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.
‧₊˚ ┊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.
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."
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.
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.
enjoy xx sorry i disappeared
