ohhhh fuckkkk 😩

#smokerfinnisdada

⋆.𐙚 ̊ SLOW MORNINGS .✦ ݁˖

mike wheeler x gender neutral byers!reader ― 1084 words

warnings: │fluffff, light makeout

summary:│after the byers moved in with the wheeler’s sleeping in thier basement was definitely not an arrangement you loved. thankfully though, your boyfriend’s bed is always an alternative.

the wheeler’s house was quiet, but not in an empty way. in a too-full way, instead. ever since hawkins was practically split in fourths, the byer’s house was basically inhabitable. frequent power-outages, ozone-tainted air, and unpredictable thunderstorms forced your family to move in with the wheelers. you weren’t complaining, though. thus just meant you’d have more time to spend with mike. you and him had been dating since the first year of high school, and things were great. well..as great as they could be when your town was reduced to a swarming military camp, reeking of smoke and brimming with secrets.

needless to say, times like this, when the sun was just beginning to peer over the horizon, were peaceful. a rare calm fell over the house, and you all felt…safe. 

mike wheeler was an antisocial jerk. you knew that. so why you even bothered with him is something you can’t explain.

⟢┊𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.9k ˎˊ˗

‧₊˚ ┊𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: college!au, a bit ooc mike(less emotionally constipated i needed something to work with sue me), self indulgent bitchy reader, frat boy lucas crumbs, frat boy mike(barely), stuck up mean!mike, frat party, angst, kissing, not proofread

˗ˏˋ a/n: pls ignore the terrible collage i threw together..,, tumblr kept crashing when i tried to add another gif ˎˊ˗

you were never a big fan of mike wheeler, mostly because he wouldn’t let you be. he was a sophomore, some creative writing major who kept to himself. you only knew he existed because of his roommate, lucas sinclair. lucas was the golden boy, the one who actually talked to people, the one who made the mistake of dragging mike to every frat party he went to.

mike was always a fixture in the background. the guy standing at the beer pong table acting like he’d rather be anywhere else, or the guy sinking into the corner of a couch with a beer he never actually finished. you never understood why lucas bothered with him, but that didn't stop you from looking. you noticed everything. his..weirdo brown eyes, his nose that somehow matched his face perfectly. and those cheekbones.. you were fifty percent sure they were botox. they had to be. nobody was born with facial structure like that.

tonight was one of those nights, you only came because you’re tired of getting called a “hermit crab” by your roommate. and the slight chance of seeing mike there gave you enough reason to go, not that you two have ever talked, since mike has a habit of rolling his eyes every time your eyes catch each other, to which you try not to take personal but also.. what the fuck? you’ve never found out what his problem is, but you did learn not to take it personally since it seems he has a problem with half of campus.

the music inside was a wall of sound, some generic house beat that vibrated right through the floorboards of the kappa sigma house. your roommate, elise, was already comfortable, swaying with her drink, but you were just scanning the room. again. wondering how the hell do people find this enjoyable.

lucas popped up out of nowhere, appearing through the sweaty crowd with that blinding, energetic smile of his. he clapped his hands together, his energy defying the humidity of the room.

"hey! you guys made it," he shouted over the bass, slinging an arm around your shoulder.

"barely," you yelled back, laughing. "elise dragged me. she says i'm a hermit crab."

"she's right, but i'm glad you're here!" lucas grinned, then his face lit up with an even brighter, more conspiratorial expression. "you guys liking the setup? mike put the whole thing together. i finally talked him into rushing this semester, and he’s actually doing it, he’s a brother now!"

you felt your heart do this weird, stupid flip in your chest. "mike? mike wheeler?"

"yeah, he's just by the keg. hold on-“ before you could protest or fix your hair or do literally anything to prepare, lucas was already moving. he grabbed your wrist, pulling you through the throng of people toward the back of the room. and there he was. mike wheeler. he was wearing a flannel that looked like it had seen better days and holding a red cup with the kind of disdain usually reserved for a bad term paper.

"mike! hey, man," lucas yelled, nudging him. mike looked up, his dark eyes instantly narrowing, then softening just a fraction when he realized it was lucas. his gaze flicked to you, and that familiar sharp edge returned. he looked like he wanted to bolt.

"mike, meet the elusive hermit crab i've been telling you about. and, uh, you know elise," lucas said, oblivious to the tension radiating off mike like heat waves. "mike’s the man of the hour. organized the logistics for the whole night."

mike didn't smile. he just gave a stiff, curt nod, shifting his weight. "yeah..cool. hi."

"hi," you said, feeling entirely too self conscious. "the party’s... really loud. in a good way, i guess."

"it's..kinda terrible," mike muttered, taking a sip of his beer without looking at you. "too many people. the acoustics are actual shit."

"be nice," lucas laughed, clapping mike on the shoulder. "i'm gonna go grab a refill. try not to scare them off, wheeler."

as soon as lucas disappeared, the silence between you was heavier than the music. mike looked like he was about to disintegrate.

"do you want to get out of here?" you blurted out. "it’s kind of suffocating."

mike looked at you, really looked at you this time, his brow furrowing. he hesitated, then nodded. "yeah. yeah, actually. let's go."

you walked out the back door, the sudden drop in temperature making you shiver. the backyard was quiet, just the distant, muffled thump of the bass vibrating through the walls. you found a spot on the grass near the edge of the property, away from the smokers and the shouting. you sat down, and mike followed, sitting cross legged, his knees pulled up to his chest.

you watched him for a second. he looked..normal out here, less like the prick of campus.

you couldn't help it. the curiosity was itching at you. "so," you started, picking at a loose thread on my jeans. "may i finally know why you give me and the rest of campus such attitude? is it personal, or does someone shit in your coffee daily?"

mike choked on air, a startled sound escaping his throat. he turned to look at you, his eyes wide and shocked, before he let out a jagged, self deprecating laugh. he dragged a hand through his hair, messing up those curls even more.

"jesus," he muttered. "you don't pull your punches, do you?"

"you make it easy," you countered, giving him a small, challenging smile.

mike sighed, looking up at the sky. he looked small, almost vulnerable, and the image you had of him being this untouchable, mean jerk started to crack. "uh, well. no. it’s not personal." he scoffed, the sound quiet and sharp. "it’s just.. it’s hard, you know? new people, loud rooms, the whole social performance thing. it’s exhausting.. i guess i.. come off as a dick sometimes. i’m-i’m sorry."

you stared at him, surprised by the honesty. "you're shy? the guy who organizes fraternity parties is shy?"

"well, lucas pushed me into it," mike defended, his cheeks flushing a faint, endearing shade of red. "it’s definitely not personal. i swear. you’re... you’re not the problem. i’m the problem."

"you're not a problem, mike," you said, your voice softening.

he turned his head toward you, the moonlight catching the harsh, sharp line of his jaw. he looked at you for a long time, the silence no longer awkward, but heavy.

"i'm sorry," he whispered. "for the eye rolls. for being a..a hermit in the middle of a crowd."

"i forgive you," you said, leaning in just an inch. "but only if you promise to stop acting like you're above everyone."

mike let out a breathless laugh, and he was leaning in too now. "i'm not above anyone. i'm just...i don’t know, awkward."

he was so close now that you could smell the faint scent of beer on him. your heart hammering against your ribs, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it.

"you're not that awkward," you breathed.

mike didn't say anything else. he just watched your lips, his gaze dropping down, then back up to your eyes, asking a silent question. you didn't make him wait. you bridged the gap, your hand finding his arm, and then his mouth was on yours.

his lips were soft, surprisingly so. you knew he had a habit of biting his lip when he was stressed, and finally feeling that texture against yours was enough to send a jolt through your spine. his hand slid up your arm, his grip firm as his fingers settled at the base of your neck.

part of you wondered if this was just the beer talking, maybe this was just a weird, drunken fluke. but he wasn't pulling away. feeling brave, you decided to see how far this could go.

you traced the tip of your tongue across his bottom lip, a quick, daring invitation. he didn't hold back. he let out a low, broken moan that was muffled against your mouth, and his lips parted, accepting the contact immediately.

the sudden shift made your confidence spike. you didn’t hesitate to plant your hand into his curls, gripping them tight to pull him in closer, needing to feel the reality of him. mike seemed stunned, like he couldn't actually believe that you, the girl he’d been trying so hard to ignore, the one he’d been acting like a total asshole toward for months, were actually right here, touching him.

he melted into you, his guard finally crumbling.

the kiss turned ugly, fast. his teeth scraped your bottom lip, not out of malice, but rather pure need. he was crowding your space, his weight pinning you further into the grass, his body practically folding over yours.

every time he adjusted his head to get a better angle, his nose dug hard into your cheek. it was sharp, pressing against your skin with an intensity that you knew would leave a red mark by morning, a bruise you’d be tracing with your thumb tomorrow while you replayed this. you didn't pull back. you only shoved your hand deeper into his hair, forcing him closer.

his tongue pushed past your lips, meeting yours in a messy wet rhythm. his hands were everywhere, his left fisting the back of your hair, the other sliding under the hem of your shirt, his palm hot and rough against your skin. every breath he took was short, hitching against your mouth. he pulled back just an inch, his lips swollen, eyes dark and blown wide as he stared at you for a single heartbeat. then he dove back down, his nose bumping your face again, harder this time. he was relentless. you hooked your fingers into the back of his collar, tugging him down until there wasn't a millimeter of air left between you, just the friction of skin against skin and the sound of your own breathing.

then, because of course, the front door swung open, cutting through the silence with a loud metallic clang. bright, colorful light spilled across the lawn, forcing you both to squint.

･ ⟢ ⋮ the finnverse hard launching you ゛༝.

ft. finn wolfhard, chris tian, ziggy katz, mike wheeler

a/n — she/her pronouns & fem pics for reader. i also tried not to use pics w/ faces in them!! i hope it's oki :p i love ig smaus

finnwolfhardofficial

♫ Everytown there's a darling • Finn Wolfhard

Liked by ynsuser and others

finnwolfhardofficial — Thank you for an amazing final show of the tour, London! An even bigger thank you to @ynsuser who could make it to the show tonight. Love you!

ynsuser i took that third photo for FREE. finn wolfhard doesn't pay his photographers #cancelhim

finnwolfhardofficial I paid in dinner and kisses thank you very much. Love you! (You're supposed to say it back)

the steel of his pauldron was always cold, but the skin beneath it burned. he hated the weight of it. he hated the weight of the sword, the weight of the oath, and mostly, he hated the weight of the silence he kept between them. he stood in the doorway of your chambers, his posture stiff, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall three inches above your shoulder. his job was to be a wall. to be a barrier. but somewhere, he’d forgotten that. somewhere, he’d stopped watching the doors for assassins and started watching the way the candlelight caught in your hair.

he was a mess of contradictions. on paper, he was just a guard. in reality, he was a man who felt like he was constantly holding his breath. he remembered the first day. he’d been so proud of the title, so sure he could handle the duty. now, he felt like a thief. every time he helped you off your horse, his fingers brushed your arm, and he felt the phantom burn of it for hours afterward. he would retreat to his own cot, lay on his back, and stare at the ceiling, trying to scrub his brain clean of the way you laughed at dinner. he failed every single night. the guilt was a physical thing, a heavy, sinking sensation in his gut that told him he was crossing a line just by wanting you. he looked at his own hands, calloused and scarred from training, and wondered how he dared to think they were fit to touch a royal.

the night it finally happened was quiet, the kind of quiet that you could feel, heavy with impending collapse. you were in the archives, late. you were hunched over a map, your shoulders tight, exhausted from a day of playing the politician. he stood ten paces back, hands on his sword, jaw so clenched he could feel his teeth aching. you looked up, eyes tired, and something just snapped inside him.

he didn't mean to cross the distance, but he did. he stepped into the light, his armor clanking softly, the only sound in the room. you didn't look away. you looked at him like you were waiting for him to do exactly what he’d been terrified to do. he reached out, fingers hovering, then finally, finally, he touched your face. his hands were shaking, adrenaline overwhelming him. you leaned into it, and the dam broke. he pulled you in, not with the grace of a knight, but with the desperate hunger of a boy who had been starving for a lifetime.

after that, the castle became a minefield. he learned to be two people. out there, in the halls, he was the stone faced paladin. silent, stoic, completely indifferent to anything but the mission. but when those oak doors clicked shut? he fell apart. he was impossibly clingy. he didn't know how to turn off his devotion, so it spilled out into every touch. he would stand behind you while you were at your vanity, pressing his forehead against yours, grounding himself in the scent of you.

(Just kidding. I love you all!) ❤️

mike is trying to keep his life in new york quiet and small. he isn't looking for anything, and he definitely isn't looking to be found. but working the same shifts as you is starting to make that routine impossible.

⟢┊𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3k ˎˊ˗

‧₊˚ ┊𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭:mike wheeler x reader, post canon, nyc comic book shop era, slow burn, coworkers to lovers, grief, survivor’s guilt, mentions of character death (eleven), angst,eventual kissing, not proofread ˎˊ˗

mike didn’t come to new york for the literature degree, though that’s what he tells his parents on the phone every sunday. he came because hawkins felt like a place where everything had already happened. he was tired of recognizing people and pretending they were still the same. he needed somewhere that didn’t know his name.

the comic book store in the village is the only place that makes sense. selling graphic novels is muscle memory. he knows the canon, knows the arcs, knows how to talk to the nerds who need an escape. working the espresso machine in a white coffee stained apron is newer, a bit messier, something he had to force himself to learn, but the repetitive grind of it? it’s almost relaxing. it keeps his hands busy so they don't shake when the nightmares follow him into the daylight.

he thought he had it figured out. just keep his head down, pass his classes, and disappear into the crowd.

then there’s you.

you’re an nyu student too, majoring in psychology, which mike finds painfully ironic. he keeps waiting for you to analyze him, to figure out why he flinches when a door slams or why he’s always the first to lock up, but you don’t. you gave up on him months ago.

he remembers the first week. you had tried to talk to him, tried to make small talk during a dead hour, and mike, still knee deep in the instinct to push everyone away, had shut you down with one word answers and that cold stare he perfected in high school. he wasn't trying to shut you out, he was just so used to having his guard up that he didn't know how to drop it without accidentally acting like a total weirdo.

you took the hint. you decided he was just an arrogant, standoffish prick and stopped trying.

now, you just exist in the same six hour blocks, passing each other in the narrow aisles, working in a polite, hollow rhythm. you think he’s annoyed by you. you think every time he’s quiet, it’s because he’s wishing you’d go home.

you think he’s staring because you’re a nuisance, but honestly, he just likes having you around because you’re the only person in the shop who doesn’t drive him crazy. he goes quiet when you get close mostly because he’s busy overthinking everything he says, convinced that he’s just one bad joke away from looking like a total idiot.

it’s raining again, that miserable grey nyc drizzle that makes the comic shop feel like a submarine. the front of the store is quiet, just the muffled sound of traffic and the hum of the register. you’re behind the counter, trying to tally the day’s intake on a scrap of receipt paper because you lost your actual notebook, and mike is three aisles over, pretending to shelf graphic novels.

he’s not staring at you. he’s actually working. for once.

he walks over to drop a stack of returns on the counter. he notices the receipt paper, the ink smudge on your palm, and the frustrated way you’re tapping your pen against the wood. he stops.

"you're gonna get a cramp," he bluntly warns.

you don't look up. "my notebook is in my bag, which is in the back, and if i leave the counter now, the owner is gonna have a fit about 'unattended inventory.'"

mike shifts his weight. he looks at the register, then at the mess of papers. he reaches into his own pocket, pulls out a black, slightly battered notebook with a chewed up pen. he pushes them toward you.

"use this," he says. "it’s just full of scribbles and half finished lecture notes anyway."

you blink, finally looking at him. he’s not looking at you with that creepy gaze from last week. he’s just waiting for you to take the pen. he looks tired, actually. like he hasn't slept much.

"i can't take your notes, mike."

"they're not 'notes' if they’re just thoughts on why watchmen is still better than half the stuff coming out this month," he says, and for the first time, there’s a real dry smirk on his face. "take it. you look like you’re about to.. fight that calculator, or something.”

you take the notebook. it’s warm from his pocket. when your fingers brush his, he doesn't flinch. he just pulls his hand back slowly.

"thanks," you say, opening it to a random page. it’s full of dense, messy handwriting. some of it is class stuff, sure, but a lot of it is just random observations about the shop. 'espresso machine needs a new gasket, leaking again.' 'why do people treat the manga section like a library?’ 'customer in the red hat is back again..needs to stop bending the covers.'

"you write a lot," you murmur, squinting at a line about the guy in the red hat.

he shrugs, then turns back to the counter. facing the window instead of you.

" helps me remember stuff. don’t like relying on my own head for it."

you pause your math. "the guy in the red hat is bullshit?"

"he's annoying," mike says, matter of fact. "wants to talk about the price of every single issue. if i write it down, i'm ready for him next time. it's just logistics."

"i get that," you say, pushing the receipt paper away to write on his page. "i do the same thing with my class schedules, or i'd lose my mind."

mike turns back, leaning against the counter. he looks at you, then at the notebook in your hand. he doesn't look offended that you're reading it, just relieved you're not making a bigger deal out of it.

"yeah," he mutters, finally relaxing his grip on the edge of the counter. "it's just easier than dealing with it in the moment."

mike watches you write for a second, then looks back at the street.

"the coffee is getting cold," he says, nodding toward your cup.

"it was cold twenty minutes ago."

"fair," he mutters.

he stays at the counter. he doesn't go back to the shelves. he stays right there, close enough that you can hear him breathing, and for the first time, he doesn't look like he’s trying to be anywhere else.

by the four month mark, you’d stopped trying to figure out why he was the way he was, and he’d stopped acting like you were an inconvenience. it wasn’t some big change. the shop was just quiet, and you two were usually the only ones in it.

he still hovered by the register, and he still organized the shelves like the world was ending if a book was slanted, but the atmosphere had changed. he didn’t flinch when you walked behind the counter to grab a pen. he didn’t change the subject the second you brought up your life outside work. he just stood there, leaning on his elbows, reading or watching the street, and you were just... there too.

it was a habit by now. he’d buy an extra coffee on his way in because he knew you didn’t have time to go get one, and he’d leave it on the counter without saying anything. you guys just existed in the same space. it was just work, but it felt like you were actually working together instead of just occupying the same building.

you were currently crouched behind the new arrivals rack, trying to fix a leaning stack of graphic novels, when mike decided to play god with the radio again. he switched it from your lofi playlist to some obscure, high energy 80s track that he swore was "culturally superior."

"mike, i swear to god, if you play this one more time i’m going to hide your car keys," you called out from behind the shelf.

you heard the distinct sound of him leaning his elbows onto the counter, probably smirking. "they’re not keys, they’re subway passes. and it’s a classic, you’re just uncultured."

"i’m uncultured? you’re the one who spent ten minutes earlier trying to explain the plot of a comic to a guy who clearly just wanted to find the bathroom."

"he needed to know," mike shot back, completely unbothered. "it’s a crime to walk past that specific run without knowing the context. i was doing him a favor."

you rolled your eyes like you meant it, but didn’t bother hiding the smile.

you stood up from the shelf, dusting off your jeans. mike was at the counter, eyes locked on the street outside.

"staring at the door again?" you asked.

he didn't look away immediately. he just shrugged, one shoulder shifting under his sweater. "it's busy out there."

"it's a tuesday afternoon, mike. it’s dead."

he finally looked over at you, leaning back against the register. "people are unpredictable. better to see who's coming in before they actually walk through the door."

you didn't point out how weird that was. four months ago, it would have bugged you, but now it was just part of working with him. he liked knowing who was coming and going. that was just his thing.

"fine," you said, picking up the duster. "you keep an eye on the street. i'll finish the shelves."

he turned back to the window, but his shoulders weren't as tight as they usually were. he didn't say anything else, but he didn't rush you, either. he just stood there, waiting for the bell to ring, and for once, the silence between you felt pretty normal.

it started as a headache. a dull, persistent throb behind his eyes that only seemed to flare up when you walked into the shop.

for a while, it was easy to file you under “coworker.” functional. safe.

then it shifted.

he started noticing small things, how you laughed at bad takes, how you were the first person he looked for when he walked in. and that feeling didn’t sit right. it felt like something he wasn’t supposed to have.

every time it got too easy, his brain snapped back to hawkins. to leaving. to the fact that he got out and she didn’t.

he’d catch himself, on the subway, in line for coffee, turning to say something to someone who wasn’t there anymore.

after that, it was easier to keep his hands busy.

one afternoon, you were explaining a psych theory about attachment styles, and he was staring at you. he wasn't listening to the words; he was just listening to the way your voice sounded, steady, warm, entirely unlike the frantic, screaming noise that defined the most important moments of his life.

"are you even listening?" you asked, tilting your head.

mike blinked, his face flushing. he looked like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. "yeah. attachment. right."

" you know, you’re terrible at lying," you said, crossing your arms. "are you feeling alright?"

"i'm fine," he snapped, his voice sharp . he walked past you to the espresso machine, his movements stiff and practiced. he wasn't fine. he was terrified. he was terrified that if he admitted how much he liked you, he’d stop being the person who was ready for everything. he’d start being the person who had something to lose.

he didn't know how to be a person who could just enjoy liking someone.

later that shift, you were shelving returns. mike stood at the counter, watching the reflection of the store in the window. he could see you working. he could see your patience, your kindness, the way you handled the books with care. he hated how much he wanted to turn around and help you. he hated how much he wanted to walk over, take the stack of books from your hands, and just stand in the silence with you.

he clenched his fists in his pockets. he had to keep it together. he had to keep this job, keep this life, and keep his distance.

"you're hovering," you said, your voice drifting over from the manga section.

mike didn't turn around. he just stared at his own reflection, looking for the kid he used to be, the leader who knew exactly what to do. he didn't recognize himself.

"just.. looking at the street," he muttered, his voice strained.

he wasn't looking at the street. he was looking at himself and not seeing anything that made sense anymore. he wanted to let you in. god, he wanted to. but every part of his history was screaming at him that letting people in was how you got hurt, and for the first time in his life, he wasn't sure if he was strong enough to survive the heartbreak of losing you.

the fluorescent light over the back aisle is flickering, humming at a frequency that’s making mike’s head ache. he’s on his knees, pulling graphic novels off the bottom shelf and sliding them back into place. he’s not doing it because he’s a perfectionist.. well, he is, but he’s also doing it because he’s annoyed. some guy in a windbreaker spent an hour shuffling through the x-men run and put half of them back out of order.

it’s 7:30pm. he just wants to go home.

you walk over, carrying a stack of returns, and stop when you see him on the floor.

"you're still doing that?" you ask. "it’s basically closing, mike. nobody is going to care if volume four is next to volume six."

"i care," he mutters, not looking up. he slams a book back into the slot, a little too hard. "it’s not that hard to follow the spine numbers."

you sigh, set your stack down on the nearby table, and crouch down next to him. "just let me take the top half. we’ll be out of here in two minutes."

he opens his mouth to tell you it’s fine, that he can do it, but you’re already reaching for the books. he pulls back to give you space, and the aisle feels suddenly very small.

you’re working in silence, just the sliding of cardboard against metal shelves. you reach for a trade, and he reaches for the same one at the same time. your hands brush, just a split second, skin on skin, and this time he jerks his hand back like he touched a live wire.

he doesn't move away, though. he stays exactly where he is, hunched over on the floor.

you turn to look at him, maybe to apologize for the bump, or maybe just to see if he’s still in one of his moods. but he’s already looking at you. he’s stopped working. his hand is still hovering in the air between you, suspended there.

he’s not looking at your eyes, his gaze drifts to your mouth, then back to your eyes, his expression is completely blank. he looks like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle he doesn't have the pieces for. his breathing is shallow, audible in the quiet of the shop.

it’s uncomfortable. just two people sitting on a dirty comic shop floor, staring at each other because the silence has become heavy enough to basically lean on. he looks like he wants to say something, but he’s too locked up. his jaw is tight. his shoulders are hunched up toward his ears.

he shifts, his knee bumping against yours. he doesn't pull away. instead, he leans forward. it’s an impulsive, slightly jerky movement,

like he’s already committed and doesn’t know how to stop. he closes the space. he stops a few inches away, hesitates, and then presses his mouth to yours. he doesn't know what to do with his hands, so they just kind of bunch up into the fabric of your hoodie. he’s not kissing you like a hero in a movie, he’s kissing you like he needs to know this is actually happening.

it lasts for three seconds before he pulls back, his face flushing dark red. he looks genuinely rattled, like he’s just realized he’s in the middle of an aisle in a public place.

he stares at you, his eyes wide and panicked, mouth slightly open. he doesn't say anything. he just looks at you, already bracing for you to completely pull away. his chest heaving as he tries to regulate his own breathing.

you don't blink. the silence is loud, filled only by the hum of the overhead light. mike is holding his breath, his hands still bunched in your fabric.

you look at the red creeping up his neck into his ears, the way his eyes stay locked on yours, searching for a rejection he’s already convinced is coming.

you don’t think. you shift your weight and lean back in.

mike lets out a short, sharp breath, like you knocked the wind out of him. he doesn't pull away. instead, he shifts, his knees pressing into the carpet. he grabs the back of your neck with one hand, his fingers hot against your skin.

he kisses back with a sudden, jerky intensity, like he’s trying to catch up to the decision you just made. your teeth click against his. he makes a muffled, frustrated noise in the back of his throat and adjusts his angle.

his other hand leaves your hoodie and finds your waist, pulling you so close there’s no gap left. you can feel the sharp edges of his keys in his pocket pressing into your thigh. he’s breathing hard, the air hitting your cheek in rapid bursts.

there’s no grace to it. he presses you back against the shelf behind you. a book shifts, falling off the stack and hitting the floor with a loud thud, but he doesn't stop. he just grips you tighter, his breathing syncing with yours. pulling you closer as if he’s trying to anchor himself. then, he freezes. he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands dropping from your waist as if he’s been burned. he’s breathing hard, his chest heaving, his eyebrows pulled up in the middle, making his eyes look huge and lost in the dim light. he’s staring at you like he’s trying to solve a problem he doesn't have the answer to.

"is this okay?" he murmured.

when my kids are complaining about their big noses, pale skin, and curly hair, but mama had a type..