Well, kisses?

You and Finn had known each other for years. Two awkward tweens when you first met on the set of the first season of Stranger Things, and you’d somehow latched onto each other. That bond only tightened over the years. By the fifth season, ten whole years later, you couldn’t picture your life without his dark and perpetually unruly hair and tall frame draped across your living room couch. There were snacks stolen between takes and clothes migrating from his closet to yours. The comfort of growing up side by side. Best friends was the obvious label. However, the internet had other ideas.

The shipping had started when you were young. You’d always been aware of it, and honestly, you’d found it more funny than anything. (Once, you and Sadie had gone on a deep dive through fanfiction websites with no shame and several shots of tequila. In hindsight, it was one of the best nights of your life. Some people were alarmingly creative.) Still, for reasons completely beyond your comprehension, the intensity of said shipping had skyrocketed in recent months. The onset of season five promo hadn’t helped. Every so often, a TikTok would ambush you, a solemnly narrated analysis of the way Finn looked at you on a red carpet, or the moment you’d collapsed in his arms laughing during an interview. Undeniable proof you’d been married for two years and owned a dog.

Okay, fine. Maybe you did act a little over the top sometimes, but you were both just clingy people. That was just… your thing.

Finn stayed blissfully unaware. You still weren’t sure how someone could be so offline, but one glance at his phone, bereft of social media and needless notifications, told you everything you needed to know. The shipping between was your own little secret (and the rest of the cast and staff, apparently… everyone except his.) You weren’t sure why you kept it that way. You just did.

So it was three in the morning, and yet another edit of you and Finn had crossed your recommended, and tiredness had enough of a hold on you to give you an idea that planted itself as the funniest thing you ever thought of.

After Stranger Things wrapped, it would take an absurd trick of fate for you and Finn to ever land on the same set again. Putting aside the idea twisted your stomach unpleasantly at the thought, the shippers would surely be in mourning, grasping at straws and the last blurry screenshots they could get. You wondered, what better way to thank them for years of unintentional entertainment than to just… fan the flames a little? A simple playful lean into the rumor mill as a send-off?

Honestly, it sounded hilarious.

You’d sent a text to Sadie then. hey, remember the Vanity Fair interview? i’m gonna need us to swap seats during that.

Her reply came fast. what are you plotting, and you could only grin at that.

The day of the interview came. The night before, Finn had slept over like he so often did with his dedicated toothbrush in your bathroom cup and pajamas folded at the end of your bed. It was basically your, plural, apartment. He’d left earlier this morning to get ready, and in his wake he’d forgotten the sweater he’d worn the day before slung over the back of your couch. A sweater you distinctly remembered being photographed on him. Your stylist had not been convinced, but gave up after a bit of verbal wrestling even though she questioned your insistence. You slipped the sweater on, paired it with a nice skirt, and headed off to hair and makeup. 

When you arrived at the interview set, Sadie was already seated beside the spot she’d given to you. She zeroed in on the sweater immediately before she looked up at you with amusement dancing across her face.

“Oh, so you’re really doing this,” she laughed.

You nodded with a self-satisfied smile. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. The rest of the cast filtered in soon after, settling into their seats. Caleb shot you a knowing look. “Nice sweater.”

Finn arrived last and sat down beside you without second thoughts. That is, until he glanced over. You could practically see the gears turning in his head as you did your best to keep in your laugh.

“That’s mine,” he intelligently noticed, leaning closer and running the tip of his fingers against the familiar sleeve in disbelief. “That’s the one I left this morning.”

The touch made you shiver, but you masked it with a composed smile. “It is, actually. My stylist thought it’d go well with the outfit. What do you think?”

Either it was a trick of the light, or his pale complexion flushed a darker red. Lips pursed, he nodded. “It looks good. It suits you. You should—uh—you should borrow my stuff more often. The oversized thing, and all, it’s… it’s nice. Y’know.”

“Guys, focus, please! The cameras are rolling!” 

The bubble burst and both of you snapped out of it as the interviewer launched into her first question.

Two days later, the interview dropped, and you and Sadie cackled like Salem witches sprawled  on her couch as you scrolled through the corner of Twitter dedicated to you and Finn. You tried very hard to ignore the pleasant tug in your chest when someone pointed out how Finn’s gaze seemed fixed on you, and his sweater, the entire time. You quite liked the way he looked at you.

Your little scheme dragged on for a while—months, to be precise, filling the gap between Volume One and Volume Two with ideas you devised during sleepless nights. Sadie contributed when boredom struck her. The next hit was a picture taken at your local coffee shop, one fans had noticed you often went to. Sadie came with you that day, and she just so happened to have a trenchcoat that looked a lot like Finn’s brown one. Like a pair of middle-schoolers, you spent ten minutes arranging her hand just right so it could be his. You posted it to your story with a Beabadoobee song. Subtlety was not the goal. Your notifications blew up right after.

Surprisingly, a reply came from Gaten’s account. whos that lol, the text read. it’s finn btw. i stole gaten’s phone.

You couldn’t help but feel more than a little delighted.

Purely because of the fans’ reactions, of course.

Even though Finn and you had always been touchy, at least with each other, you turned the dial all the way up. In the middle of interviews, you’d lean over to fix his collar or pluck imaginary lint out of his hair. You took an unreasonable amount of pleasure in watching him flush, stumbling all over his words to scroll through the carnage online afterward. According to the internet, you were official now and dropping hints for the fans to pick out.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for Finn deciding to play right back, though.

All of a sudden, he was everywhere in your space. A hand resting casually on your thigh, an arm slung over the back of your chair, his shoulders brushing yours just enough. He started handing you his jackets, teased you more boldly during interviews, his eyes lingered longer… There was the panel incident too, in California, when—

“If I was El,” you’d said into the microphone, emboldened by Millie’s enthusiastic finger-clapping beside you. “I’d totally have broken up with the guy.”

Finn shot you an affronted look while Sadie and Caleb, who shared the panel with you, burst into laughter. He reached over and practically yanked the mic from your hands. “You’re totally exaggerating. Mike’s isn’t that bad, he’s a teenage boy! He’s just confused!”

“All teenage boys are assholes Finn. I’ve been around you wayyyy too much during that part of your life. I’d know.”

“You’re all conspiring against him,” he accused, shaking his head. “That’s what you’re doing.”

“We are not! You’re the one exaggerating now,” you argued back. Sadie leaned forward and cupped her hand around her mouth. “We are!”

Finn turned to you. “Baby, I—”

He couldn’t go any further as the audience erupted into cheers and scandalized oohs. You stumbled over air, your elbow slipping off the armrest and your mouth falling open in shock. Heat rushed up your neck, blooming across your cheeks all the way to the tip of your ears as Finn dropped his gaze, smiling bashfully at the ground. You didn’t miss the quiet laugh he let out when he looked back at you. Mortified, you shot a glance at Sadie, who was wearing the biggest, most unapologetic grin you’d ever seen.

Had she told him about your plan? He would’ve told you… right?

Or did he just want to make this a competition?

Whatever it was, you decided not to let it destabilize you. You swallowed down the blush, placed a hand on his arm as you laughed it off, and pretended you didn’t notice the way Finn’s eyes stayed trained on your fingers.

And it just kept on going. The little touches and comments, the condescending pet names when one of you messed up, or when you’d jokingly fight on set, during events and interviews. What had once been occasional became frequent, so frequent it began bleeding into your private life.

Finn started draping himself over you during movie nights, his arms winding around your waist, his head resting comfortably on your chest while your fingers carded through his hair. You found yourself rummaging through his shirts to wear at home, which he noticed and always complimented your choice. You’d cling to his arm while crossing the street even when you knew there were no paparazzis around. He fixed your hair without asking. You sat next to each other in every interview. The pet names slipped out during breaks on set.

There wasn't anyone to document those domestic instances. And for reasons unknown, you realized you liked it this way. Enjoyed the new pace your relationship with Finn had taken.

Until the wrap-up party.

Ten years of your life. Ten years of care poured into a character sealed shut with the click of a camera. The final day had tasted bittersweet to everyone. Many tears were shed, and your mascara had definitely stained Finn’s sleeve as he held you close. But that could only mean the party, two days after, would be all the more fun—which it was! That was how you all ended up lounging across the floor of Gaten’s apartment, a half-empty bottle of white wine sweating between you. You drank straight from the bottleneck, passing it around in a circle. When the bottle reached Finn, he waved it away, mindful that he was driving you home.

You smiled at him when he handed it to you, holding his gaze as the wine burned sweetly down your throat.

“Man, I’m gonna miss this,” Caleb sighed, staring at the ceiling.

Millie snorted. “It’s not like we’re never going to do this again. We’re not dying.”

“Yeahhhh, but it’s not the same, you know? We were up to so much shit on that set.”

Laughter rippled through the room as memories bubbled up, old and new. You were practically draped against Finn by then, your head near his shoulder as he leaned back against Gaten’s coffee table.

“You’re telling me,” you said fondly.“Remember when Sadie tripped over cables on her first day and fucked up the entire lighting system?”

Sadie gasped in mock outrage, glaring at you while everyone else howled. It took less than two seconds for the group to spiral into recounting every Sadie mishap from the last nine years she’d shared with you. Eventually, she raised her hands, silencing all conversations under amused eyes and pointed directly at you.

“I cannot believe you’re talking all high and mighty,” she started, her eyes gleaming, “when you’ve been doing fan service for the past few months.”

You froze. Behind you, you felt Finn straighten. You shot Sadie a frantic look, slicing a hand through the air in a silent stop, but she only met your gaze with an expression that told you, very clearly, that she knew what she was doing. Or at least, you hoped she did.

“What do you mean?” Finn asked, chuckling nervously.

“Oh, she’s been playing up your friendship because the fanbase has been shipping you two like crazy,” Sadie explained breezily, waving a hand as if she’d been asked about the weather. “It was mostly because we thought it was funny. Also, I gotta say, the fanfictions have really improved since you two started. Huge step up in quality.”

Your stomach was in your feet.

“The fanbase ships us? Together?” Finn asked, incredulous. then turned to you. You had to force yourself to lift your eyes to meet his, but the confusion in them only made you more embarrassed.

“Yeah. Yeah, they do.” You tried to sound as bright as you could as you quickly looked away.

“You didn’t know? Dude, you’re the opposite of chronically online. It’s like you live in a cave,” Gaten laughed, shaking his head. “Reminds me of that whole Sillie thing back in 2019.”

Millie barked out a laugh, brandishing the bottle of white wine. “Oh, that was a fun era.”

The night carried on with the rhythm of stories, but there was now a subtle tension threaded between you and Finn, pulled taut but still refusing to snap. It followed you all the way outside. You’d sobered up by then, the cold night air biting as you tugged your coat tighter around yourself. Finn’s car waited at the curb. You reached for the passenger door handle.

“Hey.”

You turned to see Finn had stopped, his eyes fixed on you.

“Something wrong?” you asked.

He shifted his weight, eyes flicking down and back up again in a shadow of hesitation. “So, all that… you know. The hoodies and the holding hands, that. That was a joke?”

“No,” you said immediately. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t a joke. I just thought it’d be fun to… to kind of pretend that something more was going on for the fans. Give them something, since we won’t really be seen together like this anymore.”

Quieter, you added. “And we won’t be on set together, not like before. If you know what I mean.”

“So you didn’t mean it.”

Confusion twisted your guts as you stared at him. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, blurring his expression far too much for you to make out what it was.

“I don’t know.” You took a deep breath. “Did you want it to mean something?”

A little voice in your chest you didn’t know existed was pleading. Please say yes, please say yes. Finn stepped closer, closing the distance until there was but the smallest space left between your bodies.

“To be honest, I didn’t really know people saw us like that,” he started, burying his hands deeper in the pockets of his jacket. “What I do know, though, was that I had this really stupid crush on you ever since I was, like… twelve. And when you started doing all that, I thought maybe you finally liked me back. Now, I don’t know if you meant any of it, but I—” His lips curved in a nervous smile. “I kinda hope you did.”

Your heart leaped in your chest, as if you’d just jumped off an airplane and your parachute had been delayed. Finn opened his mouth again, probably to backpedal and to reassure you it was fine, that nothing had to change if you didn’t reciprocate, but you didn’t let him. You did reciprocate.

You shut him up before he could speak—grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and kissing him.

His hands found your waist instantly, pulling you closer as he kissed you back, hard and soft all at once. Your arms slid around his neck, fingers tangling in his curls, and you laughed into the kiss when he smiled, which only made him kiss you again, and again, and again.

You finally stopped when your back hit the passenger door, Finn standing in front of you, both a little breathless as you stared at each other with starry eyes.

“And that only took us…. what? Ten years?” you teased.

Finn laughed, dropping his forehead to your shoulder, not forgetting to press a kiss to your neck as he did so. “I’m forever grateful to whoever decided to write fanfictions about us. You have to show them to me now. You’re obligated.”

“And under what obligations?”

“Uh, the fact that I’m literally your boyfriend?”

You chuckled. “Wow. You’re upgrading fast. I can’t believe you—”

He kissed you again, cutting you off, and you forgot whatever you’d been about to say. You liked it better this way.

Your phone buzzed in your jacket pocket, long forgotten, with a text from Sadie you wouldn’t see until the next morning. so are yall together yet me and caleb have a bet going. it’s been nine years.

And a week later, Finn posted on Instagram—not his social media manager, himself, guys! That’s big! It was a grainy film photo of you in his shirt, hair a mess, standing in his kitchen with two coffee mugs and the brightest smile flashed at the camera.

The caption was nothing but a heart.

FIRST DAY ONE-COIL 18KT WHITE GOLD BRACELET

DETAILS Ref.: 01020221 Material: White Gold Color: White

DESCRIPTION

After the first magazine shoot where you wore my jewelry, we went out for dinner. I think that's one of the first meals we shared. There was a lull in conversation that could have been awkward, but then you suddenly blurted out, "Hey, remember the 'Snake' game on the old Nokia?" It was so out of pocket, so out of the blue, I laughed so hard that I nearly snorted my drink out of my nose. It got us talking about games and our childhood, though. Later that night, I realized you just wanted to keep the conversation going.

A VALIANT ATTEMPT 18KT WHITE GOLD BAND

DETAILS Ref.: 11110221 Material: White Gold Size: 59 Resizable: Not Resizable

DESCRIPTION

When I invited you to a one-on-one jewelry making workshop, I honestly didn't think you'd show up. But you did. You looked adorably frustrated for the most part. You could've given up, but you persevered despite it taking several tries. I think a lot about the look on your face when you finally succeeded at making a couple of rings. After walking you out, I gathered all your rejects and smelted them down in to one ring. This is it.

JUST MY LUCK WHITE GOLD BRACELET SET

DETAILS Ref.: 3330221 Material: White Gold Size: Large Diamonds (Carats): 2.25

DESCRIPTION

In "MINGYU opens up on being named Rising Star of the Year", you talk about consistency, dedication, and passion. I whole-heartedly agree with what you've said, though there is a thing or two I'd love to add.

Here's the thing: I used to not really believe in luck. I believe in hard work and perseverance, in reaping what we sow. If I have to get my hands dirty to get something done, I'll do it.

You said in your interview that you found my page after absentmindedly scrolling through SNS. I'm sure everything that followed is a product of our own personalities, our own interactions, but that initial algorithmic push? We have to chalk it up to something.

And so maybe— just maybe— I'm a little bit lucky after all.

FUCK. SCHOOL IS HELL.

literally. hellfire is supposed to be the one thing that’s fun this week, and here he is, stuck at the table only trying to pay attention. the lunchroom is annoying, trays clattering, people yelling about sports, someone scraping a chair across the floor, the smell of mystery meat hanging in the air. he’s sitting at the hellfire club table, eddie animatedly waving his hands about some totally dumb idea for a campaign, dustin laughing way too loud, lucas trying to explain rules he’s already explained three times, and mike is just… done.

and you’re there. sitting across from him, leaning slightly back like you’re in charge of the cafeteria, hair tied up in that stupid perfect ponytail, laughing. of course laughing. at them. all of them. jason and his friends. the football idiots. you’re friends with them, probably likes them, probably laughs at them all the time. definitely rude. probably judging him too, because of course you would.

it’s annoying. of course it’s annoying. you’re popular, you’re liked, you’re beautiful. you’re probably rude. definitely rude. he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t watching you though, but he’s not watching you. he’s just… noticing. totally innocent noticing, like a scientist observing a specimen. a particularly annoying, perfect, probably-spiteful specimen.

he hates how fast his stomach flips when you glance in his direction, like you actually looked at him for a split second and he’s panicking because obviously he can’t just look back, that would be insane. who does that. you’re way out of his league, socially speaking. plus your friends are all massive assholes, and you’re friends with them, therefore you’re a massive asshole.

he’s supposed to be listening to eddie, who’s describing his rogue’s perfect escape from a trap, but he’s not. can’t. every time you talk or laugh he’s stuck internally rolling his eyes. loud, obnoxious laugh. loud enough to make him want to throw his pencil at your head. okay, not really. but almost.

he keeps rationalizing. you’re probably fake nice. you probably rolls your eyes at people when they’re not looking. probably does. maybe you’re laughing at him. definitely laughing at him. and if you’re not laughing at him, you’re definitely laughing at someone worse than him. and if you’re not laughing at anyone, you’re probably bored and he’s boring, so it balances out. not that he cares. no. he’s focused. very focused. on strategies. and pencils. and why lucas is chewing his pen like that?

he’s noticing everything he shouldn’t notice but refusing to admit it: the way your shoulders tilt when you gesture, how you lean toward the jocks just slightly, like you’re giving them the attention they don’t deserve, how you laugh at their dumb jokes. it’s infuriating. you’re nice, sure. maybe nice. but that doesn’t cancel out rude, and you’re definitely rude. friends with jason. laughing at jason. laughing at all of them. fine. he doesn’t care.

but then you laugh at something jason says and your teeth are ridiculously white and now he’s imagining his face when he accidentally looks at you, and oh no, there it is again, stomach doing flips he didn’t think boys could actually feel, ears warming, heart maybe going a tiny bit faster—definitely normal, it’s probably just because hellfire club is stressful. yes. stressful. focus on eddie’s ridiculous ideas about campaign strategies. focus on the notebook that’s probably crumpled under his fist. you didn’t even notice him staring. no one did.

he refuses to admit that it’s been like this every week since school started. none of that matters. he is oblivious. he is strong. he is rational. except now eddie is talking and he can’t concentrate, pencil tapping slowing, stomach doing something stupid again and —-

“mike, you’re zoning.” eddie says, nudging him.

“uh huh.” mike doesn’t even look. you’re laughing again. maybe at jason, definitely at jason. asshole. and okay, maybe he notices how your uniform is slightly rumpled, like you just walked here and didn’t care, like you can afford to not care, and your sneakers are clean and the socks are just right, and your backpack is sitting perfectly beside your chair like it was placed there by someone who knows exactly how to make an impression, which is obviously annoying, and probably deliberate, and maybe you’re aware he’s noticing, because why else would anyone be that good-looking in the middle of a Tuesday? but he’s not looking. hes paying attention to eddie, duh.

“mike.” lucas hisses from the side, elbow jabbing him like that’s supposed to snap him out of it. “stop staring.”

“i’m not staring.” mike replies immediately, way too fast, like the word itself could be a crime.

eddie looks way too amused, tossing a grape from his tray into his mouth. “you’re staring like a creep, wheeler.”

“i’m not.” mike says, defensive in the way that gives him away immediately.

evil, he thinks. absolutely evil.

because if you weren’t, then he’d have to deal with the fact that this has been happening every week. that he knows where you sit. that he tracks your laugh without meaning to. that his brain goes stupid and loud and defensive whenever you’re near, and that is not happening. he doesn’t like you. he’s rational. he’s in control.

he doesn’t look back for a while. long enough that he convinces himself it didn’t matter, long enough that the noise of the lunchroom starts to blur into something tolerable. long enough that eddie and dustin drift into another conversation. the bell rings. chairs scrape back. trays slide. the room shifts all at once. he looks up again without thinking.

you’re standing now, slinging your backpack over your shoulder, saying something to your friends. still smiling, still unaware. or maybe aware. he doesn’t know. he never knows with people like you. that’s part of why he hates it. you walk past the hellfire table without looking at him, close enough that he catches the scent of your shampoo again. clean. not overpowering. unfair. “come on,” lucas says, standing. “we’re gonna be late.”

he follows them out into the hallway, noise swallowing them immediately, lockers slamming, voices bouncing, sneakers squeaking against tile. the world keeps moving like nothing happened, like lunch wasn’t a whole thing.

cheerleaders have always been like this. always. he learned it early. elementary school early. the girls who got picked first for everything, the girls who were loud without getting in trouble, the girls who smiled at teachers and somehow got away with stuff he would’ve been sent to the principal for. then middle school, when everything split cleanly into groups, and the girls who would eventually become cheerleaders already knew it. already stood together. already laughed together. already looked through people instead of at them.

he doesn’t remember a specific moment where he decided cheerleaders were evil. it was more like a gradual understanding, safe in their little social bubble of doom. mike hates safe. safe people don’t lose their best friend to another dimension. safe people don’t watch monsters crawl out of walls. safe people don’t grow up too fast and then get told to calm down about it. safe people get to laugh in cafeterias and walk through hallways like the world has never once tried to eat them alive.

so yeah. cheerleaders are evil, and you fit. of course you do. popular, liked, friends with jason. laughing at lunch like it’s easy. sitting where you want, saying what you want, carrying yourself like nothing bad ever sticks. annoying. deeply annoying. he tells himself this as they walk: you’re not special. you’re a type. a category. eddie is talking again, voice carrying down the hallway, something sarcastic, something about school being a prison. dustin laughs too loud at it, like always. mike hums in response, noncommittal, present enough to pass.

he’s bored. so bored. bored of school. bored of pretending this is normal, bored of a world that keeps insisting on lockers and lunch bells and cheerleaders after everything that’s happened, like monsters didn’t exist.

he doesn’t like you. he knows exactly what kind of person you are. and if his brain keeps circling back to you anyway—well.

that’s just another thing wrong with the world.

which would be fine. manageable. survivable. if the world would just stay wrong in predictable ways. monsters, sure. portals, whatever. government cover-ups? annoying but at least consistent. but no, instead it does this, lets him get halfway down the hall toward the vending machines after school, brain already shifting gears toward campaign logistics, and then—

you.

of course you’re there. of course you’re alone for once. leaning against the lockers by the science wing, backpack on the floor, kneeling like you dropped something and decided the floor was your enemy now. productive, probably. cheerleaders are always productive. or sad. maybe sad. he can’t tell. your face is tilted down, hair falling forward, hands messing with something—papers, maybe. a clipboard. figures.

mike. don’t.

he slows anyway, not on purpose. momentum just… decreases. great. alone cheerleader. he pretends he’s just heading for the vending machine, which he is. definitely. that’s why he’s here. he puts his hand in his pocket and inserts money into the machine. he doesn’t look at you at first, just presses the button. the soda drops halfway and gets stuck, tilted, mocking him. “of course.” he mutters.

you glance up, just a little. surprise flickers across your face, then something else—recognition, probably. annoyance. or relief. hard to tell. you straighten, brush your hands on your shorts. “um,” you say, hesitant. not rude, which is irritating. “sorry—did i—are you waiting for that?”

“no,” mike says automatically. “i mean. yes. but not—whatever. it’s stuck.”

“oh, yeah. that one always does that.” you know the vending machine patterns. of course you do. “if you hit it on the side,” you add, “sometimes it drops.”

mhm. great. you’re also a vending machine expert.

mike exhales through his nose, like that might dislodge the soda by intimidation alone. it doesn’t work. obviously. nothing ever works the first time. he hits the side of the machine anyway, not where you said, because he’s not taking instructions from you.

nothing.

he hits it again, harder. the machine rattles. the soda wobbles. stays stuck. he feels you watching him. now that’s worse. “you have to hit it lower.” you say, still gentle, still polite, like you’re talking to a skittish animal.

“i know.” he says, too fast, even though he absolutely did not know.

he hits it where you pointed. the soda drops. he freezes for half a second, staring at it like it embarrassed him.

“see?”

“yeah,” he mutters, grabbing it immediately, like if he doesn’t you’ll claim credit. “lucky.”

lucky. sure. that’s what that was.

he twists the cap off, takes a sip he doesn’t want. carbonated regret. he should leave now. he should walk away, turn the corner, let eddie yell at him for being late, sit down at the table and pretend his brain hasn’t been doing this stupid static thing all afternoon.

but you don’t move. instead, you bend back down toward the floor, scooping up the papers you dropped earlier. he registers them without meaning to—flyers. bright colors. handwritten letters. something about a fundraiser. a pep rally? a food drive? some kind of school-sanctioned enthusiasm. “your friends ditch you?” the question slips out before he can stop it. immediately, he wants to shove it back in his mouth.

you pause, just for a second. then you shrug. “guess so.”

“thought cheerleaders did everything in packs.” he says, aiming for neutral, landing somewhere closer to rude.

you huff a laugh, small, tired. “we usually do.” you stack the papers, tap them against your knee to straighten them.

“so why aren’t they helping?” he asks, because apparently today is ask questions mike shouldn’t ask day.

you hesitate and look down at the flyers instead of at him. “we had a fight.”

“about…?”

“me.” you say, simple, like it’s not a big deal. that sets something off in his chest that he absolutely does not want to examine.

“right,” he says. “well. people suck.”

it comes out harsher than he means. or maybe exactly as harsh as he means. hard to tell.

you glance up at him then, really look at him, not judging, not amused, just… curious. “yeah,” you agree quietly. “they kind of do.” you stand, adjusting the strap of your bag. your uniform’s slightly wrinkled, like you’ve been sitting on the floor longer than necessary. he looks away immediately. don’t be weird. don’t be weird. “anyway,” you say, forcing a lighter tone that doesn’t quite stick. “enjoy your soda, mike.”

“mm.” he hums, already halfway turned away. automatic response. the same sound he makes when his mom asks if he’s done his homework and he is technically in the same room as it.

he takes one step.

wait. he stops so abruptly his sneaker squeaks against the floor. stupid. loud. announces him like an idiot. you said his name. just—casually, like it belongs in your mouth. like you didn’t just pull it out of thin air. he turns back, frowning before he can stop himself. “how do you—”

he cuts himself off, because asking questions is dangerous. questions lead to answers. answers lead to thinking. you’re still there, waiting, like you’re used to people freezing up around you and you’ve learned to give them a second. “what?”

“how do you know my name.” he says, sharper than necessary, because his brain has already decided this is suspicious.

“oh. uh.”

uh???

“we’re in the same grade,” you say. “and you sit like… three tables over at lunch. with dustin. and eddie. and lucas.” you gesture vaguely, as if that explains everything. it does not explain anything.

“right,” he says flatly. “so you’ve been… what. keeping tabs?”

your eyebrows knit together. “what? no.”

“because that’d be weird.” he adds, immediately, because apparently he’s committed to being unbearable today.

“i hear people say your name.” you admit. “a lot. eddie kind of shouts it.”

traitor.

“doesn’t mean you should remember it.” mike mumbles.

you blink at him, once, then again, like you’re deciding whether this is worth your energy. “okay,” you reply slowly. “sorry for having ears.”

he bristles immediately. “i’m just saying it’s weird.”

“it’s not,” you say. “it’s… school. people talk.”

“about me?” he asks, skeptical, defensive, already convinced this is some kind of setup.

“trust me mike, no one’s gossiping about you.”

“wow,” he adds dryly. “thanks.”

“you’re welcome.”

he can feel himself locking up, shoulders tight, brain flipping through its usual list of explanations. she’s messing with you. this is a joke. this is what popular people do. they poke and see what reacts. “so,” he continues, sharp, “you just go around memorizing everyone’s name?”

you fold your arms. “no. just the loud ones.” eddie. definitely eddie. “and you,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “sit with them.”

“unfortunately.”

you tilt your head. “you don’t like them?”

“that’s not what i said.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“okay,” he corrects. “i like them. i don’t like… this place.” he gestures vaguely at the hallway. the lockers. the banners taped up crookedly. the stupid school colors everywhere.

“same.”

same? “don’t pretend,” he sounds annoyed. “you’re literally part of it.”

“part of what?”

“the… school,” he says, like it’s a disease. “pep rallies. assemblies. chanting. forced enthusiasm.”

“pep rallies are the worst.”

he wasn’t expecting that.

“they’re loud,” you continue. “and sweaty. and they make us stand there forever smiling like idiots while the principal yells into the mic.”

“…yeah,” mike says, cautious. “and the sound system always squeals.”

“exactly.”

his brain scrambles to patch the hole this just punched in his worldview. “still,” he says, regrouping, “you chose to do it.”

you shrug. “yeah. doesn’t mean i have to like every part.”

actually, yes, yes it does, mike decided for you. you can’t do that. “you don’t get a choice,” he says. “once you’re in that crowd, that’s it. hive mind.”

“wow. dramatic.”

“i’m serious.”

“i know,” you say. “that’s the dramatic part.”

he glares at you. you don’t back down. which is annoying. deeply. “you think we’re all the same,” you add, observational. “don’t you.”

“yes,” he says immediately. “because you are.”

“okay,” you nod. “then you’re all the same too.”

“what does that mean.”

“hellfire club,” you say. “dungeon stuff. dice. arguing about rules. hating everyone else.”

he stiffens. “it’s not dungeon stuff. it’s—”

“dungeons & dragons,” you say, smiling slightly. “i know.”

stop knowing things!

“my cousin plays,” you add quickly, like you see the shutdown coming. “he made me watch once.”

his brain stalls. he clears his throat, deciding not to acknowledge that, because that’s too much for him to unpack right now. “still weird you know my name.”

you roll your eyes. “fine. i’ll call you ‘hey you.’”

“don’t.”

“okay, mike.”

don’t.

his name shouldn’t do that. it’s a name. it’s been his his whole life. teachers say it. his mom says it. eddie yells it, apparently. dustin says it when he wants something. it has never—never—made his chest do that weird skip. this is new. therefore bad. his heart does a stupid little lurch, like when you miss a step on the stairs but don’t fall. that. sickening. nope. don’t do that. you’re not allowed.

“you don’t have to keep saying it.” he says, defensive posture engaged.

you blink, then smile a little, like you’re trying not to laugh. “your name?”

“yeah. it’s excessive.”

it’s not excessive. it’s four letters. you’re just weak. pull it together.

you tilt your head, studying him, like you’re trying to figure out how something works by looking at it too closely. stop that. i’m not a puzzle. i’m a person. a normal person who does not react to cheerleaders saying his name. “you’re really committed to hating me.” you observe.

“i don’t hate you.” he lies immediately.

you raise an eyebrow.

“i just,” he corrects, scrambling, “don’t trust you.”

“why?”

because cheerleaders ruined middle school. because they laughed at kids like him. because popularity is a disease. because if you let one in, they eat you alive.

“because,” he says instead, “people like you don’t usually just… talk to me.”

“but i am talking to you.” you point out.

“yeah, and that’s suspicious.”

“what, you think i have an agenda?”

yes.

“maybe.” he says. you step closer without realizing it. or maybe you do. he doesn’t know. he only knows suddenly you’re right there, close enough that he has to look down at you, and he hates that too. hates the angle. hates that his stupid brain immediately catalogues things: your eyes, your mouth, the crease between your brows like you frown when you concentrate. the way you smell. cheerleader pheromones. definitely a thing. he shifts his grip on the soda. the can is cold. “cheerleaders are basically a cult.” he adds.

“we have jackets, not robes.”

“same difference.”

“and you guys don’t?”

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. “we have dice.”

“dangerous.” you say solemnly.

he almost smiles. almost. he catches himself and scowls instead. “dice are serious.”

“i can tell,” you say, nodding gravely. “very intimidating.”

“you’re doing that on purpose.”

“doing what?”

“being… normal,” he gestures vaguely at you. “about it.”

“why wouldn’t i be?”

because you’re a cheerleader. because cheerleaders are supposed to be loud and cruel and dismissive. because middle school taught him that lesson very clearly and he has never, ever revisited it. because if that rule stops working, then a lot of other stuff starts unraveling too. “most people aren’t.” he says instead.

“most people suck.” you counter.

he laughs. you light up just a little when you notice. not exaggerated, not smug, just—pleased. damn it. “see,” you say. “we agree again.”

“don’t get used to it.” he mumbles, frustrated with himself.

“relax,” you say. “i’m not trying to convert you or anything.”

“good.”

“though,” you add, thoughtful, “if i were evil, this would be a great strategy. gain trust. lower defenses.”

“you just admitted it.”

you grin. “or did i?”

oh my god.

he shifts his weight, suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing. closer than earlier. close enough that he has to look down at you, which he hates because it makes him feel like he’s looming. or staring. or both. “why are you still here.” he asks, not unkindly, but not friendly either.

you glance at the hallway. empty now, lockers stretching on forever. “i guess i don’t really want to go home yet.”

that surprises him. it shouldn’t, but it does. “why.”

“long day.”

fair. he nods once. “yeah.”

“so,” you say, breaking the silence before it could settle. are all cheerleaders this talkative?? “what do you actually do in hellfire?”

“campaign planning,” he answers automatically. “and arguing.”

“about?”

“rules. strategy. morality.”

you smile. “morality?”

“yeah,” he says. “like… choices. consequences. who deserves what.”

“that’s kind of cool.”

his ears warm. god. really? that did it? “it’s not,” he says quickly. “it’s nerd stuff.”

“mike,” you smile gently, “i am wearing a uniform with my name stitched into it. we all have our things.”

fuck, you’re a little funny. just sometimes. only sometimes. he won’t admit any more than that. he looks at you again without the automatic defenses fully slamming shut. notices how relaxed you seem now, how your shoulders have dropped. she’s pretty, his brain supplies, unhelpfully. like, actually pretty. not just uniform pretty.

“aren’t you supposed to be at your club?” you add, like you’re checking a fact, not poking fun.

he braces. “yeah.”

you nod. “my brother thinks it’s satanic.”

“your brother’s an idiot.”

you blink, then laugh. actually laugh. quick and surprised. “yeah,” you say. “he is.” you pause. “i should go,” you say, lifting the flyers. “good luck with… your game.”

“campaign.” he corrects, because of course he does.

you smile, just a little. “right. campaign.”

you turn like that’s it, like this was a normal hallway interaction and not—whatever this was. the flyers bend a little in your hands. he watches you take one step, then another. okay. fine. good. solved. back to normal.

except his brain doesn’t move on. it stays right there, snagged on the way you said campaign like you were trying. on the laugh. on the fact that he’s still standing here instead of walking in the opposite direction like a sane person. why did i let this go on this long.

he thinks of middle school—of lockers slammed too hard, of jason-type smiles that meant we see you and we don’t like what we see. you’re almost out of reach when it happens. the thing he doesn’t pre-approve. the thing his mouth does before his brain files the paperwork. “you can—” he starts.

you stop. turn back.

oh no.

he clears his throat, already irritated with himself. “you can come. if you want.”

his heart does something idiotic, like it thinks this matters. “come where?” you ask.

“hellfire,” he says. then, defensive, “not—play. just watch. if you want. you don’t have to.”

abort abort abort.

“you’re inviting me?” you question carefully, rightfully suspicious of the boy who seemed convinced you were evil incarnate five minutes ago.

“i’m not inviting you,” he says immediately. “i’m just—informing you that it’s an option.”

“wow. generous.”

“you’ll hate it,” he adds, grasping for ground. “it’s boring. and eddie yells. and there’s arguing. like, a lot.”

“you already said that,” you point out. “it sounded kind of interesting.”

he scowls at the floor. “you won’t get it.”

“try me.”

that does something. he doesn’t like that it does something. “fine,” he says. “but if you laugh—”

“i won’t.”

“or ask stupid questions—”

“probably will.”

“—then i’m revoking the offer.”

“okay.” you fall into step beside him like this is settled. he’s aware of everything now. the sound of your sneakers. the way your arm brushes his for half a second and then doesn’t again.

he opens the door and steps inside first, awkwardly, like he’s not sure why he’s doing this. lucas is already rolling dice, dustin’s counting something, everyone’s focused on whatever they’re doing—but then you’re there, and it’s like someone hit pause. the air shifts, not because you’re here, because you shouldn’t be, and they don’t know why mike brought you. everyone’s eyes flick up, a pause, questions in the raised eyebrows, the leaning forward of heads. mike doesn’t look at them. he doesn’t answer. he’s too busy pretending this is normal, that having a cheerleader in the hellfire club is totally normal.

you, oblivious, set your bag down, smooth out your skirt, and settle into a chair near the back. the papers you were working on before now stacked neatly in front of you, clipboard balancing carefully on your knees. you start taking it all in, curious, not really judging, just watching. mike’s hands tap a pencil, notebook open, dice still scattered in front of him. he’s too aware of you; he’s too aware of the way you lean slightly, the hair brushing the side of your face, the way your eyes track what’s happening on the table without interrupting.

he hates that he notices. hates that his stomach churns when you scribble something down and hum, like the sound is small enough to be innocent but enough to catch his attention. he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, then pretends to focus on his dice, on his notebook, on the little notes he’s scribbled about character abilities, strategy, alignment. everything except you.

you lean a little forward as dustin explains a roll, and mike notices you nod, like you understand it, like you’re processing the rules in your head. cheerleaders don’t do this. they don’t sit and think about rules. they don’t watch dice. they don’t care about probability or alignment or morality in a dungeon. except somehow, you do. he hates it and doesn’t know why. he’s hyper-aware of every small gesture. somehow, you’re slipping into the group without breaking anything, without disrupting, just existing, watching, listening, and he’s watching you watch them, and he hates that he’s watching you watch them.

time stretches. mike rolls dice again but can’t completely concentrate. he reminds himself cheerleaders are evil. he reminds himself this was a mistake. he reminds himself you’re probably laughing at him. but somehow, the longer you sit, the longer you stay, the easier it gets to forget that he should hate this. not fully, not consciously, not admitting, but there’s something about the way you follow the dice, nod when someone explains a rule, that makes it almost… tolerable.

finally, eddie announces a break. mike exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. you get up first. “going?” he asks. too curt, defensive. too automatic. why do i even care?

“yeah,” you say, gathering your things. “see you at school?”

he nods. don’t say more. mike stands too, automatically, walks with you out of the club, and somehow it doesn’t feel quite as wrong as it did before. maybe it’s just that you exist, that you were polite and attentive, that you fit into his world in a way that makes sense even though it shouldn’t. “you’re… welcome to come by again.” he blurts suddenly. what are you doing? why did you say that?

he immediately regrets the words the second they leave his mouth. he’s never invited anyone to hellfire before. never. he’s never wanted anyone to see this side of him. he’s not allowed to like anyone enough to bring them here. definitely not a cheerleader. definitely not you.

“yeah, maybe.”

you glance at him, just a fraction, like you’re weighing something, not quite sure if you should ask, not quite sure if you should leave it. he notices the pause. long enough to make him uncomfortable, short enough to make him paranoid. “mike…” you finally say, quiet, careful, like you’re testing the waters. he stiffens automatically.

the “yeah?” he gave came out defensive.

you hesitate. “earlier, when you asked me how i knew your name… i lied.”

he blinks. stops walking for a split second, too stunned to notice. lied? she lied? why? evil. plotting. wrong. “what?” he asks, suspicious. dry. why would she lie? this is a trap. of course it’s a trap. she’s evil. she’s a cheerleader. shut down.

“i didn’t just know because of eddie,” you admit, like it’s dangerous to say it out loud. “i’ve .. always known.”

he stops. his brain sputters. always known? what does that even—why are you saying—wait—what? “what do you mean?” he says, voice sharper than intended, heart starting to hammer.

you glance down, cheeks coloring faintly. bashful. hesitant. “i mean i’ve —- kind of… liked you. for a while. i just… didn’t… say anything.”

he freezes, backpack straps digging into his shoulder, soda crinkling in his hand, mouth open like he’s going to explain something, defend himself, insist that this is a misunderstanding—but there’s nothing. he doesn’t have a defensive line ready for this. i—what—you—hello????

“you… what?” he says finally, incredulous, not believing. not sure if he wants to believe. part of him wants to tell you you’re wrong, that you’re lying, that cheerleaders are evil, that he hates this—but another part? another part is ridiculously, embarrassingly glad.

“yeah,” you admit, looking up just enough to meet his eyes. “i’ve always thought you were… cool, i guess.” your voice is soft, almost like you’re worried he’ll push you away.

he swallows. he wants to say something clever, dry, snarky, but none of it comes out. instead, he just stands there, balancing between panic and something else. why do i like that you like me?

he just stands there. too long. long enough that the silence starts to feel loud, like the hallway itself is waiting for him to say something smart or sharp or at least coherent. nothing comes. his brain is buffering. this was not in any possible outcome tree he’d bothered to map out. his heart is going way too fast, like he just ran laps. “i—” he starts, then stops. clears his throat. tries again. “you don’t—” also bad. abort.

you shift your weight, clearly bracing yourself. not dramatic about it, just steady, like you’re ready for him to say something awful and you’ve already decided you’ll survive it if he does. that’s somehow worse than if you were defensive. or sarcastic. or mean. he knows how to handle mean.

“i just wanted you to know,” you clarify. “that’s all. i know you hate me. i know you think i’m… whatever. i just figured i’d rather say it than keep pretending.”

he frowns automatically. “i don’t hate you.”

the words come out before he can stop them. immediate regret, followed by confusion about why he regrets them. he doesn’t hate you. when did that happen? when did that stop being true?

“you don’t?”

“i mean—” he stalls, because now he has to back it up. “i don’t… hate you. i thought i did. probably. i thought you were—” he gestures uselessly. “you know. like that.”

“evil?” you offer, dry but not offended.

he winces. “yeah.”

you giggle, a small little laugh that’s more relief than humor. “fair.”

that makes something in his chest loosen. he watches you while you talk, not in the way he was trying very hard not to earlier, but openly now, because apparently all his defenses are fried. you’re nervous, but not crumbling. you’re honest without apologizing for it. you don’t hedge every sentence. you just… say what you mean, like it’s allowed.

that’s wild to him.

mike wheeler does not say what he means. he deflects. he turns things into arguments so he doesn’t have to name what they actually are. feelings are messy. feelings get you hurt. feelings make you look stupid. feelings are stupid. he has spent years being very careful about that. you just walked up and handed yours over. “you’re brave.” he notices, and immediately cringes at himself for how stupid it sounds.

you tilt your head. “am i?”

“yeah,” he says, more firmly this time. “i wouldn’t do that.”

he doesn’t know why he’s admitting that. maybe because it’s true. maybe because you already admitted something worse. maybe because the world feels slightly off-kilter and honesty is leaking through the cracks. you shrug, a little shy now. “i’ve had practice.”

you’ve done this before. you know how to say things out loud. you know how to survive the answer either way. he admires that more than he wants to. he rubs the back of his neck and looks at the floor, then back at you. “i don’t really know what to say.”

“you don’t have to say anything,” you say quickly. “i’m not—this isn’t—” you stop yourself, take a breath. “i’m not asking for anything. i just didn’t want you thinking i only talked to you for some other reason. or because i was bored. or because i’m fake.”

“i did think that.” he admits.

you smile. “i know.”

that’s the thing. you always seem to know. and instead of using it against him, you just… accept it, like it’s part of the deal. “okay,” he says. “thanks. for… telling me.”

you relax a little, like that was the part you were holding your breath for. “yeah,” you say. “you’re welcome.” you start walking again, and he doesn’t hesitate before falling into step beside you. it feels different now, like something has shifted and neither of you knows what to call it yet. he’s still awkward, still stiff, still very much mike wheeler, incapable of a smooth emotional landing. but there’s something there now, an understanding. the knowledge that someone saw him, liked him, said it out loud, and the world didn’t end.

and he doesn’t hate you.

and now he’s thinking: wait. i don’t hate her. he actually doesn’t. like. at all. how long has it been since he’s felt this particular kind of not-hating? too long, really. and then, just like that, his brain decides to start justifying everything, retroactively rewriting history. maybe cheerleaders aren’t evil. maybe your friends aren’t all scheming idiots. maybe your laugh isn’t some weaponized sonic trap aimed at him specifically.

he glances at you enough to see you’re not looking at him, just staring forward, maybe thinking about something else. he likes that. your attention, or lack thereof, or… whatever. you watched him play D&D. you didn’t need to, but you did. more than anyone else. more than dustin explaining the same rule for the fourth time. more than eddie whining about dice. you actually watched mike, and now he’s thinking: okay. that’s… kind of nice. your attention. you. you’re kind of nice.

he notices your hands, how they swing a little when you walk, he notices the tilt of your head, like you’re quietly measuring the hallway, or counting tiles, or just… being you. maybe you’re kind of cool. maybe you’re not evil. maybe your friends are funny sometimes. maybe your hair just always looks better than it should for a tuesday.

and why does he feel good walking next to you? why does he like that you watched him play? do you notice him more than the others? and why the hell does that feel good? his chest feels lighter than it has in days. the panic has gone, replaced by a confusing, pleasant sort of… awareness.

why does it matter that you watched him? that you didn’t get bored, didn’t look around for someone better, didn’t laugh. you watched him, like what he was doing mattered. like he mattered.

the doors loom ahead, glass smeared with fingerprints, afternoon light bleeding through in dull yellow slabs, and suddenly the walk has an end. mike hates that. he hates endpoints. they force decisions. you slow first, of course you do. you’re better at this. at transitions. you stop just short of the doors and turn, half-smiling, like you’re already bracing for the moment to break.

he realizes, distantly, that he’s supposed to go back. hellfire. the campaign. the table. the dice. the version of himself that makes sense there. and you’re supposed to leave. walk out into the parking lot, back into your world. this is how it works.

his chest tightens at the idea.

he clears his throat, shifts his weight, looks anywhere but your face. the floor. the exit sign. why is this so hard? he’s faced demogorgons. literal monsters. this—this is just a person. a girl. a cheerleader. a girl who likes him. apparently.

“so,” he says, and immediately hates how thin it sounds. he coughs and tries again. “uh. i have to—” he gestures vaguely over his shoulder, toward the club room. hellfire. destiny or whatever.

“yeah.” you say, understanding. not disappointed.

he nods, swallows, then, before his brain can intervene—before logic can tackle him to the ground— “would you maybe want to… hang out sometime?” it comes out rushed, like he’s tripping over his own words. “not—like—i mean, not a big thing. just—” he grimaces.

you blink, surprised, and then your smile spreads, slow and genuine, like you’re trying not to spook him. “yeah,” you agree. “i’d like that.”

“okay,” he says too quickly. then softer, like he’s testing it out. “okay.”

there’s a pause. the kind that feels like it could stretch if neither of you moves. but the doors are still there. reality still exists. you adjust your bag strap. “good luck with your… campaign.” you say, teasing but kind.

he huffs. “thanks.”

you hesitate, then lift a hand in a small wave. “bye, mike.”

his name again. still hits. still makes his chest do that stupid fluttering thing. “bye,” he says. then, because apparently he’s braver now—or dumber—“you.”

you push the door open and step into the light, and mike stands there for a second longer than necessary, watching the door swing shut behind you. his chest still feels light. his head feels full. when he finally turns back toward hellfire, he knows one thing with absolute, terrifying clarity:

he’s going to think about this the entire campaign.

based off this request !

STARTED 12.20.2025. POSTED 12.21.2025.

  ⸝⸝  masterlist  .ᐟ  𝜗𝜚

©️ latedeparture

The silence inside Mike's beige sedan was heavy enough to crush bone.

Ten minutes ago, the windows had been opaque with heat, desire, and pure love; the air thick with the scent of vanilla perfume and the humidity of bodies pressed too close. Now, the condensation was fading in streaks, leaving cold glass that offered a blurry, unforgiving view of Hawkins passing by in the dark.

The massive bouquet of red roses slid sadly across the dashboard every time Mike took a turn too sharp. The crinkle of the plastic wrapping sounded deafening in the quiet of the car.

Mike gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles looked like they were about to punch through the skin. His leg was bouncing nervously, his knee knocking against the plastic console in a rapid, irritating staccato—tap-tap-tap-tap. He was breathing in shallow, ragged gasps, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror as if he expected a government convoy (or worse, Dustin) to be tailing them.

Y/N sat in the passenger seat, her hands folded tightly in her lap, smoothing the ruined pleats of her cheer skirt. The adrenaline of the game, the high of the performance, and the electric thrill of the parking lot were draining away, replaced by a creeping, cold dread.

She watched him. He looked like he was vibrating apart.

"Mike," she said softly, breaking the radio silence. "Hey. Mikey, breathe."

He flinched, as if she'd shouted. He didn't look at her. "I'm breathing. I am breathing. I'm just... thinking. Calculating."

"You're spiraling," she corrected gently, followed by a delicate giggle. She reached out to touch his arm, but he shifted gears at that exact moment, unintentionally dodging her hand. She pulled back, a cold knot starting to form in her upper stomach. "It's not the end of the world, Mike. So.. they saw us. We were going to tell them eventually, right?"

"Not like that! " Mike exploded.

The words burst out of him, sharp and panicked. He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like that! It was supposed to be... controlled. A conversation. Not... not Dustin banging on the window while your legs were..." He trailed off, his face flushing a deep, mortified red in the dashboard glow, but the panic didn't subside. It snowballed.

"This is a disaster," he muttered, his voice speeding up, the classic Wheeler panic-mode engaging. "You don't understand the chain reaction, Y/N. Lucas knows. Which means within the hour, he's going to tell Erica. And Erica Sinclair isn't just a child, she's a federal wiretap. If Erica knows, the entire town knows by breakfast. My mom will know. Your mom will know."

"My mom likes you," Y/N argued, though her voice was getting smaller.

"And Dustin!" Mike barreled on, staring wildly at the road, his eyes wide. "Dustin is going to tell the Hellfire Club. He's going to tell Eddie. Do you know what they're going to do? They're going to roast me alive. I'm the Dungeon Master dating the Head Cheerleader. I'm a cliché! I'm an 80s movie villain! They're never going to let me live this down."

He ran a hand through his chaotic hair, tugging at the curls.

"And Will," Mike added, his voice dropping just a fraction, losing some of the manic energy and replacing it with genuine stress. "Will was right there. He saw everything. And Will talks to Jonathan. And Jonathan talks to Nancy."

He sighed, a long, frustrated sound, shaking his head.

"And if Will knows, he's going to tell El. Obviously."

The name landed in the car like a physical blow.

Mike didn't even notice he'd said it. He kept talking, his eyes fixed on the stop sign ahead. "I just... I haven't told her yet, you know? We barely talk as it is, and I didn't want her to find out like this. From Will. It's just going to be... awkward. A total mess. She's going to think I'm rubbing it in her face or something."

He kept muttering about phone calls and damage control, completely oblivious to the fact that he had just sucked all the oxygen out of the car. Well, her oxygen.

Y/N went still. 

It wasn't a rant. It wasn't a confession of undying love for his ex. It was worse, in a way. It was a reflex.

In the middle of his panic about their relationship being exposed, his mind had gone instinctively to her. To El. To how she would feel. To protecting her feelings.

Y/N stared out the window, her vision blurring instantly. The streetlights smeared into long, watery lines of orange.

She knew about El. Everyone knew about El. The girl who moved away. Mike's first love. The girl who was super intense and special and had a bond with him that Y/N could never touch. For six months, Y/N had told herself that Mike's secrecy was about him being a nerd and her being popular. She thought he was afraid of the bullies.

But as she sat there, listening to him worry about an upcoming "awkward" phone call with his ex-girlfriend while Y/N sat right next to him, the illusion shattered.

He's not protecting himself, she realized, the thought icy and sharp. He's protecting her.

Even now. Even after the roses. Even after the way he touched her in the car. He was still tiptoeing around Eleven.

Y/N felt her heart squeeze so tightly it was painful to breathe. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, willing the tears not to fall. She told herself she was being dramatic. She told herself he just cared about his friend. But the insecurity was a loud, ugly voice in her head: You're just the distraction. You're the normal high school experience before he goes back to the girl who matters.

Mike turned into her driveway and killed the engine. The sudden silence was murdering her.

"I just need to figure out how to spin this before school Monday," Mike sighed, unbuckling his seatbelt, finally calming down now that the car was stopped. He turned to her, looking for reassurance, a plan, anything. "We just need a strategy. Right? Y/N?"

He saw her face.

The motion sensor light from the garage illuminated the interior of the car unforgivingly. It caught the wet, shiny tracks of tears sliding down her cheeks. It highlighted the red rimming her eyes and the way her lips were pressed together in a trembling line.

Mike froze. The panic about Lucas, and Dustin, and whoever evaporated instantly, replaced by a much colder, immediate confusion.

"Hey," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder. "Wait. Why are you crying? Did I... did I say something?"

Y/N let out a shaky, wet laugh that sounded more like a sob. She unbuckled her seatbelt with trembling hands, desperate to escape the small space.

"You said enough, Mike," she whispered.

"What?" Mike blinked, looking genuinely baffled. "No, I was just—I was just explaining the fallout! I wasn't saying I didn't want to be with you. I just..."

"You're worried about her," Y/N said, finally turning to look at him. Her voice was quiet, devoid of anger but full of hurt. "We've been together for six months, Mike. Six months. And your biggest fear about us coming out isn't that I'll get teased, or that your parents will be mad. It's that your ex-girlfriend might feel bad."

Mike's mouth opened, but he faltered. He looked stricken, like a deer caught in headlights again. "Y/N, no. That's not—she's my friend. It's just complicated history, I didn't mean—"

"Maybe you were right," she interrupted, grabbing the door handle. "To keep it a secret."

"What? No, I never said—"

"Because if you're this terrified of her finding out," she whispered, "then maybe you're not ready to be with me."

She pushed the door open and scrambled out.

"Y/N, stop!" Mike shouted, scrambling to undo his own seatbelt.

She ran up the walkway, her cheer skirt swishing, the cool night air biting at her tear-stained skin. She heard Mike's car door slam, heard his Converse slapping against the pavement as he chased after her.

"Y/N! Wait!" Mike shouted, catching up to her at the bottom of the porch steps. He grabbed her wrist, gently, but desperate. "You're misunderstanding! Please, just listen to me!"

She spun around.

Mike stood there under the yellow porch light. He looked pale, disheveled, and horrified. The hickey on his neck, the one she had put there with so much pride an hour ago, stared back at her like a mockery.

"Go home, Mike," she choked out, pulling her wrist free.

"I'm not leaving," he pleaded, stepping closer. "Not like this. I wasn't thinking about her like that. I was just panicking! I'm an idiot when I panic, you know that!"

"I just want to be with someone who's proud to be with me," she said, her voice breaking. "You are the first and only person who has ever been scared to be seen with me."

"I am proud of you!" Mike insisted, his voice cracking. "I bought you roses! I came to the stupid game!"

"And then you spent the whole ride home worrying about El."

The silence that followed was brutal. Mike didn't have an immediate answer, and that hesitation was all Y/N needed.

"Leave me alone," she whispered, stepping up to the door and unlocking it. "Maybe for tonight. Maybe forever."

"Y/N, don't say that—"

She stepped inside and slammed the door.

Outside, on the other side of the wood, Mike stood in the silence. He stared at the closed door, his chest heaving, the faint smell of vanilla still clinging to his t-shirt, realizing exactly how badly he had just screwed up the best thing that had ever happened to him.

The weekend didn't just pass; it dragged Mike Wheeler behind it like a corpse attached to a bumper.

By Monday, Mike had spent seventy-two hours in a state of psychological self-flagellation that would have impressed a medieval martyr. He felt physically ill... A hollow, gnawing nausea settled deep in his gut, making food look like barf and sleep impossible. Every time he closed his eyes, his brain projected a high-definition replay of the car ride: the smell of vanilla turning sour, the look of absolute betrayal in Y/N's eyes, and his own voice, high-pitched and frantic, saying the only name he should not have said. Why the fuck had he done that?

Mike tortured himself with the question. He wasn't in love with El. He hadn't been for a long time. She was his friend, a special fragment of his history, a scar on his timeline. But definitely not whatever Y/N had thought. Y/N was the girl who made his hands shake and his brain quiet down. Y/N was the one who had straddled him in a parking lot and looked at him like he was the only guy on planet earth.

He had driven to her house five damn times. Five times, he had parked his beige sedan down the street, because pulling into the driveway felt like trespassing now, and shyly walked up to her porch in the drizzle. He had knocked until his knuckles were raw. He had stared at the white wood of her door until his vision swam, begging the universe to let the handle turn.

It never did.

Once, on Saturday afternoon, he saw the curtains in her upstairs bedroom twitch. He had frozen, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, lifting a hand in a pathetic, pleading wave.

The curtains had snapped shut instantly.

By Monday morning, Mike looked... drained—like he had been reanimated from the dead. Deep, violet circles bruised the skin under his eyes. His skin was pale and clammy. His hair was a tragic disaster that refused to be tamed, and he walked into Hawkins High at an inconvenient hour feeling like his bones were made of lead.

He found the party at their usual picnic table outside the cafeteria. They were arguing about Star Wars, but the conversation died instantly when Mike slumped onto the bench, dropping his bag with a heavy, defeated thud.

"Jesus, man," Lucas observed, staring at him. "You look like hell. Did you sleep in a dumpster?"

"Thanks," Mike croaked. His voice was wrecked. "She dumped me. Or... I think she dumped me. She won't talk to me. It's radio silence."

"Because you got caught?" Will asked gently, looking concerned.

"No," Mike whispered into his palms, pressing the heels of his hands against his burning eyes. "Because I'm a fucking catastrophic idiot."

He told them everything. He didn't spare himself. He dragged his own dignity out into the sunlight and shot it. He told them about the panic attack in the car. He told them about the rant, the one damn rant that ruined it all. He told them how, in the middle of Y/N tearing up about their relationship being unfairly exposed, he had started hyperventilating about how Eleven would react to the news.

The silence at the table was profound. It was the silence of people watching a car crash in slow motion.

Then, the explosion.

"You did what!? " Lucas practically shouted, slamming his juice box down so hard juice squirted onto the table. "Mike, are you fucking brain-dead? You talked about your ex-girlfriend? While your current girlfriend... who is literally a cheerleader, not even any cheerleader, but THE girl any guy in this damn school would die to date—was crying over you?"

"I was panicking!" Mike defended weakly, lifting his head. "I was just thinking about the chain reaction! I didn't want El to get hurt!"

"So you hurt Y/N instead?" Dustin looked at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust mixed with awe at the sheer stupidity. "Mike, that is... that is historically dumb. That is a level of fumbling that needs to be studied by scientists."

"I know!" Mike groaned, the guilt crushing him. "I know, okay? I hate myself enough for all of us. I just... I need to fix it. I need to talk to her."

"Good luck with that," Lucas scoffed, shaking his head. "If I were her, I'd have keyed your car and then backed over it."

"You have to do something big," Will said, his voice quiet but serious. "You can't just apologize, Mike. You made her feel second best. You confirmed exactly what she was afraid of. You have to prove she's first."

"I will," Mike said, a sudden frantic energy seizing him. He stood up, his heart rate spiking along with his confidence. "I'll do anything. I just need to find her. Have you guys seen her? Is she even here?"

He scanned the sea of students, all the denim jackets, the bright colors, the cliques huddled together. He was looking for her green and gold cheer uniform. He was looking for her sad face. He was prepared to crawl on his knees in front of the entire school if he had to.

Dustin, who was facing the parking lot, suddenly went stiff. His eyes widened. He grimaced, looking back at Mike with pity.

"Uh, Mike," Dustin said, his voice dropping. "Sit down."

"What?" Mike was still scanning, standing on his tiptoes. "Do you see her?"

"Mike, seriously," Lucas added, following Dustin's gaze and looking equally pained. "Don't look over there. Just sit down."

"Why?" Mike frowned, panic tightening his throat. "Is she crying? Is she okay?"

He turned. And then he wished he hadn't.

Fifty yards away, near the entrance to the gym, stood Y/N.

She wasn't crying. She wasn't wearing her cheer uniform. She was wearing a soft, baby-blue sundress that fluttered in the wind, looking devastatingly, painfully beautiful.

And of course, she wasn't alone.

Leaning against the brick wall next to her, looking like he had just stepped out of a toothpaste commercial, was Jason Carver. The annoying captain of the basketball team. The King of Hawkins High. The guy who was everything Michael Wheeler wasn't: blonde, muscular, rich, and painfully charismatic. And over everything, a fucking asshole.

Jason was saying something to her, his head tilted down, that perfect, blinding white smile plastered on his face. He was doing that thing jocks do, leaning into her personal space, creating a little intimate bubble that excluded the rest of the world, radiating a confidence that Mike had never possessed in his life.

And Y/N? She threw her head back and giggled.

It wasn't a polite laugh. It was a genuine, bright sound that carried across the courtyard like a bell. She reached out and playfully swatted Jason's arm, a touch that looked casual, comfortable, and terrifyingly flirtatious.

Jason caught her hand. He didn't let go immediately. He held it for a second too long, his thumb brushing her knuckles, saying something else that made Y/N duck her head, biting her lip to hide a smile.

She looked happy. She looked light. She looked like she belonged there, standing next to the Golden Boy, in a world of sunshine and popularity that Mike had dragged her out of for six months.

"Oh my god," Mike whispered. The nausea was back, violent and sharp.

It wasn't just jealousy. It was a deep, corrosive sense of inferiority. Seeing them together was like seeing the world correct a mistake. That was the couple that made sense.

"I told you not to look," Dustin muttered, shaking his head.

"She's... she's flirting with him," Mike said, his voice hollow, stripping raw. "It's been three days. Three days, and she's already replaced me."

"Jason has been trying to get with her since freshman year," Lucas pointed out unhelpfully. "He probably smelled the breakup in the water. Like a shark in a polo shirt."

"Look at him," Mike despaired, watching Jason run a hand through his perfect blonde hair. "He looks like he was made in a lab to destroy me."

"I mean..." Dustin grimaced, watching Jason laugh. "Can you blame her? Look at the upgrade, Mike. The guy has actual deltoids. You have... elbows."

"Dustin!" Will hissed, elbowing him.

"What? I'm just stating facts! It's a harsh statistical reality!"

Mike felt like he was going to be sick right there on the pavement. He watched Y/N smile at Jason one last time, then turn and walk into the school building, Jason following close behind her like a loyal, varsity-jacket-wearing guard dog.

Mike sank back onto the bench, defeated, burying his face in his hands.

"She hates me," Mike muffled into his palms. "She actually hates me. And now she's dating the mouth-breather version of Captain America."

"Well," Lucas patted him on the back, offering zero comfort. "At least you still have your D&D campaign. Jason can't take that away from you. I think."

The bell rang, signaling the start of the worst week of Mike Wheeler's entire life.

-

Wednesday arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the face.

Mike Wheeler had officially reached rock bottom. He had spent two days watching Y/N walk through the hallways with Jason Carver, a visual torture that was slowly turning his brain into soup. He needed a Hail Mary. He needed a miracle.

He got Dustin Henderson instead.

"Operation: Phoenix is a go," Dustin whispered aggressively, sliding a crumpled piece of notebook paper across the library table.

Mike stared at it. It was a crude drawing of the gymnasium, several arrows drawn in red marker, and a stick figure holding what looked like a stick of dynamite.

"Is that... a bomb?" Mike whispered back, horrified. "I'm not blowing up the school, Dustin."

"No, it's love, you idiot," Dustin hissed. "It's the fire alarm. Look, we've analyzed the data. You can't just talk to her. Jason has established a defensive perimeter. We need to force a localized gathering of the entire student body where you have the floor."

"You want me to commit a felony?" Mike asked, his voice cracking.

"It's a misdemeanor at best!" Lucas argued from across the table. "Look, Mike. You fumbled the bag. In fact, you willingly dropped the bag into a volcano. If you want her back, you have to go big."

"We pull the alarm," Will explained. "Protocol says everyone evacuates to the gym because it's pouring rain outside. Principal Higgins will try to use the PA system to organize everyone. That's when you strike."

"I strike?"

"You take the mic," Dustin grinned maniacally. "And you win her back. Or you get suspended. Either way, it's memorable. And you'll prove you are not scared of the exposure."

Mike looked at the drawing. He looked at his friends. He thought about Y/N's laugh in the courtyard, directed at a guy whose biggest problem in life was deciding which varsity jacket to wear.

"Okay," Mike exhaled, terrified. "Let's do it."

At 1:45 PM, the alarm screamed.

The sound was ear-splitting. Hawkins High erupted into controlled chaos. Students poured out of classrooms, grumbling about pop-quizzes being interrupted, and the entire student body began the wet, shuffling migration toward the gymnasium.

It worked exactly as predicted. Because of the torrential downpour outside, the administration herded everyone into the massive basketball court. The air instantly filled with the smell of wet denim, teen spirit, and confusion.

Mike stood in the shadow of the bleachers, heart hammering against his ribs. He was sweating... heck, even his ass was sweaty. He felt like he was about to throw up his entire digestive system.

"Go," Lucas shoved him hard. "Higgins is distracted yelling at a freshman. The mic is open. Go!"

Mike stumbled forward. He dodged a math teacher, sprinted up the three steps to the center podium where the AV setup was abandoned, and grabbed the microphone.

He didn't think. He just acted.

He tapped the mic.

The feedback wailed through the gym speakers, a high-pitched sonic boom that made six hundred teenagers cover their ears and wince. The noise in the gym died instantly. Everyone froze. Principal Higgins spun around, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple.

"Is this thing on?" Mike's voice boomed through the speakers, shaky and breathless. "Yeah. Okay. Uh.. Great."

He looked out at the sea of faces. He saw the Hellfire Club looking terrified. He saw the basketball team looking confused. And then, he saw her.

Y/N was standing near the center, next to Jason, of course. She looked startled, her hands over her ears, her eyes wide.

"I'm looking for Y/N!" Mike announced. His voice echoed, bouncing off the rafters. "I know you're down there."

A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd.

"Mr. Wheeler!" Principal Higgins roared, starting to charge toward the podium. "Step away from the microphone immediately!"

"I have the floor!" Mike shouted back, panic giving him a weird, manic confidence. "I have a permit! Sort of!"

He turned back to the crowd, gripping the mic stand with white knuckles.

"Y/N!" he yelled. "Listen to me! I know I'm an idiot. A dumbass. I know I messed up on Friday. I know I panicked and said the wrong things and acted like a total coward."

He took a ragged breath. The entire gym was dead silent. Even the teachers had stopped moving, too stunned by the odd spectacle to intervene.

"It's been..." Mike checked his Casio watch, his hands shaking so hard the watch face blurred. "It's been a hundred and forty-four hours. And fourteen minutes. Since I last talked to you. And I'm losing my mind."

He looked directly at her. She hadn't moved. She was staring up at him, her expression unreadable, cheeks slightly flushed.

"I haven't slept," Mike rambled, the words spilling out faster now. "I haven't eaten. I tried to eat a bagel yesterday, and it tasted like Dustin's mom's food. I'm miserable. And I know you think I'm not over the past. I know you think I'm still hung up on... on history."

He paused, swallowing hard.

"But you're wrong. You're the only person I want to be with. You're the only person who makes sense to me. You're smart, and you're funny, and you're the only person who understands why Return of the Jedi is flawed but essential viewing!"

A few nervous titters rippled through the crowd.

Mike's eyes drifted to the person standing next to her. Jason Carver. The Golden Boy was glaring at Mike with confused hostility, his arms crossed over his chest.

"And I know," Mike said, gesturing aggressively at Jason with the microphone. "I know he's... him. Look at him."

Mike scoffed, the sound amplifying through the gym.

"He looks like he was created in a lab to sell orange juice! It's so damn suspicious! Look at his hair! It hasn't moved an inch since freshman year! It literally defies physics! I bet if I touched it, my hand would bounce off!"

Mike was panting now, leaning over the podium, fully unhinged.

"He looks like the stock photo that comes inside a new wallet! He's too symmetrical! I bet he irons his socks, Y/N! Who irons their socks? Psychopaths, that's who!"

The gym went quiet. A tense, heavy silence hung in the air. Mike froze. Had he gone... too far? Was this it? Was he going to get expelled and rejected in the same breath because he accused the basketball captain of being a psychopath?

He stood there, panting, sweating, looking like a disheveled mess in front of the entire school.

And then, a sound broke the silence.

It started small. A snort. Then a giggle. Then, it erupted.

Y/N threw her head back and laughed.

It was the same laugh she had given Jason earlier, but this time, it was louder. It was uncontrollable. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, shaking with laughter. The sound echoed through the silent gym, bright and clear and forgiving.

She looked up at Mike, tears of mirth in her eyes, ignoring Jason who looked deeply offended and was checking his socks.

Mike felt his knees go weak with relief. He slumped against the podium, a goofy, breathless grin spreading across his face.

-

The price of romance, Mike Wheeler discovered, was approximately three days of out-of-school suspension and a permanent record that now included "Misuse of Emergency Equipment" and "Public Defamation of a Student’s Hosiery Choices."

It was Friday night. The Wheeler house was quiet, the kind of hollow silence that usually drove him insane, but honestly, Mike was too exhausted to care.

He hadn't spoken to Y/N since Wednesday. And he felt okay about it.

After the gym incident, the laughter, the applause, and the subsequent hauling away by Principal Higgins, he had made a choice. He hadn't chased her down. He had made a grand gesture, he had humiliated her new boyfriend in front of six hundred people, and he had proven that he wasn't afraid to look stupid for her.

But he also knew she needed space. He had crowded her, then he had ignored her, then he had embarrassed her. If she wanted him, she knew where to find him. He was done being a coward, but he was also done forcing things. He was going to wait, even if it felt like his chest was being compressed by a vice.

So, he was cooking.

"Cooking" was a generous term. He was standing in the kitchen, wearing gray sweatpants and an old, thin The Clash t-shirt, stirring a pot of Kraft Mac & Cheese with a wooden spoon. The radio was playing softly in the background, filling the empty air.

He stared at the neon orange pasta. It looked radioactive.

She’s probably out with Jason, his brain supplied unhelpfully. Jason probably eats organic pasta. Jason probably makes his own sauce from tomatoes he grew in a garden fertilized with his own perfect charisma.

Mike sighed, scraping the bottom of the pot. "Shut up," he muttered to the empty kitchen.

He was just reaching for the milk when three sharp knocks rattled the front door.

Mike froze.

He checked the time. 8:15 PM. It was probably Henderson, coming to mock his culinary skills (ironic), or Lucas coming to update him on the gossip mill.

"It’s open!" Mike shouted, not looking up from the stove. "If you're here to make fun of my suspension, take a number, Henderson!"

The door didn't open.

There was a pause, and then three more knocks. Louder. More insistent. Urgent.

Mike groaned, turning off the burner. "Alright, alright! Keep your trucker hat on."

He wiped his hands on his sweatpants and trudged down the hallway. He unlocked the deadbolt, prepared to give Dustin hell for making him walk fifteen feet.

He swung the door open. "I swear to God, if you—"

The words died in his throat.

Standing on his porch, illuminated by the yellow bug light and breathing hard, was Y/N.

Mike blinked, his brain buffering. "Y/N? I thought—"

She didn't let him finish. She didn't say a word.

She stepped forward, grabbed the front of his t-shirt in both fists, and yanked him across the threshold.

She slammed her mouth against his, kissing him with a wild, frantic energy that nearly knocked him backward into the hallway wall. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't the slow, sensuous heat of the car. This was a collision. It was desperate, unpolished, and starving.

Mike gasped, the sound swallowed by her mouth, and his hands flew up instinctively to catch her. He gripped her waist, his fingers digging into the soft cotton of her tank top to steady them both as she pressed him back.

She kissed him like she was trying to memorize the taste of him, her lips moving feverishly against his, open and wet and demanding. There was a clash of teeth, a tangle of tongues, a raw release of three damn days' worth of misery. She tasted like her usual cherry chapstick and rain.

She pulled back just an inch, barely enough to breathe, her forehead resting against his, her eyes wide, dark, and shining.

"Hi," she whispered between kisses, biting his lower lip, a frantic little sound escaping her throat.

"Hi," Mike managed to choke out, his heart hammering a hole in his chest, his brain short-circuiting in the best possible way.

The silence inside Mike's beige sedan was heavy enough to crush bone.

Ten minutes ago, the windows had been opaque with heat, desire, and pure love; the air thick with the scent of vanilla perfume and the humidity of bodies pressed too close. Now, the condensation was fading in streaks, leaving cold glass that offered a blurry, unforgiving view of Hawkins passing by in the dark.

The massive bouquet of red roses slid sadly across the dashboard every time Mike took a turn too sharp. The crinkle of the plastic wrapping sounded deafening in the quiet of the car.

Mike gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles looked like they were about to punch through the skin. His leg was bouncing nervously, his knee knocking against the plastic console in a rapid, irritating staccato—tap-tap-tap-tap. He was breathing in shallow, ragged gasps, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror as if he expected a government convoy (or worse, Dustin) to be tailing them.

Y/N sat in the passenger seat, her hands folded tightly in her lap, smoothing the ruined pleats of her cheer skirt. The adrenaline of the game, the high of the performance, and the electric thrill of the parking lot were draining away, replaced by a creeping, cold dread.

She watched him. He looked like he was vibrating apart.

"Mike," she said softly, breaking the radio silence. "Hey. Mikey, breathe."

He flinched, as if she'd shouted. He didn't look at her. "I'm breathing. I am breathing. I'm just... thinking. Calculating."

"You're spiraling," she corrected gently, followed by a delicate giggle. She reached out to touch his arm, but he shifted gears at that exact moment, unintentionally dodging her hand. She pulled back, a cold knot starting to form in her upper stomach. "It's not the end of the world, Mike. So.. they saw us. We were going to tell them eventually, right?"

"Not like that! " Mike exploded.

The words burst out of him, sharp and panicked. He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.

"It wasn't supposed to happen like that! It was supposed to be... controlled. A conversation. Not... not Dustin banging on the window while your legs were..." He trailed off, his face flushing a deep, mortified red in the dashboard glow, but the panic didn't subside. It snowballed.

"This is a disaster," he muttered, his voice speeding up, the classic Wheeler panic-mode engaging. "You don't understand the chain reaction, Y/N. Lucas knows. Which means within the hour, he's going to tell Erica. And Erica Sinclair isn't just a child, she's a federal wiretap. If Erica knows, the entire town knows by breakfast. My mom will know. Your mom will know."

"My mom likes you," Y/N argued, though her voice was getting smaller.

"And Dustin!" Mike barreled on, staring wildly at the road, his eyes wide. "Dustin is going to tell the Hellfire Club. He's going to tell Eddie. Do you know what they're going to do? They're going to roast me alive. I'm the Dungeon Master dating the Head Cheerleader. I'm a cliché! I'm an 80s movie villain! They're never going to let me live this down."

He ran a hand through his chaotic hair, tugging at the curls.

"And Will," Mike added, his voice dropping just a fraction, losing some of the manic energy and replacing it with genuine stress. "Will was right there. He saw everything. And Will talks to Jonathan. And Jonathan talks to Nancy."

He sighed, a long, frustrated sound, shaking his head.

"And if Will knows, he's going to tell El. Obviously."

The name landed in the car like a physical blow.

Mike didn't even notice he'd said it. He kept talking, his eyes fixed on the stop sign ahead. "I just... I haven't told her yet, you know? We barely talk as it is, and I didn't want her to find out like this. From Will. It's just going to be... awkward. A total mess. She's going to think I'm rubbing it in her face or something."

He kept muttering about phone calls and damage control, completely oblivious to the fact that he had just sucked all the oxygen out of the car. Well, her oxygen.

Y/N went still. 

It wasn't a rant. It wasn't a confession of undying love for his ex. It was worse, in a way. It was a reflex.

In the middle of his panic about their relationship being exposed, his mind had gone instinctively to her. To El. To how she would feel. To protecting her feelings.

Y/N stared out the window, her vision blurring instantly. The streetlights smeared into long, watery lines of orange.

She knew about El. Everyone knew about El. The girl who moved away. Mike's first love. The girl who was super intense and special and had a bond with him that Y/N could never touch. For six months, Y/N had told herself that Mike's secrecy was about him being a nerd and her being popular. She thought he was afraid of the bullies.

But as she sat there, listening to him worry about an upcoming "awkward" phone call with his ex-girlfriend while Y/N sat right next to him, the illusion shattered.

He's not protecting himself, she realized, the thought icy and sharp. He's protecting her.

Even now. Even after the roses. Even after the way he touched her in the car. He was still tiptoeing around Eleven.

Y/N felt her heart squeeze so tightly it was painful to breathe. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, willing the tears not to fall. She told herself she was being dramatic. She told herself he just cared about his friend. But the insecurity was a loud, ugly voice in her head: You're just the distraction. You're the normal high school experience before he goes back to the girl who matters.

Mike turned into her driveway and killed the engine. The sudden silence was murdering her.

"I just need to figure out how to spin this before school Monday," Mike sighed, unbuckling his seatbelt, finally calming down now that the car was stopped. He turned to her, looking for reassurance, a plan, anything. "We just need a strategy. Right? Y/N?"

He saw her face.

The motion sensor light from the garage illuminated the interior of the car unforgivingly. It caught the wet, shiny tracks of tears sliding down her cheeks. It highlighted the red rimming her eyes and the way her lips were pressed together in a trembling line.

Mike froze. The panic about Lucas, and Dustin, and whoever evaporated instantly, replaced by a much colder, immediate confusion.

"Hey," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder. "Wait. Why are you crying? Did I... did I say something?"

Y/N let out a shaky, wet laugh that sounded more like a sob. She unbuckled her seatbelt with trembling hands, desperate to escape the small space.

"You said enough, Mike," she whispered.

"What?" Mike blinked, looking genuinely baffled. "No, I was just—I was just explaining the fallout! I wasn't saying I didn't want to be with you. I just..."

"You're worried about her," Y/N said, finally turning to look at him. Her voice was quiet, devoid of anger but full of hurt. "We've been together for six months, Mike. Six months. And your biggest fear about us coming out isn't that I'll get teased, or that your parents will be mad. It's that your ex-girlfriend might feel bad."

Mike's mouth opened, but he faltered. He looked stricken, like a deer caught in headlights again. "Y/N, no. That's not—she's my friend. It's just complicated history, I didn't mean—"

"Maybe you were right," she interrupted, grabbing the door handle. "To keep it a secret."

"What? No, I never said—"

"Because if you're this terrified of her finding out," she whispered, "then maybe you're not ready to be with me."

She pushed the door open and scrambled out.

"Y/N, stop!" Mike shouted, scrambling to undo his own seatbelt.

She ran up the walkway, her cheer skirt swishing, the cool night air biting at her tear-stained skin. She heard Mike's car door slam, heard his Converse slapping against the pavement as he chased after her.

"Y/N! Wait!" Mike shouted, catching up to her at the bottom of the porch steps. He grabbed her wrist, gently, but desperate. "You're misunderstanding! Please, just listen to me!"

She spun around.

Mike stood there under the yellow porch light. He looked pale, disheveled, and horrified. The hickey on his neck, the one she had put there with so much pride an hour ago, stared back at her like a mockery.

"Go home, Mike," she choked out, pulling her wrist free.

"I'm not leaving," he pleaded, stepping closer. "Not like this. I wasn't thinking about her like that. I was just panicking! I'm an idiot when I panic, you know that!"

"I just want to be with someone who's proud to be with me," she said, her voice breaking. "You are the first and only person who has ever been scared to be seen with me."

"I am proud of you!" Mike insisted, his voice cracking. "I bought you roses! I came to the stupid game!"

"And then you spent the whole ride home worrying about El."

The silence that followed was brutal. Mike didn't have an immediate answer, and that hesitation was all Y/N needed.

"Leave me alone," she whispered, stepping up to the door and unlocking it. "Maybe for tonight. Maybe forever."

"Y/N, don't say that—"

She stepped inside and slammed the door.

Outside, on the other side of the wood, Mike stood in the silence. He stared at the closed door, his chest heaving, the faint smell of vanilla still clinging to his t-shirt, realizing exactly how badly he had just screwed up the best thing that had ever happened to him.

The weekend didn't just pass; it dragged Mike Wheeler behind it like a corpse attached to a bumper.

By Monday, Mike had spent seventy-two hours in a state of psychological self-flagellation that would have impressed a medieval martyr. He felt physically ill... A hollow, gnawing nausea settled deep in his gut, making food look like barf and sleep impossible. Every time he closed his eyes, his brain projected a high-definition replay of the car ride: the smell of vanilla turning sour, the look of absolute betrayal in Y/N's eyes, and his own voice, high-pitched and frantic, saying the only name he should not have said. Why the fuck had he done that?

Mike tortured himself with the question. He wasn't in love with El. He hadn't been for a long time. She was his friend, a special fragment of his history, a scar on his timeline. But definitely not whatever Y/N had thought. Y/N was the girl who made his hands shake and his brain quiet down. Y/N was the one who had straddled him in a parking lot and looked at him like he was the only guy on planet earth.

He had driven to her house five damn times. Five times, he had parked his beige sedan down the street, because pulling into the driveway felt like trespassing now, and shyly walked up to her porch in the drizzle. He had knocked until his knuckles were raw. He had stared at the white wood of her door until his vision swam, begging the universe to let the handle turn.

It never did.

Once, on Saturday afternoon, he saw the curtains in her upstairs bedroom twitch. He had frozen, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, lifting a hand in a pathetic, pleading wave.

The curtains had snapped shut instantly.

By Monday morning, Mike looked... drained—like he had been reanimated from the dead. Deep, violet circles bruised the skin under his eyes. His skin was pale and clammy. His hair was a tragic disaster that refused to be tamed, and he walked into Hawkins High at an inconvenient hour feeling like his bones were made of lead.

He found the party at their usual picnic table outside the cafeteria. They were arguing about Star Wars, but the conversation died instantly when Mike slumped onto the bench, dropping his bag with a heavy, defeated thud.

"Jesus, man," Lucas observed, staring at him. "You look like hell. Did you sleep in a dumpster?"

"Thanks," Mike croaked. His voice was wrecked. "She dumped me. Or... I think she dumped me. She won't talk to me. It's radio silence."

"Because you got caught?" Will asked gently, looking concerned.

"No," Mike whispered into his palms, pressing the heels of his hands against his burning eyes. "Because I'm a fucking catastrophic idiot."

He told them everything. He didn't spare himself. He dragged his own dignity out into the sunlight and shot it. He told them about the panic attack in the car. He told them about the rant, the one damn rant that ruined it all. He told them how, in the middle of Y/N tearing up about their relationship being unfairly exposed, he had started hyperventilating about how Eleven would react to the news.

The silence at the table was profound. It was the silence of people watching a car crash in slow motion.

Then, the explosion.

"You did what!? " Lucas practically shouted, slamming his juice box down so hard juice squirted onto the table. "Mike, are you fucking brain-dead? You talked about your ex-girlfriend? While your current girlfriend... who is literally a cheerleader, not even any cheerleader, but THE girl any guy in this damn school would die to date—was crying over you?"

"I was panicking!" Mike defended weakly, lifting his head. "I was just thinking about the chain reaction! I didn't want El to get hurt!"

"So you hurt Y/N instead?" Dustin looked at him with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust mixed with awe at the sheer stupidity. "Mike, that is... that is historically dumb. That is a level of fumbling that needs to be studied by scientists."

"I know!" Mike groaned, the guilt crushing him. "I know, okay? I hate myself enough for all of us. I just... I need to fix it. I need to talk to her."

"Good luck with that," Lucas scoffed, shaking his head. "If I were her, I'd have keyed your car and then backed over it."

"You have to do something big," Will said, his voice quiet but serious. "You can't just apologize, Mike. You made her feel second best. You confirmed exactly what she was afraid of. You have to prove she's first."

"I will," Mike said, a sudden frantic energy seizing him. He stood up, his heart rate spiking along with his confidence. "I'll do anything. I just need to find her. Have you guys seen her? Is she even here?"

He scanned the sea of students, all the denim jackets, the bright colors, the cliques huddled together. He was looking for her green and gold cheer uniform. He was looking for her sad face. He was prepared to crawl on his knees in front of the entire school if he had to.

Dustin, who was facing the parking lot, suddenly went stiff. His eyes widened. He grimaced, looking back at Mike with pity.

"Uh, Mike," Dustin said, his voice dropping. "Sit down."

"What?" Mike was still scanning, standing on his tiptoes. "Do you see her?"

"Mike, seriously," Lucas added, following Dustin's gaze and looking equally pained. "Don't look over there. Just sit down."

"Why?" Mike frowned, panic tightening his throat. "Is she crying? Is she okay?"

He turned. And then he wished he hadn't.

Fifty yards away, near the entrance to the gym, stood Y/N.

She wasn't crying. She wasn't wearing her cheer uniform. She was wearing a soft, baby-blue sundress that fluttered in the wind, looking devastatingly, painfully beautiful.

And of course, she wasn't alone.

Leaning against the brick wall next to her, looking like he had just stepped out of a toothpaste commercial, was Jason Carver. The annoying captain of the basketball team. The King of Hawkins High. The guy who was everything Michael Wheeler wasn't: blonde, muscular, rich, and painfully charismatic. And over everything, a fucking asshole.

Jason was saying something to her, his head tilted down, that perfect, blinding white smile plastered on his face. He was doing that thing jocks do, leaning into her personal space, creating a little intimate bubble that excluded the rest of the world, radiating a confidence that Mike had never possessed in his life.

And Y/N? She threw her head back and giggled.

It wasn't a polite laugh. It was a genuine, bright sound that carried across the courtyard like a bell. She reached out and playfully swatted Jason's arm, a touch that looked casual, comfortable, and terrifyingly flirtatious.

Jason caught her hand. He didn't let go immediately. He held it for a second too long, his thumb brushing her knuckles, saying something else that made Y/N duck her head, biting her lip to hide a smile.

She looked happy. She looked light. She looked like she belonged there, standing next to the Golden Boy, in a world of sunshine and popularity that Mike had dragged her out of for six months.

"Oh my god," Mike whispered. The nausea was back, violent and sharp.

It wasn't just jealousy. It was a deep, corrosive sense of inferiority. Seeing them together was like seeing the world correct a mistake. That was the couple that made sense.

"I told you not to look," Dustin muttered, shaking his head.

"She's... she's flirting with him," Mike said, his voice hollow, stripping raw. "It's been three days. Three days, and she's already replaced me."

"Jason has been trying to get with her since freshman year," Lucas pointed out unhelpfully. "He probably smelled the breakup in the water. Like a shark in a polo shirt."

"Look at him," Mike despaired, watching Jason run a hand through his perfect blonde hair. "He looks like he was made in a lab to destroy me."

"I mean..." Dustin grimaced, watching Jason laugh. "Can you blame her? Look at the upgrade, Mike. The guy has actual deltoids. You have... elbows."

"Dustin!" Will hissed, elbowing him.

"What? I'm just stating facts! It's a harsh statistical reality!"

Mike felt like he was going to be sick right there on the pavement. He watched Y/N smile at Jason one last time, then turn and walk into the school building, Jason following close behind her like a loyal, varsity-jacket-wearing guard dog.

Mike sank back onto the bench, defeated, burying his face in his hands.

"She hates me," Mike muffled into his palms. "She actually hates me. And now she's dating the mouth-breather version of Captain America."

"Well," Lucas patted him on the back, offering zero comfort. "At least you still have your D&D campaign. Jason can't take that away from you. I think."

The bell rang, signaling the start of the worst week of Mike Wheeler's entire life.

-

Wednesday arrived with the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the face.

Mike Wheeler had officially reached rock bottom. He had spent two days watching Y/N walk through the hallways with Jason Carver, a visual torture that was slowly turning his brain into soup. He needed a Hail Mary. He needed a miracle.

He got Dustin Henderson instead.

"Operation: Phoenix is a go," Dustin whispered aggressively, sliding a crumpled piece of notebook paper across the library table.

Mike stared at it. It was a crude drawing of the gymnasium, several arrows drawn in red marker, and a stick figure holding what looked like a stick of dynamite.

"Is that... a bomb?" Mike whispered back, horrified. "I'm not blowing up the school, Dustin."

"No, it's love, you idiot," Dustin hissed. "It's the fire alarm. Look, we've analyzed the data. You can't just talk to her. Jason has established a defensive perimeter. We need to force a localized gathering of the entire student body where you have the floor."

"You want me to commit a felony?" Mike asked, his voice cracking.

"It's a misdemeanor at best!" Lucas argued from across the table. "Look, Mike. You fumbled the bag. In fact, you willingly dropped the bag into a volcano. If you want her back, you have to go big."

"We pull the alarm," Will explained. "Protocol says everyone evacuates to the gym because it's pouring rain outside. Principal Higgins will try to use the PA system to organize everyone. That's when you strike."

"I strike?"

"You take the mic," Dustin grinned maniacally. "And you win her back. Or you get suspended. Either way, it's memorable. And you'll prove you are not scared of the exposure."

Mike looked at the drawing. He looked at his friends. He thought about Y/N's laugh in the courtyard, directed at a guy whose biggest problem in life was deciding which varsity jacket to wear.

"Okay," Mike exhaled, terrified. "Let's do it."

At 1:45 PM, the alarm screamed.

The sound was ear-splitting. Hawkins High erupted into controlled chaos. Students poured out of classrooms, grumbling about pop-quizzes being interrupted, and the entire student body began the wet, shuffling migration toward the gymnasium.

It worked exactly as predicted. Because of the torrential downpour outside, the administration herded everyone into the massive basketball court. The air instantly filled with the smell of wet denim, teen spirit, and confusion.

Mike stood in the shadow of the bleachers, heart hammering against his ribs. He was sweating... heck, even his ass was sweaty. He felt like he was about to throw up his entire digestive system.

"Go," Lucas shoved him hard. "Higgins is distracted yelling at a freshman. The mic is open. Go!"

Mike stumbled forward. He dodged a math teacher, sprinted up the three steps to the center podium where the AV setup was abandoned, and grabbed the microphone.

He didn't think. He just acted.

He tapped the mic.

The feedback wailed through the gym speakers, a high-pitched sonic boom that made six hundred teenagers cover their ears and wince. The noise in the gym died instantly. Everyone froze. Principal Higgins spun around, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple.

"Is this thing on?" Mike's voice boomed through the speakers, shaky and breathless. "Yeah. Okay. Uh.. Great."

He looked out at the sea of faces. He saw the Hellfire Club looking terrified. He saw the basketball team looking confused. And then, he saw her.

Y/N was standing near the center, next to Jason, of course. She looked startled, her hands over her ears, her eyes wide.

"I'm looking for Y/N!" Mike announced. His voice echoed, bouncing off the rafters. "I know you're down there."

A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd.

"Mr. Wheeler!" Principal Higgins roared, starting to charge toward the podium. "Step away from the microphone immediately!"

"I have the floor!" Mike shouted back, panic giving him a weird, manic confidence. "I have a permit! Sort of!"

He turned back to the crowd, gripping the mic stand with white knuckles.

"Y/N!" he yelled. "Listen to me! I know I'm an idiot. A dumbass. I know I messed up on Friday. I know I panicked and said the wrong things and acted like a total coward."

He took a ragged breath. The entire gym was dead silent. Even the teachers had stopped moving, too stunned by the odd spectacle to intervene.

"It's been..." Mike checked his Casio watch, his hands shaking so hard the watch face blurred. "It's been a hundred and forty-four hours. And fourteen minutes. Since I last talked to you. And I'm losing my mind."

He looked directly at her. She hadn't moved. She was staring up at him, her expression unreadable, cheeks slightly flushed.

"I haven't slept," Mike rambled, the words spilling out faster now. "I haven't eaten. I tried to eat a bagel yesterday, and it tasted like Dustin's mom's food. I'm miserable. And I know you think I'm not over the past. I know you think I'm still hung up on... on history."

He paused, swallowing hard.

"But you're wrong. You're the only person I want to be with. You're the only person who makes sense to me. You're smart, and you're funny, and you're the only person who understands why Return of the Jedi is flawed but essential viewing!"

A few nervous titters rippled through the crowd.

Mike's eyes drifted to the person standing next to her. Jason Carver. The Golden Boy was glaring at Mike with confused hostility, his arms crossed over his chest.

"And I know," Mike said, gesturing aggressively at Jason with the microphone. "I know he's... him. Look at him."

Mike scoffed, the sound amplifying through the gym.

"He looks like he was created in a lab to sell orange juice! It's so damn suspicious! Look at his hair! It hasn't moved an inch since freshman year! It literally defies physics! I bet if I touched it, my hand would bounce off!"

Mike was panting now, leaning over the podium, fully unhinged.

"He looks like the stock photo that comes inside a new wallet! He's too symmetrical! I bet he irons his socks, Y/N! Who irons their socks? Psychopaths, that's who!"

The gym went quiet. A tense, heavy silence hung in the air. Mike froze. Had he gone... too far? Was this it? Was he going to get expelled and rejected in the same breath because he accused the basketball captain of being a psychopath?

He stood there, panting, sweating, looking like a disheveled mess in front of the entire school.

And then, a sound broke the silence.

It started small. A snort. Then a giggle. Then, it erupted.

Y/N threw her head back and laughed.

It was the same laugh she had given Jason earlier, but this time, it was louder. It was uncontrollable. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, shaking with laughter. The sound echoed through the silent gym, bright and clear and forgiving.

She looked up at Mike, tears of mirth in her eyes, ignoring Jason who looked deeply offended and was checking his socks.

Mike felt his knees go weak with relief. He slumped against the podium, a goofy, breathless grin spreading across his face.

-

The price of romance, Mike Wheeler discovered, was approximately three days of out-of-school suspension and a permanent record that now included "Misuse of Emergency Equipment" and "Public Defamation of a Student’s Hosiery Choices."

It was Friday night. The Wheeler house was quiet, the kind of hollow silence that usually drove him insane, but honestly, Mike was too exhausted to care.

He hadn't spoken to Y/N since Wednesday. And he felt okay about it.

After the gym incident, the laughter, the applause, and the subsequent hauling away by Principal Higgins, he had made a choice. He hadn't chased her down. He had made a grand gesture, he had humiliated her new boyfriend in front of six hundred people, and he had proven that he wasn't afraid to look stupid for her.

But he also knew she needed space. He had crowded her, then he had ignored her, then he had embarrassed her. If she wanted him, she knew where to find him. He was done being a coward, but he was also done forcing things. He was going to wait, even if it felt like his chest was being compressed by a vice.

So, he was cooking.

"Cooking" was a generous term. He was standing in the kitchen, wearing gray sweatpants and an old, thin The Clash t-shirt, stirring a pot of Kraft Mac & Cheese with a wooden spoon. The radio was playing softly in the background, filling the empty air.

He stared at the neon orange pasta. It looked radioactive.

She’s probably out with Jason, his brain supplied unhelpfully. Jason probably eats organic pasta. Jason probably makes his own sauce from tomatoes he grew in a garden fertilized with his own perfect charisma.

Mike sighed, scraping the bottom of the pot. "Shut up," he muttered to the empty kitchen.

He was just reaching for the milk when three sharp knocks rattled the front door.

Mike froze.

He checked the time. 8:15 PM. It was probably Henderson, coming to mock his culinary skills (ironic), or Lucas coming to update him on the gossip mill.

"It’s open!" Mike shouted, not looking up from the stove. "If you're here to make fun of my suspension, take a number, Henderson!"

The door didn't open.

There was a pause, and then three more knocks. Louder. More insistent. Urgent.

Mike groaned, turning off the burner. "Alright, alright! Keep your trucker hat on."

He wiped his hands on his sweatpants and trudged down the hallway. He unlocked the deadbolt, prepared to give Dustin hell for making him walk fifteen feet.

He swung the door open. "I swear to God, if you—"

The words died in his throat.

Standing on his porch, illuminated by the yellow bug light and breathing hard, was Y/N.

Mike blinked, his brain buffering. "Y/N? I thought—"

She didn't let him finish. She didn't say a word.

She stepped forward, grabbed the front of his t-shirt in both fists, and yanked him across the threshold.

She slammed her mouth against his, kissing him with a wild, frantic energy that nearly knocked him backward into the hallway wall. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't the slow, sensuous heat of the car. This was a collision. It was desperate, unpolished, and starving.

Mike gasped, the sound swallowed by her mouth, and his hands flew up instinctively to catch her. He gripped her waist, his fingers digging into the soft cotton of her tank top to steady them both as she pressed him back.

She kissed him like she was trying to memorize the taste of him, her lips moving feverishly against his, open and wet and demanding. There was a clash of teeth, a tangle of tongues, a raw release of three damn days' worth of misery. She tasted like her usual cherry chapstick and rain.

She pulled back just an inch, barely enough to breathe, her forehead resting against his, her eyes wide, dark, and shining.

"Hi," she whispered between kisses, biting his lower lip, a frantic little sound escaping her throat.

"Hi," Mike managed to choke out, his heart hammering a hole in his chest, his brain short-circuiting in the best possible way.

The sort of thing a particular punk enjoyed.

So Steve sat on the sofa, the tv on low and his arms crossed over his chest as he waited for the door to go or for your feet to run down the stairs. Which ever came first. Your music was loud, louder than he'd have liked but it was a reminder you were in the house and not running around Hawkins with Mike Wheeler.

He had nothing against the Wheelers, at least he didn't think. He'd dated Nancy ... before she broke his heart... actually-

Ding!

The bell.

"I'll get it!" your voice yelled but Steve was quicker in jumping over the back of the sofa and rushing to the door.

You hadn't even made it out of your room when he got the door.

Mike stood there, in a jumper and jeans. Geez, was he even trying. "Hey, Steve."

Steve leant on the doorway, folding his arms again. He sniffed. "Wheeler."

"This? Again?" Mike sighed.

Steve shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, though he might have had an idea.

See, Steve liked the kids, he did. Dustin, Lucas, El, Will, Max and Mike. They were good kids and frankly he was just happy you had better friends then he did at your age. Real friends. Friends that had your back.

But just because he liked them didn't mean you had to date one of them.

Mike rolled his eyes.

"So where are you going tonight?"

"The movies."

"Uh-huh, PG?"

"R."

Steve didn't like that but he'd have to accept it. He peered over Mike. "Ah- taking her on your bike?"

"Well, I don't have a car," said Mike.

"Alright-" Steve looked back, making sure you were still busy getting ready before he closed the door over behind him and took a step down to Mike. To his credit, the boy didn't flinch and to Steve's annoyance he kept growing so it wasn't that much more intimidating when Steve stood across from him. "Cut the sass with me, Wheeler. If I had it my way you'd-"

"Never see your sister again? Yeah, I got it the first dozen times you told me and I'm still here," he said with a grin, arms out and gesturing to himself. "You don't scare me, Steve."

"I will Wheeler, I will," he said, dropping his voice low in his best attempt to be intimidating. "I've still got that bat, you know."

The door swung open and you stood in the doorway, frowning.

"No you don't," you said.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. "y/n-"

"Dustin's got it, He was scared you'd chase Mike half way across Hawkins with it."

Mike smiled, the faintest traces of pink on his cheeks as he looked at you. "Hey."

You smiled. "Hey."

Steve looked between the two of you. "Hey. I want you back at ten."

"Steve, It's eight o'clock now-" you argued.

"Ten!" Steve meant it, he didn't care if you were watching a film and you had to leave before the ending. He'd have you home at ten.

You jutted out your bottom lips, eyes going wide. "Ten-thirty?"

Damn it-

"Fine, yes, ten-thirty but not a minute later," he said. He really needed to just start looking away when you puled out those big eyes.

"Thanks Stevie!" You squeezed his arm before slipping past him and joining Mike, who took your hand gladly.

Mike took your hand, pulling you along.

Steve watched you guys walk down to his bike that was left lame lying on the grass. "I mean it!"

"I know you do!" you called back.

Steve watched as Mike put a helmet on your head, fastening it in spite of what he could hear were your arguments. He supposed he was just glad Mike cared about your safety as much as he did. "I'm serious Wheeler. I know where you live!"

He watched as Mike got on- without a helmet Steve might add, he'd have to get a helmet for Mike, mentally adding it to the list of things he already had to get the kids: shin-pads for Max when she skates, magazine for El and a new Walkman for you.

Steve watched as the two of you road off down the street, the sound of your laughter being carried away.

He turned back inside and readied himself to spend a night alone with Baywatch.

Ten-thirty passed and there was no close of the door, no screech of bike tires and no rushed 'sorry's from you'. Then another fifteen minutes passed and there was still no you.

Now, granted, Steve may have fallen asleep on the sofa but woke with a start when he realised he'd drooled in his sleep and that you were not home. And it was going on eleven at night.

Steve didn't hesitate in rushing to the phone and dialling the movie theatre. "Keith, hey!"

'What do you want, Harrington?'

"Is my sister there? With that punk, Wheeler?"

There was a crunch on the other line and Steve could practically smell the cheese puff breath. 'Which one's your sister again?'

"You know the one," said Steve, irritated he had to be making the call in the first place.

As Keith went on playing dumb Steve described you in great length and he described Mike, maybe taking some liberties in adding a wart or two ... and exaggerating that the kid needed a haircut... and adding his terrible fashion sense.

'Oh yeah, screen six, Dance of the Damned-'

Hold on, Dance of the Damned. A sexy vampire film that was a strict fifteen, not R.

Steve ditched Keith on the receiver and jumped in his car. He took the road that you and Mike would have taken down to the cinema, hoping he'd catch you guys on the way back. Some would think this behaviour was 'over-the-top' but there was no such thing to Steve when it came to you.

He parked and rushed into the cinema, searching for screen six at once.

He knew what 'going to the movies' meant at that age. Heck, he remembered it like it was yesterday.

"Excuse me!" the old lady behind the counter called as he walked by. "You need to buy a ticket to go through-"

"I'm just picking up my sister-"

"Well, pick up a ticket on your way!"

Steve groaned but slammed down some notes and took a ticket to whatever movie she gave him. He got it and went, pushing open the doors to screen six. He even knew where to look. Back row, seats furthest from the door.

You and Mike sat, the credits rolling but of course the two of you wouldn't know as Wheeler was too busy eating your face!

Or kissing, as some called it. Your back was toward Steve but it looked as if you were practically in your boyfriends lap as it was, his arm around you and hand rubbing up and down your arm. With his eyes screwed shut, tension between his brows with how much he concentrated into devoting his lips to yours.

Another couple brushed by Steve on their way out.

"Hey!" he yelled. "Lovebirds!"

The two of you broke apart, jumping out your seats, spilling soda down Mike's pants and the others just leaving laughing.

You stood aghast. "Steve! What are you-"

"Ten-thirty!" he reminded you.

"So you just followed us here, creep!"

Steve looked over at those still trying to leave. "I'm not-not a creep, I'm her brother!"

"Geez, Harrington," complained Mike. "The movie was just ending."

"How would you know, you weren't watching it. And by the way, this is a fifteen, not an R!"

Steve watched satisfied as you and Mike shuffled down your row, heads down, abashed. You were even wearing Mike's jumper- which Steve would give him points for.

Mike came out, grumbling about the dampness of his pants.

"That better be soda, Wheeler."

When you turned to leave, Mike threw up his middle finger at Steve. He did it right back, but Steve supposed Mike wasn't too bad. After all, he'd waited till you weren't looking to insult him.

he didn’t flirt. he didn’t chase. he didn’t try.

which is hilarious, because everyone knows that’s exactly the recipe for making people obsessed.

you, unfortunately, found that out the hard way.

before you, heeseung lived peacefully in his little bubble of not giving a— in his words— 'a flying fuck', his romantic track record consisted of exactly one kiss during truth or dare in freshman year, and he didn’t like it because the girl used too much lip gloss and it got on his hoodie. He stopped thinking about romance after that. His priorities were simple: passing his classes, beating the boss on level 58, and not letting anyone touch his limited edition keyboard. (except soobin)

that was his life perfectly uncomplicated, he wasn't looking for more.

and then you showed up.

not quietly. not politely.

you walked into his world like you owned the place, like the universe automatically bent around your confidence just to watch.

you were the kind of person Heeseung avoided on principle. loud, magnetic, always surrounded by people, thinks everyone needs their eyes on her. your lips glossed perfectly to make a man's knees wobble. you walked past him once in the hallway and smelled like vanilla and trouble.

he didn’t react nor did he stare or trip over his own feet dropping his books (you wouldn't be surprised if he did)

he just… kept walking.

and that was the exact moment your life became unnecessarily complicated.

because you were used to attention, not in a desperate way, just in a reality of the universe type of way. people noticed you. they always had.

except Lee Heeseung.

heeseung didn’t look at you like a prize.

he didn’t look at you like a fantasy.

in fact what infuriated you was that he didn’t look at you at all.

and that was the problem.

because the first time you actually caught his eyes across the halloween party—you in a dangerously short bunny costume, him in a half finished cosplay referencing some niche scifi lore—he just raised an eyebrow like you were blocking the snack table.

you’d never wanted to punch somebody and kiss them in the same second before.

and heeseung?

he took a sip of his drink, glanced at you once, then turned away, completely unbothered.

that was the exact moment your brain short circuited and decided, unanimously, that your life had officially become a mess.

you didn’t want love. you didn’t want attention. you didn’t want fate, destiny, or any of the corny rom-com signs you’d once secretly sworn by in middle school.

you decided you wanted him.

for no rational reason whatsoever.

and the worst part? Heeseung still didn’t care.