating her. It felt like a shield.

Y/N looked at Mike—really looked at him—and saw the way his eyes were searched hers, full of a terrifying amount of hope and that stubborn, firm resolve. She let out a shaky, frustrated breath, her shoulders finally dropping.

“You're so annoying,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You know that? You're bossy, and you're intense, and you've spent the last week making me feel like my heart is going to explode.”

Mike didn't flinch. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“It's a 'shut up,'” she muttered. She reached up, grabbing the collar of his jacket and pulling him down that last inch.

The kiss wasn't like a movie. It was slightly clumsy, smelling of old library books and Mike’s peppermint gum, but it was certain. It was the answer to seven years of pining, and the moment their lips met, the panic that had been living in Y/N’s chest for days finally vanished.

Mike’s hand moved from her chin to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair as he held her there, deepening the kiss with a possessive, firm hunger that made her knees feel like they were made of jelly.

From behind the glass door of the science fiction section, a muffled, high-pitched “YES!” erupted, followed by the sound of Dustin, Eddie, and Lucas being aggressively shushed by Will, Jane, and Max.

Y/N pulled back just a fraction, resting her forehead against Mike's, both of them breathing hard. She couldn't help it—the spark in her came right back to the surface the moment she felt safe again.

“Okay, okay,” she breathed, patting his chest playfully. “Don't get ahead of yourself, Wheeler.”

Mike blinked, looking slightly dazed but blissfully happy. “What?”

“I mean, that was... fine,” she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “But you can't just corner me in a library and expect to be my boyfriend with zero effort. No flowers? No dinner? You haven't even taken me on a real date yet, and you're already acting like the Paladin who rescued the Rogue.”

Mike let out a genuine, loud laugh—the first one in days. He didn't pull away, though. He kept his arms looped loosely around her waist, keeping her in his space.

“A date?” he repeated, his voice dropping back into that low, confident tone. “Fine. Friday night. I'll pick you up. I’ll even wear a tie if it makes you happy.”

“And you have to ask my dad,” she added, her grin widening. “Formally. In person.”

Mike’s face went slightly pale at the mention of Hopper, but he didn't back down. He stood tall, his grip on her waist tightening just enough to show he wasn't going anywhere.

“I can handle the Chief,” Mike said firmly. “As long as I get to take you home after.”

“We'll see,” Y/N chirped, finally slipping out from his arms and heading toward the door. She stopped, looking back over her shoulder with a wink. “Better start practicing those push-ups, Mike. I think you're gonna need 'em.”

As she pushed past the cheering group, Mike stood in the aisle for a moment, a goofy, triumphant grin plastered on his face. He had her. She was his. And for Mike Wheeler, that was the greatest high score he’d ever achieved.

Friday night arrived with the kind of atmospheric tension usually reserved for a gate opening.

In the Wheeler driveway, Mike stood frozen next to Steve’s BMW that he borrowed, staring at his reflection in the chrome of the mirror. He was wearing a crisp button-down tucked into dark slacks.

“Confidence, Wheeler,” Steve’s voice echoed in his head. “And for the love of God, don't mention the words 'sub-level' or 'dungeon.' It’s a restaurant. With forks.”

The Hopper cabin sat at the end of the long, dark driveway like a final boss arena. Mike climbed the porch steps, his loafers clicking unnervingly loud. He stopped at the door, taking a deep breath and mentally scrolling through Nancy’s frantic checklist:

Eye contact. Firm handshake (but don't squeeze, he'll think you're challenging him). Compliment the house? No, that’s weird. Compliment the food. Be home by 10:00 PM. Not 10:01. 10:00.

He knocked. Three firm raps.

The door didn't just open; it swung wide to reveal Jim Hopper in all his flannel-clad, broad-shouldered glory. He was holding a glass of juice, but he held it like it was a weapon. He looked Mike up and down—slowly—focusing on the Steve-inspired hair.

“Wheeler,” Hopper grunted.

“Chief,” Mike said. His voice cracked slightly, but he cleared his throat and stood his ground, chin up. He extended a hand. “I’m here to take Y/N to dinner. Sir.”

Hopper stared at the hand for three very long seconds before giving it a single, bone-crushing squeeze. “You look like you're going to a funeral. Or a job interview.”

“It's a date,” Mike corrected, his voice regaining that low, firm edge. “I will treat her right.”

Hopper’s eyes narrowed. He stepped back, allowing Mike into the living room. “El! Get out here and tell your sister the suit is here!”

Jane emerged from the hallway, wearing a small, secretive smile. She looked at Mike, nodded once in approval of the outfit, and then looked at her dad. “He is nervous. His heart is fast.”

“I can hear it from here,” Hopper muttered. He turned back to Mike, leaning his weight against the kitchen counter. “Listen to me. She’s had a rough year. We’ve all had a rough year. If she comes back even a second late, or if she looks like she’s been crying, I won't need a warrant to find where you live.”

“She’ll be home at ten,” Mike promised, his gaze unwavering. “And she’ll be happy. I'll make sure of it.”

Before Hopper could offer another threat, the hallway door opened. Y/N stepped out, and Mike actually forgot how to breathe for a second. She wasn't wearing his flannel. She was in a dress that made her look older, her hair styled just enough to show she’d tried, but she still had that smirk on her face the moment she saw Mike’s polished look.

“Whoa,” Y/N teased, walking over and smoothing out a wrinkle on his lapel. “Who are you and what have you done with my scrawny best friend?”

“He's in here somewhere,” Mike murmured, his hand instinctively finding the small of her back—firmly, but gently.

“You look nice, Mike,” she whispered, her eyes softening in a way that made Hopper clear his throat loudly.

“Alright, alright,” Hopper interrupted, stepping between them to hand Y/N a ten-dollar bill 'just in case.' “Go. Eat. Ten o'clock. Wheeler, I'm counting the minutes.”

“Goodnight, Dad! Love you, El!” Y/N called out, grabbing Mike’s hand and pulling him toward the door before Hopper could change his mind.

As they stepped out into the cool night air, the porch light illuminating them, Mike felt the tension finally break. He led her toward the car he’d borrowed from Steve, opening the passenger door for her with a flourish that was half-sincere, half-teasing.

“So,” Y/N said as he got into the driver's seat. “Steve helped with the hair and car, and Nancy helped with the clothes... did Dustin help with the conversation starters?”

Mike laughed, reaching across the center console to take her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “No. I think I can handle the talking on my own from here.”

“Yeah?” she asked, leaning in.

“Yeah,” Mike said, his voice low and certain as he started the engine. “I’ve had seven years to practice.”

Mike froze as her hand reached up, his eyes widening. He’d spent forty-five minutes and half a can of Nancy’s strongest hairspray trying to achieve the “Harrington Sweep,” but as her fingers dove into the locks, he didn't pull away.

With a few playful tugs and a vigorous tousle, Y/N dismantled Steve’s hard work, leaving Mike’s hair falling back into its usual, messy dark mop over his forehead.

“There,” she said, leaning back with a satisfied grin, her eyes bright and fond. “Much better. You look like Mike again. I like you that way.”

Mike looked at himself in the rearview mirror, then back at her. The rigid, nervous “leading man” posture he’d been holding since he stepped onto the porch finally dissolved. He let out a long, relieved sigh, a genuine smile breaking across his face.

“Steve is going to be devastated,” Mike teased, though his voice was thick with affection. He reached out, catching her hand before she could pull it away and bringing it to his lips for a soft, lingering kiss on her knuckles. “But if you like it... I guess I can live with it.”

“Good,” she chirped, settling into the seat. “Now, let’s go. I’m starving, and we have exactly two hours and forty-two minutes before my dad starts pacing the driveway with a flashlight.”

It had been a few months since the Byers family had returned from California, and the Wheeler house had absorbed them like a sponge taking on water - slowly, with visible strain, but ultimately successful. One corner of the basement became Jonathan's makeshift room. Joyce slept on a cot near the washing machine. El had moved back in with Hopper in his cabin. Will had claimed the corner of the basement near the furnace.

And Lucy... Lucy had the couch.

Mike tried not to think about Lucy sleeping down there. He tried not to think about her at all, actually, because thinking about Lucy Byers had become a dangerous occupation for his brain. She was Will's sister - twin sister - which meant she was absolutely, completely, totally off-limits. Will was his best friend. You didn't develop feelings for your best friend's twin sister. That was, like, rule number one of the friendship code.

Except Mike was pretty sure he'd already broken that rule. Shattered it, actually. Obliterated it into a million tiny pieces.

It had started small. The way she'd smiled at him when they'd pulled up in that packed van, exhausted and road-weary but home. The way she'd helped him set up the basement without being asked, seeming to understand instinctively where things should go. They way she'd sat in on their D&D sessions and actually gotten it, asking smart questions about lore and laughing at his jokes in a way that made his chest feel tight.

And then the was the Hellfire shirt incident.

It had happened last week. Mike had been looking everywhere for his Hellfire Club t-shirt - the one Eddie had given him before... before everything. He'd torn apart his room, checked the laundry, even asked Nancy of she'd seen it. Nothing.

Then he'd gone downstairs to check the laundry again and seen Lucy folding laundry, his Hellfire shirt in her hands.

"Oh, is this yours?" she'd said, holding it up. "Sorry, it got mixed in with Will's stuff."

She'd handed it to him, and their fingers had brushed, and Mike had felt like he'd touched a live wire.

"You can... I mean, if you want to borrow it sometime, that's cool," he'd stammered, immediately wanting to punch himself for how stupid he sounded.

Lucy had smiled - that smile that made his stomach due backflips. "Yeah? I make take you up on that."

He'd thought she was just being nice.

Now, standing at the top of the basement stairs with a glass of water in one hand and a sleeve of saltines in the other, Mike realized she hadn't been just being nice.

Lucy had been sick that morning - nothing serious, just a bad cold that had left her voice raspy and her nose red. Joyce had insisted she stay home from school, and Mike had tried very hard not to think about the fact that Lucy would be in his house, in his basement, all day while he was stuck in Mrs. O'Donnell's history class learning about the Treaty of Versailles.

When he, Will, and El had returned, they'd gone straight to his room (instead of downstairs) as planned, keeping their voices down so Lucy could sleep. But after about an hour of half-hearted homework and Will's concerned glances toward the door, Mike had volunteered to check on her.

"Just gonna bring her some water," he'd said, trying to sound casual.

Will had given him a look - one of those twin-telepathy looks that made Mike wonder if Lucy had some kind of psychic connection that let her know every stupid thought that went through his head.

"That's... nice of you," Will had said carefully.

Now Mike was descending the stairs, each step careful and quiet, and he was absolutely not prepared for what he saw when he reached the bottom.

Lucy was asleep on the couch, curled up on her side, back facing the cushions. Her dark hair - longer than Will's, falling past her shoulders - was spread across the pillow. One hand was tucked under her cheek. Her legs were drawn up, knees bent.

And she was wearing his Hellfire shirt.

Just his Hellfire shirt.

Well, probably not just his shirt - Mike's brain short-circuited for a second before logic reasserted itself - but from his vantage point, all he could see was the white and black fabric with Eddie's devil logo, then hem riding up slightly on her thigh, her bare legs pale against the dark couch cushions.

Mike froze.

His heart was doing something complicated in his chest, something that felt like a drum solo and a guitar riff and the moment right before a critical hit all rolled into one. His mouth went dry. The glass of water in his hand suddenly felt very heavy.

Wow.

The word appeared in his mind unbidden, but it was the only word that fit. Just: wow.

He'd seen Lucy dozens of times over the past few weeks. He'd seen her in the morning with bedhead and pajamas, seen her laughing with El, seen her helping his mom with dinner. He'd memorized the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was concentrating, the way she bit her lower lip when she was thinking, the way her eyes crinkled when she really smiled.

But this was different.

This was intimate in a way that made Mike feel like he was intruding on something private, even though she was just sleeping on his couch in his basement. There was something vulnerable about it - the way she was curled up small, the way the shirt had clearly been chosen for comfort, the way she looked soft and unguarded in sleep.

And it was his shirt.

She'd taken him up on his offer. She'd gone into the laundry, or maybe she'd asked Karen, or maybe - and this thought made his heart spike - maybe she'd gone into his room and taken it from his closet. She'd chosen his shirt to sleep in, to be comfortable in, to wear when she was sick and needed something soft and familiar.

Mike didn't know what to do with that information. His brain was trying to process it, running through possibilities and implications like a computer calculating probability matrices. Did it mean something? Was he reading too much into it? Was it just a shirt? Just a convenient piece of clothing that happened to be clean and available?

But the way she was curled up in it, the way she'd pulled it around herself like a security blanket...

Wow.

He should leave. He should definitely leave. He should put the water and crackers on the coffee table and get out of there before she woke up and caught her staring at her like some kind of creep.

But his feet weren't moving.

Instead, Mike found himself taking a careful step closer, then another. The basement floor was concrete covered with an old rug, and he knew every squeaky spot, every place where the floor creaked. He avoided them all, moving with the stealth he'd learned from years of sneaking snacks during late-night campaigns.

Up close, he could see the flush of fever on her cheeks, the way her breathing was slightly congested. She looked miserable and beautiful at the same time, which shouldn't have been possible but somehow was. There was a box of tissues on the floor next to the couch, several used ones scattered around it. A mug of what had probably been tea sat on the coffee table, long since gone cold.

Mike set down the water and crackers as quietly as he could. Then, because he couldn't help himself, he grabbed the blanket that had fallen off the couch and carefully pulled it up over her shoulders.

Lucy stirred.

Mike's heart stopped.

She made a small sound - not quite awake, not quite asleep - and shifted slightly. Her eyes fluttered but didn't open. Then she settled again, pulling the blanket closer, and Mike saw her fingers clutch at the fabric of the shirt.

His shirt.

"Mike?" Her voice was rough with sleep and sickness, barely above a whisper.

He should have run. He should have pretended he wasn't there. Instead, he found himself kneeling down next to the couch so he was at eye level.

"Hey," he said softly. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you. Just brought you some water."

Lucy's eyes opened fully, and even red-rimmed and tired, they were still the warmest brown Mike had ever seen. She blinked at him slowly, like she was trying to figure out of he was real or a fever dream.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"About four-thirty. We got back a little bit ago."

"We?"

"Me, Will, and El. They're upstairs. Didn't want to bother you."

Lucy smiled - a small, soft smile that made Mike's chest ache. "You're not bothering me."

There was a moment of silence. Mike was acutely aware of how close he was to her, how he could see the individual freckles scattered across her nose, how her hair smelled like the Wheeler family shampoo but somehow different, somehow her.

"Nice shirt," he said, and immediately wanted to die. Nice shirt? That was what he was going with? Nice shirt?

But Lucy's smile widened, and she glanced down at herself as if she'd forgotten what she was wearing. When she looked back up at him, there was something in her expression that Mike couldn't quite read - something shy and pleased and maybe a little bit mischievous.

"Yeah?" she said. "I hope you don't mind. I couldn't find Jonathan's old shirt of mine this morning, and this was in the clean laundry pile, and it looked comfortable, so..."

"I don't mind," Mike said quickly. Too quickly. "I mean, I told you that you could borrow it. So. Yeah. It's cool."

"It's really comfortable," Lucy said, and there was definitely something mischievous in her expression now. "Might not give it back."

Mike's brain was malfunctioning. Was she flirting with him? Was this flirting? He was notoriously bad at recognizing flirting. Max had once told him he had "the romantic awareness of a brick wall," which had seemed harsh at the time but was probably accurate.

"You can keep it," he heard himself say. "If you want. I have other shirts."

"But it's your Hellfire shirt," Lucy said. "Eddie's shirt. That's important."

The fact that she knew that, that she understood what the shirt meant to him, made something warm bloom in Mike's chest.

"Yeah, but..." He trailed off, trying to find the right words. "I don't know. It looks better on you anyway."

Lucy's eyes widened slightly, and Mike realized what he'd just said. His face went hot. He was definitely blushing. He was definitely making this weird.

But Lucy didn't look uncomfortable. If anything, she looked... pleased? Happy? Her smile had gone soft again, and she was looking at him in a way that made Mike feel like maybe, possibly, he wasn't completely imagining the thing that seemed to be happening between them.

"Mike Wheeler," she said, and his name in her raspy, sick voice sounded like the best thing he'd ever heard. "Are you flirting with me?"

"I - what? No. I mean. Maybe?" Mike wanted to crawl into a hole and die. "I don't know. Am I?"

Lucy laughed, which turned into a cough. Mike immediately reached for the water and handed it to her. She sat up slightly, the blanket falling away, and Mike tried very hard not to notice how the shirt - his shirt - hung on her frame, or much leg was visible, or how she was definitely wearing shorts under there but his brain had momentarily forgotten how to process that information.

She took a sip of water, then another, then handed the glass back to him.

"Thanks," she said. "For the water. And for checking on me."

"Of course," Mike said. "I mean, you're sick. Someone should check on you."

"Will tried to get mom to let him stay home with me," Lucy said, rolling her eyes fondly. "Twin thing. He gets worried."

"He's not the only one," Mike said before he could stop himself.

Lucy's expression softened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They looked at each other for a long moment. Mike was very aware of how close they were, how he was still kneeling next to the couch, how easy it would be to reach out and touch her hand or brush that strand of hair away from her face or do any of the thousand things he'd been thinking about doing for weeks now.

"Mike," Lucy said quietly. "Can I tell you something?"

"Sure."

"I didn't just grab this shirt because it was in the laundry pile."

Mike's heart was pounding so hard he was sure she could hear it. "No?"

"No." Lucy bit her lower lip - that thing she did when she was nervous - and Mike wanted to memorize this moment, this exact expression in her face. "I've been wanting to wear it since you offered. I just... I didn't know if that was weird or not."

"It's not weird," Mike said immediately. "It's... it's really not weird."

"Good." Lucy smiled. "Because I really do like wearing it."

"You can keep it," Mike said again. "Seriously. It's yours."

Lucy reached out then, and Mike's breath caught as her fingers brushed against his hand where ot rested on the edge of the couch.

"You're really sweet, you know that?" she said.

Mike felt like his entire body was on fire. "I'm really not."

"You are. You brought me water and crackers. You covered me with a blanket. You're letting me keep your favorite shirt."

Her fingers curled around his, just slightly. "That's sweet."

"Lucy..." Mike didn't know what he was going to say. He didn't have a plan. He just knew he was holding hands with Lucy Byers, and she was wearing his shirt, and she was looking at him like he was something special, and his entire world had narrowed down to this moment, this basement, this girl.

"Yeah?"

"I really like you," he said, and the words came out in a rush, like he'd been holding them in for so long that they'd built up pressure. "Like, really like you. I know you're Will's sister, and I know that's probably weird, and I know we're living in the same house right now which makes everything complicated, but I just - I needed you to know that. I like you. A lot."

Lucy's smile was radiant. Even sick, even with a red nose and tired eyes, she was the most beautiful person Mike had ever seen.

"I really like you too," she said. "Like, really like you. I've been wearing your shirt and sleeping on your couch and hoping you'll notice."

"I noticed," Mike said, and he was smiling so hard his face hurt. "I definitely noticed."

"Good."

They sat there for another moment, hands linked, smiling at each other like idiots. Then Lucy coughed again, and the spell broke slightly.

"You should probably go," she said reluctantly. "I don't want to get you sick."

"I don't care if I get sick."

"Will would kill me if I got you sick."

"Will's going to kill me when he finds out about this."

Lucy laughed. "Probably. But he'll get over it. He likes you. And he wants you to be happy."

"Does this make you happy?" Mike asked, and he was surprised by how vulnerable he sounded.

Lucy squeezed his hand. "Yeah, Mike. This makes me really happy."

Mike stood up reluctantly, but he didn't let go of her hand right away. "I should let you rest. But maybe... when you're feeling better... we could talk more? About... this?"

"I'd like that."

"Okay. Good." Mike finally released her hand and immediately missed the warmth of her fingers. "Get some sleep. I'll check on you later."

"Mike?"

He turned back.

"Thanks for the shirt," Lucy said, and the way she said it - soft and meaningful and full of things unsaid - made Mike's heart soar.

"Anytime," he said.

He made it halfway up the stairs before he had to stop and lean against the wall, his heart racing, his mind spinning. Lucy Byers liked him. Lucy Byers was wearing his shirt. Lucy Byers had been hoping he'd notice.

Wow.

From upstairs he could hear Will and El talking, probably wondering what was taking him so long. He'd have to face them, have to figure out how to tell Will that he had feelings for his twin sister, have to navigate the complicated reality of their living situation and their friendship and everything else.

But right now, in this moment, Mike just let himself feel it - the joy, the excitement, the overwhelming sense of rightness that came with knowing that Lucy felt the same way he did.

He touched his chest, right over his heart, and smiled.

Yeah.

Wow.

Percy Jackson never thought of himself as handsome.

Heroes were supposed to be handsome but!! He thought he had other and better qualities. Heroes were supposed to be brave, reckless and maybe even a little stupid.

Confidence? That was for Apollo kids and Ares boys who flexed in every reflective surface they passed.

Percy just... existed. He fought monsters, got scraped up, forgot to wash his face all the time, and figured that was enough.

For Gods' sake he was 13 years old and on survival mode, it was okay if he didn't look good !

But oh, his reflection in the Camp Half-Blood bathroom mirror and brain disagreed.

Maybe Percy simply lacked self-love and self-esteem; honestly, he had a zit on his forehead and marks all over his body from battles, so why was he going to try to change that either?

Percy didn't know someone had their eyes on him.

You, an Aprhodite kid, noticed how he never lingered in mirrors, how he scrubbed dirt from his hands but never bothered with the cuts on his face until they scabbed over rough and uneven. And for sure you noticed the faint redness on his cheeks from sunburns he never treated properly or the way his curls frizzed when he didn’t use anything but whatever soap was near.

You noticed— and instead of judging, you tilted your head and thought: Oh. I could work with that.

Being a daughter of Aphrodite meant people assumed you cared only about perfection. About flawless skin, symmetrical smiles, love at first sight. But love, real love, wasn’t about perfection.

It was about potential.

And Percy Jackson had so much of it that it almost hurt to look at him.

The first time you approached him, he was sitting by the lake, skipping stones with a frown on his face, he had some fight marks on his face, possibly Clarisse had put him through hard training. The stones bounced— once, twice, three times— before sinking. He sighed dramatically and went for another.

“You know,” you said casually, dropping down beside him, “saltwater helps with inflammation. But too much sun damage cancels it out.”

He blinked at you as the stone in his hand slipped. It didn’t skip at all— just plopped straight into the water, disappearing instantly.

“Uh. Hi?”

You smiled— soft, not dazzling. “You don’t take very good care of yourself.”

Percy stared at you for a beat, then let out a disbelieving laugh. “Wow,” he said, shaking his head. “We’ve known each other for, what, ten seconds? And you’re already critiquing my life choices. That’s gotta be some kind of record.”

“I’m not critiquing,” you replied evenly. “I’m just… noticing?”

“Oh,” he said dryly. “Well, in that case, please continue. I love being perceived.”

He picked up another stone, rolling it between his fingers like he was trying to focus on literally anything else but you didn’t move away and didn’t apologize. You just watched him— his sun-reddened skin, the faint roughness along his jaw where a cut had healed poorly, the way he hunched slightly forward.

“You should probably be more careful,” you added after a moment, tone still gentle. “The sun around here isn’t exactly forgiving.”

He snorted, “I fight monsters,” he replied, not quite looking at you. “Actual monsters. With teeth and claws and poison. I think I’ll survive a little sunburn.”

“A little,” you echoed.

That made him glance at you again, brows knitting together. “Is this your thing?” he asked, suspicion creeping in. “Just… showing up out of nowhere and telling people what they’re doing wrong with their lives?”

Percy didn't add how annoying it was that someone as beautiful as you would comment on his unkempt appearance, it made him feel ashamed.

“Only when they’re being unnecessarily cruel to themselves,” you replied this time.

That earned you another laugh, though this one lacked conviction. “Great,” he said. “So now I’m self-destructive. Love that for me.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him— not like a project, but like someone worth paying attention to. “You don’t have to neglect yourself just because you’re used to getting hurt.”

He shrugged, tossing the stone harder than necessary. It skipped once, twice, then sank.

“Comes with the job,” he said lightly, like it didn’t matter.

“Mmmh.”

Over the next few weeks, you made it a habit.

You began sitting near him at meals— not directly across from him! Just within reach of conversation, close enough that he became aware of you before he realized you were there. Sometimes you didn’t even speak. You’d just be there, eating, occasionally nudging his plate closer when he got distracted and forgot to finish his food.

Or after training, when his arms were sore and his knuckles bruised and his head was buzzing with leftover adrenaline, you somehow always ended up walking beside him on the way back to the cabins.

Maybe it was just your Aphrodite presence but you made things feel natural, not too flirty or too planned before hand just... natural.

You’d ask him how the session went, listen without interrupting, let him ramble when he felt like it and fall quiet when he didn’t.

And then there were small things.

The scrapes he usually ignored. The burns he’d shrug off. The shallow cuts along his forearms that weren’t bad enough to warrant attention but still stung when he moved. You noticed all of them, and you always took care of them.

“Hold still,” you’d say gently, already reaching for the ambrosia.

“It’s really not that bad,” he’d argue, even as he let you take his wrist. “Besides, don't you children of Aphrodite hate getting dirty?”

“You say that about everything,” you’d reply, breaking off a piece anyway. “and I don't really care.”

You never made a big deal of it or acted like he was fragile. You just treated the smaller wounds with the same care you’d give something serious, pressing the ambrosia into his palm and waiting patiently while it did it's work.

Sometimes you didn’t even comment on the injury itself.

Sometimes you’d pause, studying his face for a fraction with your hands on his cheeks, and then quietly hand him the ambrosia anyway— like you could see the tension sitting behind his eyes or the stress he carried from being the kid of the prophecy.

He didn’t ask how you knew.

At first, he tried to joke about it. Tried to wave you off with sarcasm and half-smiles, as if this was just another weird thing Camp Half-Blood was doing to him.

But you didn’t get bored— didn’t move on to someone easier or shinier or more obviously impressive. You stayed.

And with that some change came for Percy.

He found himself glancing around the pavilion before sitting down, unconsciously angling his body toward the space you usually occupied. He slowed his pace after training, just a little, allowing the walk to continue and both of you to talk about everything and nothing. He stopped brushing off his smaller injuries and stopped insisting he was fine before you even had a chance to ask.

One evening, as you pressed ambrosia into his hand for a shallow burn along his shoulder, he frowned down at it.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, not unkindly.

You looked up at him, with steady expression. “I know.”

That was the thing. You never acted like he owed you anything. You just took care of him because you wanted to.

And Percy Jackson— hero, son of Poseidon, boy who had learned early how to endure rather than be tended— didn’t know what to do with it.

He only knew that, somehow, without meaning to, he’d started feeling better and you were the main reason of it.

“I’m not fixing you,” you said softly, meeting his eyes. “I’m taking care of you,” you added. “There’s a difference.”

And yeah, people couldn't believe what was going on with you two!

It started with looks— quick glances exchanged across the dining pavilion, murmurs that followed you both, the subtle shift in tone whenever your situation came in. Aphrodite kids were expected to notice patterns, but none thought of you noticing Percy Jackson.

One afternoon, as you sat on your bed absentmindedly organizing a small collection of salves and oils, one of your half-siblings leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, but the lips curved in open amusement.

“Good luck,” she said with a laugh that sounded cruel and dismissive. “I mean it. Even mom herself couldn’t turn that into a heartthrob.”

You simply capped the jar in your hands and smiled faintly.

You didn’t need to convince anyone.

At fifteen, two years later, Percy was still very much in that uncomfortable phase where he wasn't sure what to do with himself, his body, or his image. He saw everyone around him discovering their confidence, and even with the war going on, everyone was trying to look like the whole demigod pack.

And he certainly didn’t know what to do with you. He felt it, though. He could admit that much to himself, even if he couldn’t articulate it yet. He felt something whenever you were near, the way your presence seemed to pull his attention away from everything else, the way his chest would tighten when your hand brushed against his, the way he suddenly became hyper-aware of the sound of your laugh or the tilt of your head.

Did he know he felt something? Yes. Toward you? Definitely.

And yet… what could he do? His eyes were on a daughter of Aphrodite. A beautiful one, if not the most beautiful in his admittedly biased view.

If, when you had both been thirteen, you were already remarkable, now, at fifteen, with the slow, inevitable changes of puberty, you were growing into a full woman. Not just taller, or more mature, or curvier— but someone who carried herself, whose gaze lingered just long enough to make him second-guess himself and whose smile could disarm him completely if he let it.

And Percy had been letting it.

It terrified him, in a way he wouldn’t admit to anyone, not even Annabeth. Every time you approached him— whether it was to hand him ambrosia for a fresh scrape, to joke with him after a rough training session, or help him clean his face— he felt it: the way his heart picked up speed without warning, his hands grew clammy and the world narrowed to him who could just look at you.

He doesn't know what to do, not even when you grab his shirt and connect your lips to his.

He’s never kissed anyone before.

It’s a fact that hits him all at once, right in the middle of it, even as your lips press against his and the world seems to tilt slightly off it's axis. He hadn’t known what to expect— hadn’t even let himself imagine this— but whatever vague idea he’d had in his head doesn’t come close to how it feels.

He’s painfully aware of how inexperienced he is, of the way his movements are hesitant, unpracticed, but there’s no judgment in the way you kiss him. No impatience.

That thought alone makes his head spin even more.

His brain lags behind what’s happening, like it simply refuses to catch up, because this can’t be real. There’s no logical explanation for why your lips are on his, why the world has gone oddly quiet around them, why the warmth blooming in his chest feels too big to contain. His first coherent thought is something dangerously close to ''oh wow—she’s kissing me,'' followed immediately by ''no, there’s no way, this has to be a mistake''.

He almost pulls back.

Not because he wants to— but because he’s convinced that if he moves, if he breathes too hard, the moment will vanish.

But then you laugh softly against his lips, a quiet, happy sound that vibrates straight through his skin, and before he can even process it, you press another quick kiss to his mouth— lighter this time, playful, unmistakably real.

His breath stutters then.

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, smiling like you’ve just done exactly what you’ve been wanting to do. And for a second, Percy can’t help but think you look like you’re glowing.

He’s still staring when you lean in again, brushing a gentle peck against his lips, and that’s when it hits him fully, undeniably.

This is real.

His hands, which had been hovering awkwardly at his sides like they didn’t know where they belonged, finally find their way back to you, resting over your hips like he did when hugging you.

He feels his brain just learned something important in the last few seconds. He would be happy to be able to kiss you everyday from now on.

His legs feel unsteady, his heart still pounding far too fast, but now there’s a fragile, dizzy kind of happiness that makes his chest ache.

You’re smiling at him like you’re proud when you pull back with your hands on his neck and your cheeks slightly flushed.

Somehow, after the wars ended and the world finally stopped trying to kill Percy every five minutes, life slowed down enough for… this.

“Absolutely not.”

Percy sat cross-legged on the floor of your cabin, arms folded, staring at the face mask in your hands as if it was a cursed artifact. His hair was pulled back with a ridiculous pink headband— one with little bunny ears that flopped forward every time he moved.

“It’s just a face mask,” you said patiently, shaking the jar slightly. “It’s seaweed-based. You’ll love it.”

“I am part of the sea,” he argued. “I don’t need it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You literally just spent two hours in the sun.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. “Okay, but— counterpoint— I’m being targeted.”

“You’re being moisturized.”

That was how it always went.

Out there, beyond the cabin, campers still talked about him. Some thought he was a god walking among them, some thought he looked like one at least, all sharp lines and confidence.

You’d known long before anyone else bothered to really look.

Back when Percy was thirteen and perpetually scowling at the world like it had conspired against him, back when his hands were always scraped and his skin sunburned and he carried himself with a tired look, you’d seen it even when he tried to hide himself in a shell.

No one believed you then.

They laughed when you sat beside him or when you followed him after training. Some of them even rolled their eyes when you said his name sweetly.

And now— years later— you were sitting on the floor of your cabin, Percy stretched out between your legs, his back resting against you, a thin mask dotted with little sea creatures clinging to his face. His hair pushed back with the soft headband he'd stolen from your own things, and the irony of it all wasn’t lost on you.

The boy they’d mocked you for liking now looked like out of a myth even while sulking quietly in your arms.

“You’re being quiet,” he said eventually, voice low, almost wary.

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers moved slowly, carefully, spreading moisturizer along his temples, tracing the familiar lines of his face like you were committing them to memory all over again. He didn’t flinch or pull away. He loved letting your hands touch his face.

“I’m thinking,” you said at last.

“That’s never good for me,” he murmured.

You smiled faintly. “I’m thinking about how strange it is that everyone sees it now.”

He tried to move between your legs.

“Sees what?”

“You,” you said softly. “How handsome you are. How easy it is for them to believe you’re something unreal now.” You leaned forward, resting your chin lightly against the crown of his head. “I saw it when no one else did. When you didn’t even see it yourself.”

There was a long pause. Camp sounds drifted in through the open window—laughter, footsteps, the quiet peace of a world no longer on the brink.

“I didn’t feel like that guy,” Percy admitted quietly. “I still don’t, sometimes.”

“I know,” you said. “You were surviving back then, too busy staying alive.”

Your hands slid down to his jaw, thumbs brushing along his cheeks. He leaned into the touch before he could stop himself.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to look up at you, eyes impossibly gentle beneath the silly mask. “And now?” he asked.

“Now,” you said, smiling, “you’re my handsome, grumpy boyfriend who actually lets me put skincare on him.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, low and breathy, as he relaxed fully against you.

But even when Percy was incredibly happy having you with him, even when only you could give him true happiness, he had his moments of doubt, the insecure kid somewhere inside of him.

Even now that you guys moved to a beautiful house outside the city.

Percy was laying half over you, skin warm, breath still uneven, curls damp against his forehead. One of his arms was wrapped tight around your waist, the other over your thigh, keeping you close.

You were both still catching your breath as he pressed a lazy kiss beneath your eye, then another to your cheek and the corner of your mouth.

Not hungry anymore but lovingly.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice lower than usual, rough in a way that made your stomach flutter all over again and think maybe another round wasn't too much.

You nodded faintly, too boneless to form a proper answer.

He smiled against your skin at that — soft, satisfied — and kissed your jaw.

His nose brushed your temple as he repositioned himself.

“I don’t like when they look at me like that,” he said quietly.

It took you a second to catch up. Your fingers were lazily combing through his curls.

“Like what?” you asked, voice still soft.

“Like I just became this.” His grip tightened slightly. “Like I wasn’t… me before.”

You shifted just enough to look at him. His lashes were low, his expression open in that way he only allowed when you were alone.

“They look at me now like I’m something unreal,” he continued. “Like I woke up one day and suddenly I'm a hero out of a story.”

He huffed faintly, almost embarrassed.

“You’re the only one who saw me before that.”

You brushed your thumb over his cheek.

“I still see you,” you said.

There was a pause — long, intimate — the kind that feels heavier when your skin is still touching everywhere.

His mouth moved slowly over your cheek again. Over your jaw.

“If I’d stayed that awkward, sunburned kid…” He didn’t look at you when he said it. He was kissing along your shoulder now, like he needed to ask it into your skin instead of your eyes.

“The one who didn’t know how to stand right. The one who thought he was just… tolerable.” His hand moved your thigh, flattening there, moving it a little to his waist.

“Would you still have looked at me?”

It wasn’t about sex or even about beauty.

It was about being wanted even without the glow. Kinda like would you still love me if I were a worm?

You tipped his chin up gently, forcing him to meet your eyes.

“I would,” your nose wrinkling faintly in a smile “You think I started loving you when everyone else did?” you murmured.

Your fingers traced the faint scar along his collarbone.

“I loved you when you pretended not to care that your skin was peeling from the sun.”

A faint, breathless laugh left him.

“When you rolled your eyes and acted like I was insufferable when I gave you products for your skin.”

His forehead dropped to yours.

“I wasn’t impressive,” he whispered.

“You were mine,” you corrected.

That did it.

His arms wrapped tighter around you, pulling you fully against his chest, burying his face against your neck like he needed to hide there for a second.

“You make me feel like I was always enough,” he said, voice muffled.

“You were,” you replied immediately.

He exhaled slowly, sniffing a little bit.

“I only want you looking at me like that.”

You smiled against his hair.

“I don’t know how to look at you any other way, Perce.”

Outside, the city hummed faintly in the distance, chaotic but here, oh well.

Inside of your house, Percy Jackson held you like a now young adult who had finally learned he didn’t have to become someone else to be loved.

He wanted to be with you forever.

There was no doubt in him when he said: “Marry me.”

★ eiris 2026. proofreaded ! ❩

(( 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝒽𝑒𝑟𝑒 )) 𝓂𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ⸝⸝ 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑦 𝑗𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘𝑠

The kitchen light went out, Willa doubled checked, peeking around the front of the house. She was sure, deeming it the right time to stand by the front door and wait.

On the other side, she heard the latch click open, the front door slowly, quietly opening towards her. Behind it, Sebastian smiled warmly at her presence.

“Come in. Quickly,” he whispered, and Willa did just that, following him down the stairs to his bedroom.

When he opened the door at the bottom, holding it for her, the first thing she noticed was her favourite pair of his pyjamas folded on the end of his bed. She did a double take once she noticed he was wearing the same pair.

“Last time I went into the city, I picked a few bits up,” Sebastian explained, nodding to the pile of snacks on his desk chair. “I figured you’d prefer the old pair, but we can switch if I got that wrong.”

“You got that right,” Willa smiled, pulling him into a soft kiss. It interrupted his train of thought, locking him into feeling nothing but her for a few blissful seconds. He blinked at her as they broke apart.

“Um, I was… Choose some snacks,” he started, he needed the chair free from the display he’d set up for her. “I’ve got something to show you.”

The leftover snacks found a new home on his bed after Willa chose a bag of strawberry laces from the pile. Sebastian had invited her to share the desk chair with him, sitting on his lap. His PC had been on for a few hours after Sebastian had spent his time just before meeting with her making sure everything all worked.

“It’s not done, not by a long way, and it’s mostly text based right now,” he started, opening the work-in progress file. “But I’ve been coding this in my free time, and I wanted to show you.”

A box of text scrolled across the screen, three options appearing below it: warrior, healer, and wizard.

“Is this Solarion Chronicles?” Willa blurted out, leaning forward to stare closer at the screen, reading over the text again.

“It’s our campaign,” Sebastian told her earlier than he’d wanted to, too quietly excited to finally show her to hold the secret back. “Well, the first chapter. I haven’t got any further than leaving the village but…”

“Can I play it?” Willa asked, looking at him with her big dark eyes in pleading. Sebastian smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Of course,” he softly smiled.

The next hour went by as she played through the story she already knew so well, Sebastian holding her on top of him and peppering kisses along her shoulders. The chapter ended with another larger textbox, alluding to the continued story beyond the village. She sat back, resting against Sebastian who welcomed her back into his arms, and kissed his cheek.

“This is incredible,” Willa whispered, pressing her forehead against his temple. “You’ve done a really good job.”

“You think?” Sebastian asked. Nothing evoked the soft smile on his face or the blush in his cheeks like a compliment from her.

“I already can’t wait for the next chapter."