Multifandom as hell

"I’m just saying," John Logan argued from across the sticky table, pointing a french fry at Tucker, "if you actually passed the puck instead of trying to be the hero, we would’ve scored in the second period."

"I was open!" Tucker shot back. "You’re just blind, Johnny!"

Garrett Graham, wedged next to them, rolled his eyes and stole a sip of Hannah’s beer. "You’re both idiots. Just drink."

You tuned out the hockey talk, mostly because Dean’s fingers were currently drawing lazy, distracting circles on the denim of your jeans, right at your knee.

When you transferred to Briar to escape the wreckage of your last relationship, your plan was simple: keep your head down, go to class, and stay invisible. You didn't plan on meeting Dean Di Laurentis. You definitely didn't plan on sleeping with him.

Twice.

The problem? The sex was mind-blowing, and Dean was shockingly attentive, which meant you had to pull the emergency brake. Two hookups could be written off as a fluke. Three times was a pattern. Three times meant you were knocking on the door of a relationship, and you didn't do boyfriends anymore. Not after the suffocating mess you’d left behind in your hometown.

You’d drawn a hard line.

Dean, however, treated that line like a mild suggestion.

"I'm going to grab another round before Logan and Tuck start throwing punches," Hannah announced, sliding out of the booth. "Don't kill each other."

"You're ignoring me," Dean murmured. He dropped his arm over the back of the booth behind your head, leaning in so close you could smell his expensive cologne mixed with draft beer.

"I'm listening to Logan and Tuck," you replied, keeping your eyes on your cup. "It’s very educational."

"I can think of better things to do than listen to Logan." Dean's voice dropped to that low, raspy pitch he knew exactly how to use. His thumb dragged a fraction higher on your thigh."You're wearing that perfume again," he murmured, a sound that completely bypassed your brain and went straight to your stomach.

"Shut up, Di Laurentis," you shot back, taking a desperate sip of your drink.

"I know you have this ridiculous rule about a third time meaning we're suddenly married, but come on, beautiful," he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your jaw. " You can’t stop thinking about it either. I promise I’ll make you forget why you ever made that rule in the first place."

"Read my lips, Di Laurentis," you said, turning your head just enough to give him a flat look. "We are done."

He just smirked, his thumb pressing a little firmer against your thigh. "Liar."

You opened your mouth to tell him his ego was writing checks his charm couldn't cash, but Hannah suddenly slid back into the booth, thumping a heavy plastic pitcher onto the table.

"Malone's is officially a zoo," she announced, dropping into the space next to Garrett. She wiped condensation off her hands, then paused, her eyes darting over to you. "Hey, did you tell someone we were coming here?"

You frowned. "No. Why?"

"Because some guy just stopped me by the bar," Hannah said, her brow furrowed. "Tall, dark hair, preppy polo shirt. He had this crazy intense look on his face. He asked if I knew a Y/N who just transferred here. I told him no, but... It gave me the creeps, honestly."

The buzz from the vodka evaporated.

Your stomach did a horrific, Olympic-level flip. It was an instant, violent spike of adrenaline. A cold sweat broke out across the back of your neck, and suddenly the loud, chaotic noise of the bar felt like it was pressing against your eardrums.

He’s here.

You stared at the condensation pooling on the wooden table, your brain short-circuiting.

Beside you, Dean completely misread the situation. He thought you were just giving him the silent treatment. He leaned his weight against you, his chest pressing into your shoulder.

"Come on, beautiful," Dean coaxed, his voice dropping right into your ear. "Stop playing hard to get. Let's get out of here."

The feeling of being boxed into the booth suddenly shifted from annoying to terrifying. You felt trapped.

You snapped your head up to tell Dean to back the hell off, your heart hammering against your ribs. But as you looked past him, your eyes landed on the front entrance.

Standing by the bouncer, looking exactly like the entitled prick he was, was your ex-boyfriend.

Your breath caught in your throat. Fight or flight kicked in, and your body chose flight.

You didn't care about looking cool, and you didn't care about explaining yourself. You just needed to get out of his line of sight before he spotted you.

You shoved Dean’s arm away and scrambled to get your feet under you.

"Move," you choked out.

Dean looked startled. "Whoa, hey, what—"

"Dean, let me out!" you snapped, practically climbing over his knees. You abandoned your jacket, hit the sticky floor, and bolted toward the back hallway. You pushed past a group of frat guys and burst through the heavy metal door into the freezing alleyway.

A second later, the heavy door swung open again. You heard Garrett swearing under his breath, followed by Hannah’s worried voice.

The night was officially over.

The heavy front door of the house slammed shut, cutting off the biting wind.

Garrett took one look at you—at the way your arms were wrapped tightly around your ribs, your face completely bloodless—and didn't ask a single question.

"Upstairs. Now," he muttered, shoving Logan and Tucker down the hall before they could open their mouths.

Hannah hesitated, giving you a tight, worried smile, before following Garrett's lead.

You walked straight into the kitchen on autopilot, grabbing the edge of the marble island to keep your knees from buckling. You were shaking like a leaf, and it definitely wasn't the weather.

Footsteps squeaked against the hardwood floor.

Dean walked into the kitchen and stopped a good five feet away, leaning his hip against the opposite counter.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"I’m an ass," Dean said.

His voice was flat, totally stripped of its usual lazy drawl. You looked up. He was running a hand through his blond hair, his jaw tight, looking genuinely stressed.

"Dean—"

"No, let me finish," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm an idiot. I completely misread that," Dean dragged a hand down his face, dropping his gaze to the floor. "We had a deal—you said two times was it, and I kept pushing. I crowded you in that booth, and you looked like you were suffocating. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry."

You let out an exhausted breath. Dean Di Laurentis—actual playboy extraordinaire—was standing in his kitchen apologizing because he thought his flirting had sent you into a panic attack.

"Dean," you said softly, your voice shaking. "It wasn't you."

His brow furrowed, his hazel eyes snapping up to meet yours. "What are you talking about? You couldn't get out of that booth fast enough."

"I wasn't running from you," you admitted, hugging yourself tighter. "I panicked because of what Hannah said. And because when I snapped my head up to tell you to back off... I saw someone."

Dean went perfectly still. The confusion on his face lingered for a split second before sharpening into intense focus. "Saw who?"

"My ex-boyfriend." The words tasted like ash. "The guy I transferred here to get away from."

Dean didn't move. "He was at Malone's?"

You nodded, a humiliating tear spilling over your lashes. "I didn't move to Briar for a fresh start. I came here because I was running away from him."

Dean stayed quiet, letting you set the pace. He didn't pace the room, and he didn't raise his voice.

"He didn't hit me," you said, your voice cracking. "I know people always assume that's what it takes to run. But he just... he owned me. If we had an argument, he would literally stand in front of the door so I couldn't leave the room until I gave in and apologized. He alienated my friends. He made me feel like I was crazy for wanting to exist outside of his control. By the time I finally packed my car and left, I felt like a ghost."

You wiped angrily at your cheek, staring at the marble counter. "I moved here to be invisible. I thought I was safe. And he was standing right there by the bouncers."

The air in the kitchen completely changed.

The guilt that had been weighing Dean down evaporated, swallowed up by a profound, heavy stillness. You could see the exact moment the pieces clicked together in his head—the realization of why you hated feeling cornered, why you were so fiercely independent, why you put up so many walls.

Dean was a hockey player; he had a temper. You could see the anger flare in his eyes, dark and sharp, but he brutally forced it down. He seemed to understand, instinctively, that you didn't need to see another man lose his temper right now.

"Okay," Dean said softly. His voice was incredibly calm, level, and steady. "Did he see you?"

You shook your head, "I... I don't think so."

"Good." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, keeping his hands visible and his body language completely relaxed. "He doesn't know where you live. He doesn't know who you're with."

Dean slowly reached out. He just offered his hand, palm up, resting it on the marble counter between you. An invitation, not a demand.

You stared at his large, calloused hand for a second before slowly sliding yours into it. His fingers immediately wrapped around yours in a warm, solid grip.

"I know we have an arrangement," Dean said, his thumb brushing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles to help ground you. "You call your own shots. I respect that."

He paused, making sure you were looking him in the eye.

"But you are my friend," Dean continued, "And you are standing in my house. Which means you are officially under my protection. I don't care how annoying this guy is. He doesn't get to breathe the same air as you."

The quiet, absolute certainty in his voice did more to calm your racing heart than any loud threat ever could. He wasn't posturing for his own ego; he was just stating a fact.

A small, surprised laugh escaped you. "You're going to act like my bodyguard now, Di Laurentis?"

A faint, familiar smirk finally touched the corner of Dean's mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "Somebody has to keep the country club rejects away from you. Besides, Garrett would kill me if I let a guy in a polo shirt terrorize our house."

It had been four days since Malone’s, and you were almost convinced you were safe.

You were sitting in your Tuesday morning Psychology lecture, tucked into your usual seats near the back. Dean slouched next to you, his long legs stretched out into the aisle. He tapped his pen rhythmically against his notebook while the professor droned on about cognitive dissonance.

The heavy doors at the front of the lecture hall swung open.

A guy walked in and handed a slip of paper to the professor. A transfer student.

One look at the arrogant set of his shoulders, the dark hair, and the expensive preppy sweater sent all the blood rushing out of your head. The air vanished from your lungs. You shrank back against your plastic chair, your hands immediately curling into tight fists in your lap as a cold sweat broke out across your skin.

He had actually enrolled at Briar.

Beside you, Dean felt the violent shift in your posture. The tapping stopped. "Hey," he whispered. "What is it?"

You gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head, keeping your eyes fixed on the front of the room.

Dean followed your line of sight. He studied the new guy finding a seat three rows down. The pieces clicked together instantly in Dean's head—the preppy clothes, the dark hair, and the sheer terror radiating off you. He recognized the guy from the door at Malone's.

Dean sat up straight, locking his jaw into a hard, rigid line. For the remaining forty minutes of the lecture, he remained terrifyingly still, his eyes burning a hole into the back of your ex's head.

"Class dismissed," the professor finally announced, snapping his laptop shut and briskly walking out the side door.

The hall erupted into the chaotic noise of zippers, scraping chairs, and overlapping conversations. You shoved your notebook into your backpack with shaking hands, desperate to blend into the crowd and escape through the back doors before he spotted you.

But your ex was already turning around. His eyes locked onto yours.

That familiar, entitled smirk crawled onto his face. He grabbed his bag and marched up the stairs, heading straight for your row.

Dean stood up. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder and stepped smoothly out of your row, planting his massive, athlete frame directly in the middle of the aisle to block the stairs.

Your ex stopped a few steps below him, letting out an annoyed sigh. "Excuse me, buddy. You're in the way."

Dean held his ground, staring down at him with a look of cold, absolute apathy.

Your ex scoffed, his ego flaring up. "Hey, deaf guy. Move. I need to talk to my girlfriend."

Dean dropped his backpack, shifted his weight, and threw a brutal, devastating right hook.

The sickening crack of Dean's knuckles connecting with bone echoed sharply in the thinning lecture hall.

The force of the punch lifted your ex entirely off his feet. He flew backward, crashing hard into a wooden desk before crumpling to the linoleum floor in a heap. A few remaining students gasped, freezing in their tracks. Nobody dared to intervene.

Your ex groaned, rolling onto his side. He clutched his face, blood instantly pouring from his shattered nose and dripping onto his pristine sweater. He looked up at Dean, his eyes wide with genuine shock and pain.

"What the hell?!" your ex yelled, his voice thick and nasally. He scrambled backward against the desks, staring at Dean like he was a monster. "What the hell was that for?! I don't even know you!"

Dean stood over him, breathing evenly, casually rolling his shoulders. He flexed his right hand once, his eyes dark and completely devoid of mercy.

"You know why," Dean said. His voice was deathly quiet, carrying a promise of so much worse if the guy ever tried to get up.

Dean held his gaze for three agonizing seconds, making sure the message was received loud and clear. Your ex stayed frozen on the floor, too terrified to reach for his fallen bag.

Satisfied, Dean smoothly bent down and picked up his backpack by the strap. The cold, lethal hockey player vanished in a fraction of a second as he turned back to you.

His hazel eyes softened instantly. He stepped back into your row, gently placing his uninjured hand on the small of your back.

You stop walking, forcing Maggie to stop too. “I didn’t come here to talk to guys. I came here because you said, and I quote, ’If you don’t come with me I’ll tell Professor Lawrence you’re the one who accidentally broke his microscope.’“

“Blackmail is just another word for effective persuasion.” Maggie grins, completely unrepentant. “Come on, let’s get you a drink. A non-alcoholic one,” she adds quickly when she sees your face. “I know, I know. 4.0 GPA. Pre-med. Future doctor. You’ve mentioned it.”

“Once or twice,” you mutter, but you follow her anyway.

The kitchen is somehow even more crowded than the living room. Red Solo cups litter every surface, and there’s a girl sitting on the counter who looks like she’s about three seconds from passing out. You make a mental note to check on her in a few minutes — instincts already kicking in, apparently.

“Maggie!” A tall guy with dark hair and an easy smile pushes through the crowd. “You made it!”

“Logan, hi!” Maggie lights up in a way that makes you wonder why she really wanted to come to this party. “This is my roommate, Y/N. Y/N, this is Logan.”

“Nice to meet you,” Logan says, and he seems genuinely friendly. “Want a drink? We’ve got beer, jungle juice — which I don’t recommend unless you want to hate yourself tomorrow — or there’s probably some Coke in the fridge.”

“Coke sounds perfect,” you say, grateful.

Logan grins. “A woman who knows what she wants. I like it.” He turns to rummage in the fridge, and Maggie elbows you.

“See? This isn’t so bad.”

You’re about to respond when a burst of laughter from the living room makes everyone turn. Through the doorway, you can see a guy sprawled on the couch — not just any guy, you realize, but the guy. Even you, with your library-heavy social life, know who Dean Di Laurentis is. Member of the hockey team. Walking, talking definition of “big man on campus.” And currently, very occupied.

There are two girls with him. One blonde, one brunette, and they seem to be taking turns kissing him and occasionally each other, which — okay, you definitely need to look away from that.

“That’s Dean,” Logan says, handing you a Coke. He doesn’t sound judgmental, just matter-of-fact. “He’s, uh … he’s having a good night.”

“He has a lot of good nights,” Maggie says, and you catch something in her tone — not jealousy, exactly, but maybe a kind of weary resignation that this is just how things are.

You take a sip of your Coke and try very hard not to look at the couch again.

You fail.

***

Dean’s having a great time. Or he should be having a great time. Rachel — or is it Rochelle? — is doing this thing with her tongue that’s usually his favorite, and the other girl (he definitely didn’t catch her name) has her hand in his hair, tugging just right, and yeah, this is exactly how Thursday nights are supposed to go.

Except.

Except he can’t stop looking at the girl in the kitchen.

She’s not his usual type. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that looks like it came from the clearance rack at Target, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail that’s starting to come loose. She’s not trying to catch his attention. She’s not trying to catch anyone’s attention. She’s just standing there, looking vaguely uncomfortable, holding her Coke like it’s a life preserver.

And Dean can’t look away.

“Dean?” Rachel-or-Rochelle pulls back, pouting. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere, babe,” he says automatically, flashing the smile that usually works. “Just thought I heard something.”

But his eyes drift back to the kitchen. The girl’s talking to Logan now, and she’s smiling — really smiling, not the practiced, flirty smile he sees at these parties, but something genuine and a little shy. Logan says something that makes her laugh, and Dean feels something weird in his chest.

Huh.

“I need a drink,” he announces, extracting himself from the tangle of limbs with practiced ease. “Be right back.”

“Dean!” Both girls protest, but he’s already moving.

Logan spots him first. “D! Good party, man.”

“Yeah, it’s alright.” Dean’s looking at the girl now, really looking. She’s got these eyes — he can’t tell what color they are in the shitty lighting, but they’re watching him with something that might be wariness. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Y/N,” Logan says. “Maggie’s roommate. Y/N, this is-”

“Dean Di Laurentis,” you finish, and your voice is different than he expected. Clear and direct. “I know who you are.”

“Good things, I hope,” Dean says, turning on the charm. It’s automatic, like breathing.

“That depends on your definition of good.”

Logan chokes on his beer. Maggie looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Dean just stares at you for a second, genuinely thrown.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s fair.”

You take another sip of your Coke, and Dean notices your hand is steady. Not nervous. Just unimpressed.

“Are you having fun?” He tries again.

“Not particularly.”

“Want me to show you around? Give you the grand tour?”

“I think I can navigate four rooms on my own, thanks.”

Maggie makes a strangled noise. Logan’s grinning so wide it looks painful. Dean can feel his own smile shifting into something more genuine, more interested.

“You’re not a fan of parties,” he observes.

“You’re very perceptive.”

“So why are you here?”

You glance at Maggie. “Effective persuasion.”

“That sounds like a story.”

“It’s really not.” You set your Coke down on the counter. “Maggie, I’m going to check on that girl who looks like she’s about to fall off the counter. Then maybe get some air.”

“Want company?” Maggie asks, but you shake your head.

“I’m good. You stay, have fun.”

You move past Dean, and he catches a whiff of something clean and simple — not the heavy perfume most girls wear to these things, just soap, maybe? Shampoo? Whatever it is, it’s driving him crazy.

“Nice meeting you,” you say to Logan. To Dean, you just nod. Polite. Distant.

And then you’re gone, navigating through the crowd with single-minded determination toward the drunk girl on the counter.

“Dude,” Logan says.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

“She just …”

“Yeah.”

“That never happens to you.”

“I know.”

Logan’s laughing now. “Oh man, this is beautiful. This is the best thing I’ve seen all semester.”

“Shut up.” But Dean’s watching you help the drunk girl off the counter, watching the way you’re gentle and efficient, getting her to sit down, checking her pupils. “Who is she?”

“I literally just met her five minutes before you did.”

“Maggie!” Dean turns to your roommate, who’s watching him with undisguised amusement. “Tell me about Y/N.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I’m asking nicely?”

Maggie snorts. “That’s not as compelling as you think it is.” But she relents, maybe because she’s a good friend, or maybe because she’s curious about what’ll happen. “She’s pre-med. Crazy smart. Like, scary smart. She has a 4.0 and she’ll probably keep it all four years. She studies constantly. She’s literally never had a boyfriend.”

“Never?” Dean’s eyebrows go up.

“Never. She went to all-girls schools before Briar. I don’t think she’s even been kissed.”

Logan whistles low. “And you brought her here? To our party?”

“I thought it would be good for her! You know, broaden her horizons.”

“Pretty sure her horizons just got an eyeful of Dean and the twins making out on the couch,” Logan points out.

Maggie winces. “Okay, yeah, that might have been poor timing.”

Dean’s not really listening anymore. He’s watching you crouch down next to the drunk girl, talking to her in a low, calm voice. Someone hands you a water bottle and you help her drink it, supporting her head like you’ve done this before. Like you know exactly what you’re doing.

“She’s going to be a doctor,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

“That’s the plan,” Maggie confirms.

“Huh.” Dean tilts his head, still watching. “I like her.”

“Dude, she shut you down in like thirty seconds flat.”

“I know.” Dean’s grinning now, a real grin, not the practiced one. “It’s amazing.”

Logan and Maggie exchange a look.

“This is going to be a disaster,” Logan predicts.

“Oh, absolutely,” Maggie agrees.

But Dean’s already moving.

***

You manage to get the drunk girl — her name is Amy, apparently — to drink some water and eat a few crackers someone scrounges up from somewhere. Her friends finally surface from whatever corner they’ve been in and promise to take care of her. You make them promise to take her back to her dorm, not let her drink any more, and check on her every few hours.

“Are you a doctor?” One of them asks.

“Pre-med,” you say. “But still, seriously. Keep an eye on her.”

“We will. Thank you so much.”

You escape to the backyard before anyone else can need medical attention. The air is cold — it’s early October in Massachusetts, and you can see your breath — but it’s a relief after the heat and noise inside. There are a few people out here, but they’re mostly in clusters, talking and laughing. You find a spot on the porch steps and sit down, pulling your phone out of your pocket.

Three new emails. One from your advisor about next semester’s schedule, one from your organic chemistry professor about the exam next week, and one from your mom with the subject line “Just Checking In!” which means she’s worrying about you again.

You’re composing a response in your head when someone sits down next to you.

“You’re good at that,” Dean says.

You don’t jump, but it’s close. “At what?”

“Taking care of people.” He’s got a fresh beer in his hand, but he doesn’t look drunk. Just comfortable, like he owns the space he’s in. Which, technically, he kind of does. “That girl looked rough.”

“She’ll be fine as long as her friends actually watch her.” You pocket your phone. “Shouldn’t you be inside? With your … company?”

“They’ll survive without me for a few minutes.” He takes a sip of his beer. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

The question catches you off guard. Not because it’s rude — it’s not, really — but because it’s direct. Honest.

“I don’t know you,” you say carefully.

“But you know of me.”

“Everyone knows of you.”

“And what does everyone say?”

You look at him properly for the first time since he sat down. He’s objectively attractive — you’re not blind — with the kind of face that probably gets him whatever he wants. Blond hair that looks like he’s been running his hands through it, sharp jawline, eyes that are actually kind of distracting in the porch light. And he’s looking at you like he’s genuinely interested in what you’re about to say.

“They say you’re a great hockey player,” you offer.

“True.”

“That you’re charming.”

“Also true.”

“That you go through women like most people go through socks.”

He laughs, and it’s a real laugh, surprised and genuine. “Okay, ouch. But probably fair.”

“You asked.”

“I did.” He’s still smiling, though. “What else?”

“That you’re rich. That your family owns hotels or something.”

“My mom’s family. Hotels, some restaurants, a few other things. But that’s them, not me.”

“Isn’t it, though?” You tilt your head. “You live in this house. You throw these parties. You don’t exactly seem to be struggling.”

“No,” he admits. “I’m not. I’m lucky as hell. But I also work my ass off on the ice. I’m getting a degree in political science that I’ll actually use. And my parents would kill me if I turned into some trust-fund asshole who thinks money solves everything.”

There’s something in his voice that makes you think he’s being honest. Or at least, honest about this.

“Why do you care what I think?” You ask.

“I don’t know,” he says, and he sounds almost surprised by his own answer. “You’re different.”

“Different how?”

“You looked at me like I was just some guy. Not the captain of the hockey team, not Dean Di Laurentis, just … some guy.”

“You are just some guy.”

“See?” He grins. “That. Nobody talks to me like that.”

“Maybe they should.”

“Maybe.” He takes another sip of his beer, looking out at the backyard. There’s a group of guys playing beer pong, and someone’s playlist is drifting through an open window. “Maggie says you’re pre-med.”

“She talks a lot.”

“She’s a good friend. Trying to hype you up.”

“I don’t need hyping up.”

“No,” Dean agrees, looking at you again. “You really don’t.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes your heart do a weird little flip, which is annoying. You don’t do heart flips. You do studying and lab work and carefully planned career trajectories.

“I should go,” you say, standing up. “I have studying to do.”

“It’s Thursday night.”

“So?”

“So don’t you ever take a break?”

“This was my break.” You gesture vaguely at the house. “Party attendance: checked off the list. Now I can go back to my regularly scheduled programming.”

Dean stands too, and you’re reminded that he’s tall. Taller than you expected. “Can I get your number?”

“Why?”

“So I can text you.”

“Why would you text me?”

“To ask you out.”

You blink. “No.”

“No, I can’t have your number, or no, you won’t go out with me?”

“Both.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Because I’m not interested in being another notch on Dean Di Laurentis’s bedpost.” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t take them back.

Something flashes across his face — surprise, maybe, or hurt — but it’s gone quickly. “That’s not what I-”

“Yes, it is.” You’re not angry, just tired suddenly. Tired of this conversation, this party, this whole night. “Look, I’m sure you’re used to girls falling all over themselves for a chance with you. And that’s fine. That’s their choice. But I have plans for my life, and they don’t include getting my heart broken by a guy who’s just looking for his next conquest.”

“You think that’s all this is?”

“Isn’t it?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he finally says, and points for honesty again. “Maybe. Probably. But I’d like to find out.”

“Well, I wouldn’t.” You pull your phone back out. “I’m going to call an Uber. Have a good night, Dean.”

“Let me at least walk you to the front-”

“I’m fine.”

“Y/N-”

“Seriously. I’m fine.” You soften slightly, because he does look genuinely concerned, which is almost worse than if he were just annoyed. “Thank you for the conversation. It was … enlightening.”

You make it to the front of the house before Maggie finds you.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Home. I’m Ubering.”

“Already? We just got here!”

“You just got here. I’ve been here for an hour and I’ve already hit my social quota for the week.” You show her your phone screen. “Car’s three minutes away.”

Maggie looks back toward the house, then at you. “Did something happen? Did someone-”

“No, nothing like that. Everyone was fine. I’m just tired.”

“Dean was talking to you.”

“Dean talks to everyone.”

“Not like that, he doesn’t.” Maggie’s eyes are bright with curiosity. “What did he say?”

“He asked for my number.”

“And?”

“And I said no.”

Maggie’s mouth falls open. “You said no? To Dean Di Laurentis?”

“Is that really so shocking?”

“YES!” Maggie’s practically shouting now. “He never asks for numbers! He doesn’t have to! Girls just throw themselves at him!”

“Well, I didn’t throw myself anywhere except toward the door.” Your Uber’s pulling up. “Look, stay, have fun with Logan. He seems nice. Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

“You’re really leaving.”

“I really am.”

Maggie hugs you suddenly, fierce and quick. “You’re crazy. But I love you.”

“Love you too. Be safe.”

You slide into the Uber, give the driver your address, and lean back against the seat. Through the window, you can see the house, still bright and loud and full of people having the time of their lives.

And standing on the front porch, watching your car pull away, is Dean.

***

“So let me get this straight,” Garrett says the next morning over breakfast. He’s making pancakes, which is the only reason Dean’s awake before noon on a Friday. “You asked for her number, and she said no.”

“Yep.” Dean’s nursing his coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He didn’t sleep well. Kept thinking about eyes he still can’t quite place the color of.

“And then you asked her out, and she said no to that too.”

“Correct.”

“And then she called an Uber and left.”

“You’ve got it.”

Tucker wanders in, looking even more hungover than Dean feels. “Who left?”

“This girl Dean’s obsessed with,” Garrett says cheerfully.

“I’m not obsessed.”

“You’ve mentioned her thirteen times since I woke up.”

“I have not.”

“You literally started the conversation with ‘So there’s this girl.’”

Tucker perks up slightly. “A girl turned down Dean? This I have to hear.”

“There’s nothing to hear. She’s just … different.”

“Different how?” Tucker’s pouring himself coffee now, settling in.

Dean tries to explain it. The way you looked at him like he was just another guy. The way you handled drunk Amy with competence and care. The way you called him out without being mean about it, just honest. The way you smiled at Logan’s joke, genuine and unguarded.

The way his chest did something weird when you walked away.

“Oh man,” Tucker says when he’s done. “You’re screwed.”

“I’m not screwed.”

“You’re so screwed,” Garrett agrees. “This is amazing.”

“This is not amazing. This is annoying.” Dean drops his head to the table. “Why can’t I stop thinking about her?”

“Because she’s the first girl who’s ever said no to you,” Logan says, appearing in the doorway. He’s somehow showered and dressed already, looking fresh and put-together in a way that makes Dean want to throw his coffee at him. “It’s basic psychology. We want what we can’t have.”

“It’s not just that.”

“Then what is it?”

Dean doesn’t have an answer. Or rather, he has too many answers, none of which make sense.

He’s attracted to you, obviously. But he’s attracted to lots of girls, and he usually stops thinking about them approximately five minutes after they leave his bed.

He’s intrigued by you. Your intelligence, your focus, your complete lack of interest in impressing him.

He’s challenged by you. You saw through his charm in about thirty seconds and called him on his shit without being cruel.

And he wants to see you again. Not just hook up with you — though yeah, okay, he wouldn’t say no — but actually see you. Talk to you. Figure out what color your eyes are. Learn what makes you laugh.

“I’m in trouble,” he says to the table.

“Finally figured that out, did you?” Garrett slides a plate of pancakes in front of him. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

“For what?”

“For winning over the first girl who’s ever seen right through you.”

Dean picks up his fork, but he’s not really thinking about pancakes.

He’s thinking about you in the library, probably. Studying. Focused on your 4.0 and your medical school dreams and your carefully planned future.

A future that apparently doesn’t include him.

Well.

Dean Di Laurentis has never backed down from a challenge in his life.

He’s not about to start now.

***

You don’t think about Dean at all on Friday.

(That’s a lie. You think about him three times during organic chemistry, twice during your shift volunteering at the campus health center, and once during dinner when Maggie asks how you’re doing and gives you a look that suggests she knows exactly what you’re not saying.)

You definitely don’t think about him on Saturday.

(Another lie. You think about him when you see a hockey jersey in the bookstore. When someone in the library mentions the game tonight. When you’re trying to fall asleep and your brain helpfully replays the conversation on the porch, the way he looked at you when you walked away.)

By Sunday, you’re annoyed with yourself.

“I met him for like twenty minutes,” you tell Maggie, who’s watching you with barely concealed amusement. “Why is he taking up this much space in my head?”

“Because he’s hot and rich and into you?”

“He’s not into me. He’s into the challenge.”

“Okay, but what if he’s into both?”

“Maggie.”

“Y/N.” She mimics your tone perfectly. “Would it kill you to consider that maybe, just maybe, you made an impression on him too?”

“It doesn’t matter if I did. I have a plan. Medical school, residency, building a career. No time for distractions.”

“You sound like a robot.”

“I sound focused.”

“You sound scared.”

That stops you. “I’m not scared.”

“No?” Maggie tilts her head. “Then why are you so determined to write him off before you even give him a chance?”

“Because I know how this story ends. Girl meets charming hockey player. Girl falls for charming hockey player. Charming hockey player gets bored and moves on to the next girl. Girl is left with a broken heart and ruined GPA.”

“That’s one possible ending,” Maggie allows. “But it’s not the only one.”

You don’t have a response to that.

Your phone buzzes. Unknown number.

Unknown: hey, it’s dean. got your number from maggie (don’t be mad at her, i can be very persuasive). just wanted to make sure you got home okay thursday night.

You stare at the screen.

“Did he just text you?” Maggie leans over, reading. “Oh my god, he texted you!”

“You gave him my number?”

“He asked very nicely! And he seemed genuinely worried about you!”

You read the text again. And again.

You: I got home fine. Thank you for checking.

You hit send before you can overthink it.

Three dots appear immediately.

Dean: good. i was worried you might have gotten lost in the library and been shelving yourself with the medical textbooks

You: That’s not how libraries work

Dean: you sure? you seem like the type who’d be very organized about it. probably alphabetized by author

Despite yourself, you smile.

You: I’m more of a Dewey Decimal girl

Dean: knew it. so listen, i know you said you’re not interested, and i respect that. but i was thinking

Dean: what if we were friends?

You blink at the screen.

You: Friends?

Dean: yeah. no pressure, no ulterior motives. just friends. we could study together, grab coffee, whatever friends do

You: You want to study with me

Dean: i’m taking business finance as an elective this semester and it’s kicking my ass. you’re smart. seems like a win-win

You: And this has nothing to do with trying to change my mind about going out with you?

Dean: scout’s honor

You: Were you even a scout?

Dean: no but i’m honest when it counts. so what do you say? friends?

You look at Maggie, who’s reading over your shoulder and nodding frantically.

This is a bad idea. You know it’s a bad idea.

But there’s something about the way he texts — casual, funny, not trying too hard — that makes you want to say yes.

You: Fine. Friends. But if you try anything-

Dean: i won’t. promise. when are you free?

You: Tuesday afternoon. Library, 2pm

Dean: it’s a date. i mean a friend date. a friend meeting. a platonic gathering of two people who are definitely just friends

You: You’re ridiculous

Dean: you’re smiling though aren’t you

You are. You don’t respond.

Dean: see you tuesday, friend

You put your phone down and find Maggie grinning at you.

“Don’t,” you warn.

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re thinking it very loudly.”

“I’m just thinking that this is going to be interesting.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Uh huh.”

“We are!”

“Okay, babe. Whatever you say.”

But as you go back to your studying, you can’t quite shake the smile off your face.

And in a house across campus, Dean is grinning at his phone like he just won the championship.

“Friends?” Garrett asks, reading over his shoulder.

“Friends,” Dean confirms.

“Right. Because that’s going to work out exactly as planned.”

“It will.”

“Dean, buddy. You’re already gone.”

Dean doesn’t argue.

Because Garrett’s probably right.

But as far as Dean’s concerned?

This is only the beginning.

***

Three weeks of “friendship” with Dean Di Laurentis has taught you several things.

One: He’s actually smart. Not just hockey-smart or street-smart, but genuinely intelligent. Your Tuesday study sessions have evolved into genuine collaboration, and he’s helped you understand financial models for your Healthcare Economics elective while you’ve kept him from failing Business Finance.

Two: He’s funnier than you expected. Not in a trying-too-hard way, but in a quick, observational way that catches you off guard and makes you laugh when you’re supposed to be studying.

Three: He’s a terrible liar.

“So, as my friend,” Dean says, drawing out the word in a way that tells you he’s about to ask for something, “you should come to my game Friday night.”

You don’t look up from your organic chemistry notes. “Should I.”

“Yes. Friends support friends. It’s in the friendship handbook.”

“There’s a handbook?”

“Absolutely. Chapter three, section two: Thou shalt attend thy friend’s athletic events and cheer loudly.”

“I don’t cheer loudly.” You flip a page. “I barely cheer quietly.”

“You could learn.” He leans back in his chair, and you can feel him watching you. “Come on, Y/N. You’ve never been to a game.”

“I’ve never been to a lot of things.”

“Which is exactly why you should come. Broaden your horizons. Live a little.”

“You sound like Maggie.”

“Maggie’s a smart woman.” He pauses. “I’ll buy you nachos.”

Now you look up. “Are you trying to bribe me with stadium food?”

“Is it working?”

You consider. You’ve been to the library every Friday night since school started. You’re ahead on all your reading. And there’s something in the way Dean’s looking at you — hopeful and a little uncertain — that makes your resistance crack.

“Fine,” you say. “But I’m not wearing a jersey.”

His face lights up. “You don’t have to wear anything-” He stops, recalibrating. “That came out wrong. You can wear whatever you want. Just come.”

“I’ll come.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You try to sound casual about it, like this isn’t a big deal. Like your heart isn’t doing that annoying flutter thing again. “As friends.”

“As friends,” he agrees, but his smile suggests he’s already won something.

***

Friday night, and Garrett is giving Dean a look.

“You know she’s going to see right through whatever you’re planning, right?”

They’re in the locker room, suiting up. The game starts in forty-five minutes, and Dean’s been checking his phone every three seconds like you might cancel.

“I’m not planning anything,” Dean lies.

“Dude, you’ve been weird all week.”

“I’m focused.”

“You’re distracted.” Logan pulls his jersey over his head. “Which is going to get you checked into the boards if you’re not careful.”

“I’m fine.”

“Is she actually coming?” Tucker asks, lacing his skates.

“She said she would.”

“And you believe her?”

Dean does, actually. In three weeks of friendship, you’ve been nothing if not reliable. If you say you’ll be somewhere, you show up. Usually with coffee for both of you and color-coded notes that make his business homework actually make sense.

“She’ll be here,” he says.

And right before the game starts, when he skates out for warm-ups and scans the crowd, he sees you.

You’re in the student section, sitting next to Maggie, wearing jeans and a navy blue sweater, looking simultaneously interested and slightly overwhelmed by the chaos around you. Your hair is down tonight, and even from the ice he can see you’re taking it all in with those analytical eyes.

Then you see him looking, and you wave.

It’s a small wave, almost shy, but it does something to his chest that makes him nearly miss the puck Garrett sends his way.

“Focus!” Garrett yells, skating past.

Right. Focus. Hockey. Winning.

He can think about you later.

***

Hockey is violent.

This is your main takeaway fifteen minutes into the first period. You’ve seen clips before, obviously, but watching it live is different. The speed, the impact, the way bodies slam into the boards with a sound that makes you wince.

“Is this legal?” You ask Maggie over the roar of the crowd.

“What, the checking? Yeah, totally legal.”

“Someone’s going to get a concussion.”

“Probably!” Maggie’s grinning, completely unbothered by this fact. “That’s hockey, babe!”

You watch Dean skate backward, cutting off an opposing player with casual efficiency. He’s good — even you can tell that. Fast and smart, always seeming to know where the puck is going before it gets there. And when he steals it and sends it flying up the ice to Logan, who scores, the arena erupts.

“LET’S GO BOYS!” Maggie’s screaming, and you find yourself clapping, caught up in the energy despite yourself.

Dean skates past your section during the celebration, and even with his helmet on, you can tell he’s looking for you. When he finds you, he taps his stick on the ice.

“Was that for you?” Maggie demands.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“That was totally for you!”

“We’re friends.”

“Uh huh. And I’m the Queen of England.”

You don’t answer, but you’re smiling.

The game is close — tied 2-2 going into the third period. You’ve started to understand the rhythm of it, the strategy. Dean’s not a flashy player, but he’s essential. He breaks up plays, protects the goal, makes the kind of smart, unglamorous decisions that keep the other team from scoring.

“He’s really good,” you say to Maggie during a stoppage.

“One of the best defensemen in college hockey,” she says proudly, like she had something to do with it. “NHL scouts come to watch him play.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. There’s talk he might sign with a team. Go pro.”

This information sits strangely with you. The idea of Dean leaving, going off to some NHL team in some other city. Not that it matters. You’re friends. And friends can be happy for each other from a distance.

Right?

With two minutes left, Logan scores again. The arena goes insane. Briar wins 3-2, and the team piles on each other in celebration, sticks raised, the student section chanting “HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS!”

And you’re on your feet with everyone else, cheering for reasons you’re not entirely ready to examine.

***

Dean’s high lasts through the handshake line, through the initial celebration, right up until they get back to the locker room and he remembers his plan.

His stupid, impulsive, absolutely terrible plan that he’s been thinking about all week.

“Okay,” he says to Garrett, who’s the only one he’s told. “I’m going to do it.”

“Don’t do it.”

“I’m doing it.”

“Dean, this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever thought of, and you once tried to longboard down the library steps.”

“That was Tucker’s idea.”

“You still did it!” Garrett grabs his shoulder. “Dude, just ask her out like a normal person.”

“I’ve tried that. She said no.”

“So try again!”

“I need an edge. Something that’ll-” He stops. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand you’re about to give yourself an actual injury to fake an injury, which is literally insane.”

But Dean’s mind is made up. He’s been thinking about this since Tuesday, when you mentioned your volunteer shift at the campus health center. How you’d patched up a guy who’d split his lip playing basketball, how you’d been gentle and efficient and completely in your element.

He wants to see you like that. Focused on him. Those careful hands on his face. Just the two of you, without the “friendship” buffer.

Is it manipulative? Maybe.

Is it ridiculous? Definitely.

Is he going to do it anyway?

Absolutely.

He waits until most of the team is in the showers. Then, before he can think better of it, he grabs his stick and-

CRACK.

“JESUS CHRIST!” Logan appears from around the corner just in time to see Dean lower his stick, blood already dripping from his lip. “DID YOU JUST HIT YOURSELF IN THE FACE?”

“Maybe,” Dean says, tasting copper.

“ON PURPOSE?”

“Keep your voice down-”

“GARRETT! TUCKER! DEAN JUST SMASHED HIMSELF WITH HIS STICK!”

So much for subtlety.

Within seconds, he’s surrounded by half the team, all staring at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Why?” Tucker asks, genuinely baffled.

“It’s not that bad,” Dean says, even though his lip is throbbing and there’s definitely blood on his jersey now.

“You’re bleeding everywhere!” Garrett’s looking at him with something between horror and reluctant admiration. “This is about that Y/N, isn’t it?”

“What?” Logan asks.

“Y/N! He’s trying to make her go all Meredith Grey on him!”

“By giving himself an actual injury?” Logan looks impressed despite himself. “That’s … that’s actually kind of genius?”

“It’s psychotic,” Tucker corrects.

“It’s both,” Garrett decides. “Dean, you’re an idiot.”

“Noted.” Dean grabs a towel, pressing it to his lip. “Now can someone go tell her I need medical attention?”

“You need psychiatric attention,” Garrett mutters, but he’s already moving.

***

You’re waiting outside the locker room with Maggie and a handful of other girlfriends and friends when Garrett emerges, looking harried.

“Y/N? Dean’s asking for you.”

Your stomach drops. “Why? What happened?”

“Took a stick to the face during the game. His lip’s split. He’s bleeding pretty good.”

You’re already moving. “How bad? Is he dizzy? Nauseous? Did he lose consciousness at any point?”

“Uh-”

“Never mind, I’ll check myself.” You push past him into the locker room, medical training overriding any sense of propriety.

Dean’s sitting on the bench in his hockey pants and undershirt, holding a rapidly reddening towel to his mouth. When he sees you, he lowers it, and — yeah, that’s a decent split. Upper lip, maybe half an inch long, still bleeding freely.

“Hi,” he says, and it comes out mushy because his lip is already swelling.

“What happened?” You’re already kneeling in front of him, tilting his head toward the light. Your hands are gentle but firm on his jaw, and Dean’s trying very hard to focus on not revealing that this is exactly what he wanted and not on how close you are or how good you smell or-

“Took a high stick in the scrum in front of the net,” he lies. “Didn’t even feel it until after.”

“Adrenaline,” you murmur, examining the cut. “You’re lucky it didn’t get your eye. Did you bite through? Let me see your teeth.”

He opens his mouth obediently.

“Okay, no tooth damage. That’s good.” You look around. “Do you guys have a first aid kit in here?”

“There’s a full medical setup in the training room,” Logan offers. He’s watching this with undisguised amusement, and Dean makes a mental note to murder him later.

“Show me.”

Five minutes later, you’ve got Dean sitting on a training table, supplies laid out with the kind of organization that makes him smile despite the pain. You’ve washed your hands twice and put on gloves, and now you’re back between his knees, carefully cleaning the wound.

“This is going to sting,” you warn.

“I can handle—OW.”

“I warned you.” But your voice is soft. “Stay still.”

He stays still.

“You know,” you say, working carefully, “hockey is incredibly dangerous. Repeated head trauma, chronic traumatic encephalopathy, not to mention acute injuries like fractures and lacerations-”

“Are you giving me a lecture right now?”

“Yes.” You don’t look up from your work. “Someone needs to. You’re all insane, throwing yourselves into walls and each other for fun.”

“It’s not for fun, it’s for glory.”

“Glory isn’t going to help you when you can’t remember your own name at forty.”

“Wow, you really know how to make a guy feel better.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel better, I’m trying to make you be smarter.” You lean back, examining your work. “You might have a scar.”

“Chicks dig scars.”

You give him a look. “Did you seriously just say that?”

“I’m concussed, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“You’re not concussed. I already checked.” But you’re fighting a smile. “Though I’m starting to think you have a different kind of brain damage.”

“Ouch.”

“Hold still, I’m not done.” You’re applying something to the cut now, some kind of adhesive. “You’re going to need to keep this clean. No kissing anyone for at least a week.”

“There’s only one person I want to kiss anyway,” he says before he can stop himself.

Your hands pause. Just for a second. Then you continue working. “Dean.”

“Sorry. Friends. I know.”

“I’m serious about the kissing thing. If this gets infected-”

“It won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Then you’ll just have to check on me. Make sure I’m being good.”

You step back, pulling off your gloves. “You’re never good.”

“I’m good at hockey.”

“You just got hit in the face.”

“Occupational hazard.” He touches his lip carefully. “How bad does it look?”

“Like you got hit with a hockey stick.” You’re packing up the supplies now, not looking at him. “Which you did. Because you play a violent sport with no regard for your personal safety.”

“You’re really worried about me.”

“I’m worried about anyone who voluntarily puts themselves in danger repeatedly.”

“But especially me.”

Finally, you look at him. Really look at him. And there’s something in your eyes that makes his heart race faster than any game ever has.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Especially you.”

The moment stretches. Dean’s very aware that you’re still standing between his knees. That your face is close enough that he could lean forward and kiss you if his lip wasn’t split open. That you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure out a particularly complicated equation.

“Y/N-”

“I should go.” You step back quickly. “Keep it clean. Ice for the swelling. If you develop a fever or the pain gets worse, go to the health center.”

“Will you be there?”

“Dean.”

“What? It’s a legitimate question. I want to make sure I see a qualified professional.”

“Any of the nurses can handle a split lip.”

“But you handled this one.”

“Because Garrett came and got me.”

“Lucky me.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“You like it.”

“I tolerate it. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

You’re saved from answering by Garrett sticking his head in. “Everything okay in here? Dean still alive?”

“Barely,” you say. “He needs to be more careful.”

“Good luck with that,” Garrett says. “He’s the least careful person I know.”

“I’m careful,” Dean protests. “I’m very careful.”

“You just got hit in the face with a stick.”

“That’s—yeah, okay, fair point.”

You gather your bag. “I really should go. Maggie’s waiting.”

“Let me walk you out,” Dean says, hopping off the table.

“You should stay here and rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dean-”

“Y/N.” He matches your tone exactly, and you huff out a laugh.

“Fine. But if you pass out, I’m leaving you where you fall.”

“That’s fair.”

He walks you out of the training room, past his teammates who are all very obviously pretending not to watch, through the locker room and out into the hallway where Maggie’s waiting.

“Oh my god,” Maggie says when she sees his face. “That looks painful.”

“It’s not that bad,” Dean says.

“It looks awful,” you correct. “He needs to rest and ice it.”

“I need to take you home first.”

“We have an Uber-”

“Cancel it.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “I’ll drive you.”

“Dean, you just played a full game and took a stick to the face. You should not be driving.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, you’re-”

“Stubborn?” Maggie suggests. “Determined? Completely gone for you?”

“Maggie!” You elbow her.

But Dean’s grinning now, despite the pain it causes. “All of the above.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you don’t argue when he leads you to the parking lot.

His car is exactly what you’d expect — a sleek black Audi that probably cost more than your entire college tuition. He opens the passenger door for you, which makes Maggie practically swoon in the back seat.

“Such a gentleman,” she stage-whispers.

“Shut up,” you whisper back.

The drive to your dorm is short, but Dean takes the long way, which doesn’t escape your notice.

“You missed the turn,” you point out.

“Did I?”

“Dean.”

“I’m concussed, remember? No sense of direction.”

“You’re not concussed!”

But you’re laughing, and he counts that as a win.

When he finally pulls up to your dorm, Maggie tactfully announces she needs to “check the mailroom” and disappears, leaving you alone in the car with Dean.

“Thank you,” you say. “For driving us. And for inviting me to the game. It was … actually really fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Even though you scared me with the whole bleeding thing.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No, you’re not.”

He grins. “No, I’m not.” He pauses. “So, would you come to another game? As friends?”

You’re quiet for a moment, looking at him. His split lip, his hopeful eyes, the way he’s trying so hard to be patient when patience is clearly not his strong suit.

“Dean,” you say carefully. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This. The friendship thing. The study sessions. Tonight. Why?”

He could lie. Should lie, probably. Keep up the pretense that this is all casual, all friendly.

But he’s tired of pretending.

“Because I like you,” he says simply. “I’ve liked you since the moment you told me I go through women like socks. I like how smart you are. How focused. How you don’t take any of my shit. I like that you see me as just some guy, not the hockey captain or Dean Di Laurentis. Just me.”

You’re staring at him.

“And I know you have plans,” he continues. “Medical school and saving lives and all that. And I know you think I’m just going to break your heart and mess up your GPA or whatever. But I’m not asking you to change your plans. I’m just asking for a chance to be part of them.”

“Dean-”

“I know. You want to just be friends. And if that’s all you can give me, I’ll take it. But you asked why I’m doing this, and that’s why. Because you’re worth it.”

The silence that follows is the longest of Dean’s life.

Then you unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Your lip,” you say.

“What about it?”

“I said no kissing for a week.”

“You did say that.”

“So this is a terrible idea.”

“Probably.”

“It could get infected.”

“I’ll risk it.”

You lean across the console, and Dean stops breathing.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whisper, your lips inches from his.

“Okay,” he whispers back.

“We’re still just friends.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I mean it, Dean. This is-”

He kisses you.

Or you kiss him.

Honestly, he’s not sure who moves first, but suddenly your hand is in his hair and his hand is on your waist and you taste like mint chapstick and something sweet and he never wants to stop.

You pull back after a moment, breathing hard.

“Your lip,” you gasp.

“Don’t care.”

“It’s going to start bleeding again.”

“Still don’t care.”

You kiss him again, softer this time, mindful of the injury. It’s gentle and sweet and somehow more intense than anything Dean’s ever felt.

When you finally pull away, you’re both flushed.

“I should go,” you say, not moving.

“Probably.”

“Maggie’s waiting.”

“Definitely.”

Neither of you moves.

“This was a one-time thing,” you say.

“Sure.”

“I’m serious, Dean. This doesn’t change anything.”

“Of course not.”

“Stop smiling.”

“Can’t help it.”

You kiss him one more time, quick and impulsive, then scramble out of the car before he can pull you back.

“Ice your lip!” You call back. “And text me if anything changes!”

“Yes, doctor,” he calls after you.

He watches you disappear into your dorm, probably to face Maggie’s interrogation. Then he touches his lip — which is definitely bleeding again — and grins so wide it hurts.

Worth it.

Completely, absolutely worth it.

His phone buzzes.

Garrett: so did your insane plan work?

Dean: better than i could have imagined

Garrett: you’re an idiot

Dean: yeah but I’m an idiot who just kissed y/n

Garrett: WHAT

Tucker: WHAT

Logan: FINALLY

Dean’s still grinning when he drives home, still grinning when he gets into bed, still grinning when he finally falls asleep.

And in your dorm room, you’re lying in bed, fingers touching your lips, trying to convince yourself that this was a mistake.

Trying.

Failing.

“So,” Maggie says from her bed. “Just friends, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s what I thought.”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy replaying the kiss in your mind. The way Dean looked at you. The way he said you were worth it.

The way you’re starting to think he might be worth it too.

Your phone buzzes.

Dean: for the record, that was the best worst idea you’ve ever had

You: I told you it was a terrible idea

Dean: terrible ideas are my specialty

You: I’ve noticed

Dean: so … still friends?

You stare at the message for a long time.

You: we’ll see

Dean: i’ll take it

Dean: sweet dreams, friend

You: goodnight Dean

You put your phone on your nightstand and stare at the ceiling.

What have you gotten yourself into?

And why does it feel so much like exactly where you’re supposed to be?

***

The shift from library to living room happens gradually.

First, it’s just one Tuesday when the library’s too crowded and Dean suggests his place. “It’ll be quieter,” he says, which is a lie because Tucker and Logan are playing video games at top volume, but his room is quiet, and you get more done than you have in weeks.

Then it becomes a regular thing. Tuesdays and Thursdays at The Boy’s House, sprawled across Dean’s bed with textbooks scattered around you, his desk chair pulled close so he can see your notes.

“This is dangerous,” Maggie says when you tell her.

“We’re studying.”

“In his bedroom.”

“It’s more comfortable than the library.”

“Uh huh. And how long before ‘studying’ becomes something else?”

“We’re taking things slow,” you say, which is true. Since the kiss in his car three weeks ago, there’s been more kissing. A lot more kissing. But always with boundaries. Always with you pulling back when things get too intense, and Dean letting you, patient in a way you didn’t know he was capable of being.

“You’re falling for him,” Maggie observes.

“I’m not falling for anyone. I’m focused on my goals.”

“You can do both, you know.”

“Can I?”

Maggie just looks at you, and you don’t have an answer.

***

Dean’s failing at the whole “just friends” thing spectacularly.

“You’ve got it bad,” Garrett says, watching Dean reorganize his desk for the third time. You’re coming over in twenty minutes, and he’s acting like the President is visiting.

“I’m just cleaning.”

“You never clean.”

“I clean.”

“You literally have a service that comes once a month to clean because you never clean.”

Dean throws a pillow at him. “Get out of my room.”

“Gladly. This is painful to watch.” But Garrett pauses at the door. “You know you’re going to have to actually talk to her about what you are, right? This weird limbo thing can’t last forever.”

“We’re taking it slow.”

“You’re taking it glacial. And one of you is going to crack.”

Dean knows this. Feels it every time you bite your lip in concentration, every time you absently touch his arm while explaining a concept, every time you look at him like you’re trying to solve an equation that doesn’t have an answer.

But he’s trying to be good. Trying to be what you need, which apparently is a friend who kisses you sometimes but doesn’t push for more.

Even if it’s killing him.

The doorbell rings — you always ring the doorbell instead of just walking in like everyone else — and Dean takes the stairs two at a time.

You’re standing on the porch in leggings and an oversized sweater, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair in a messy bun. You’re not wearing makeup. You look tired.

You look perfect.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey.” He steps aside to let you in. “Rough day?”

“Organic chem exam. I think I aced it, but my brain feels like mush.”

“Want to reschedule?”

“No, I need to focus on something else or I’ll obsess over every answer.” You’re already heading up the stairs to his room, comfortable now in a way that makes his chest tight. “Please tell me you have coffee.”

“Made a fresh batch ten minutes ago.”

“You’re a saint.”

“I’m really not,” he mutters, following you up.

***

Two hours later, you’ve made significant progress on Dean’s Business Finance case study and your Healthcare Economics paper. You’ve also consumed an entire pot of coffee and are now lying across Dean’s bed on your stomach, ankles crossed in the air, reading an article on your laptop.

Dean’s at his desk, supposedly working on his own assignment, but mostly just watching you. The way you scrunch your nose when you read something confusing. The way you absently twist a strand of hair around your finger. The way you’ve made yourself completely at home in his space.

“I can feel you staring,” you say without looking up.

“Can’t help it. You’re very watchable.”

“That’s not a word.”

“Sure it is. I just used it.”

You finally look at him, and you’re smiling. “You’re distracting me.”

“Sorry.” He’s not sorry.

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not.”

You shake your head, but you’re still smiling. You go back to your article, and Dean goes back to pretending to work.

Ten minutes later, he notices you’ve stopped scrolling.

“Y/N?”

No answer.

He turns in his chair. You’ve fallen asleep, face pillowed on your arms, laptop still open beside you. Your breathing is deep and even, and there’s a small crease between your eyebrows like you’re concentrating even in sleep.

Dean stands slowly, carefully. He should wake you. Let you go home. But you look so peaceful, and he knows you’ve been running yourself ragged with classes and volunteering and somehow still making time for him.

He gently closes your laptop and sets it on his nightstand. You don’t stir.

He should really wake you.

Instead, he finds himself carefully pulling the throw blanket from the foot of his bed and draping it over you. You make a small sound, shifting slightly, and his breath catches. But you just burrow deeper into his pillow.

Dean stands there for a long moment, just watching you sleep in his bed, and something in his chest cracks wide open.

He’s in love with you.

The realization should terrify him. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do love. He does fun and casual and uncomplicated.

But you’re none of those things, and he doesn’t care.

He’s in love with you.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

You sleep on, oblivious.

Dean grabs his spare pillow and a second blanket. He should sleep on the floor. Or in the living room. But the thought of being away from you, even just downstairs, is impossible.

So he lies down on top of his covers, careful not to jostle you, keeping a respectful distance.

He’ll just close his eyes for a minute.

Just a minute.

***

You wake up warm.

That’s the first thing you register. Warm and comfortable and-

Your eyes fly open.

Dean’s bedroom. Dean’s bed. And Dean is-

Oh god.

Sometime in the night, you’ve migrated together. Your back is pressed against his chest, his arm is wrapped around your waist, and his face is buried in your hair. You can feel his breath on your neck, slow and steady.

He’s still asleep.

You should move. Extract yourself carefully. Pretend this never happened.

But he’s so warm, and you’re so comfortable, and when was the last time you felt this safe?

“Y’wake?” Dean’s voice is rough with sleep, and you feel it rumble through his chest.

“Yeah.”

“What time is it?”

You crane your neck to see his alarm clock. “Six thirty.”

“In the morning?”

“Yeah.”

He groans, but his arm tightens around you. “Too early.”

“I should go.”

“Why?”

“Because I fell asleep here. In your bed.”

“So?”

“So that’s not … we’re not …”

“We’re not what?” His thumb starts tracing absent circles on your hip, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Dean.”

“Hmm?”

“We should talk about this.”

“About what? Two friends having a sleepover?”

“Friends don’t usually sleep like this.”

“Maybe they should. It’s very comfortable.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“You say that a lot.”

“Because it’s consistently true.”

He shifts, and suddenly he’s propped up on one elbow, looking down at you. His hair is a mess, and there’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow, and he’s looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“You drool when you sleep.”

“I do not!” You swat at him, but he catches your hand.

“Okay, you don’t. But you do make these little snoring sounds.”

“I don’t snore!”

“They’re cute. Everything about you is cute.”

Your heart does that annoying flutter thing. “Dean-”

“I know. Taking it slow. Being patient. I’m being good.”

“Are you?”

“I’m trying.” His eyes drop to your lips. “It’s really hard when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want to kiss me.”

“I-” You stop. Because he’s right. You do want to kiss him. You want to do more than kiss him. You’ve been wanting to for weeks now, and the wanting is starting to override the carefully logical reasons you’ve built up for why this is a bad idea.

“Can I kiss you?” Dean asks, and his voice is soft. Careful.

“We’re in your bed.”

“I noticed.”

“If we start kissing in your bed, it’s going to lead to other things.”

“Not if you don’t want it to.”

“That’s the problem. I’m starting to think I do want it to.”

Dean goes very still. “Y/N-”

“I should go,” you say quickly, sitting up. “I have a class at nine and I need to shower and-”

“Hey.” He catches your hand again. “Don’t run.”

“I’m not running.”

“You’re definitely running.” But he lets go, giving you space. “I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.”

The drive back to your dorm is quiet. Not uncomfortable, just weighted. Like you’re both thinking the same thing but neither of you knows how to say it.

When he pulls up to your building, you unbuckle your seatbelt but don’t get out.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Last night … it was really nice.”

He turns to look at you, and something in his expression makes your breath catch. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You lean over and kiss him, quick and soft. “I’ll see you Thursday?”

“Thursday,” he confirms.

You make it halfway to the door before he calls your name.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“You can fall asleep in my bed anytime you want.”

You smile. “Good to know.”

And you definitely don’t spend the entire day thinking about the way he held you. The way you fit together. The way you’ve never felt safer than you did waking up in his arms.

Definitely not.

***

Thursday becomes a repeat of Tuesday. You study, you talk, you laugh. And when you start to fade around eleven, Dean just hands you a t-shirt.

“You can’t sleep in jeans,” he says. “They’re not comfortable.”

“Dean-”

“I’ll turn around. I promise.”

He does, facing the wall while you change quickly, and when you climb into his bed wearing his shirt and your underwear, he doesn’t comment. Just lies down on top of the covers again, maintaining that careful distance.

Until you wake up tangled together anyway.

It becomes a routine. Study sessions that run late. You, falling asleep in his bed. Dean, sleeping above the covers. Both of you waking up intertwined.

“This is ridiculous,” you say one morning, still wrapped in his arms. “You’re sleeping on top of the covers.”

“I’m being respectful.”

“You’re being uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dean.” You turn to face him. “Just get under the covers. We’re going to end up cuddling anyway.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

That night, when you start to fade, Dean just lifts the covers.

“Come here,” he says, and you do.

You fit against him like you were designed for it. His arm around your waist, your head on his chest, legs tangled together.

“This okay?” He murmurs into your hair.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is okay.”

And it is. It’s more than okay.

It’s perfect.

IT SHOULD’VE BEEN EASY, YOU THINK SOMETIMES. LOVING HIM.

but it wasn’t. it never has been. because mike wheeler is… dense. painfully, spectacularly, cosmically dense. the kind of boy who could watch you bleed and ask if you tripped. who could stare at you too long, too soft, too much, and then claim he “didn’t notice.” he’s a riddle, and he makes you work for every moment of clarity like it’s something you should feel lucky to receive.

you’ve loved him for as long as you can remember. long before monsters, long before the word “upside down” meant something other than the way he lay on the couch when he was bored. before trauma rearranged both of you into people you barely recognized. back when he was just mike—awkward, loud, too earnest, too stubborn. a boy who talked with his whole body, who defended you with scraped knees and shouted arguments in parking lots, who didn’t know how to say the things he felt so he built entire fortresses out of silence instead.

and god, you tried. you tried to read him the way he reads maps in d&d, looking for patterns, for anything that could mean he cared the way you did. but mike never opens the right doors. or maybe he opens them too late. maybe he doesn’t even realize the doors are there. he’s so used to hiding, to shouldering everything alone, that letting anyone in feels like handing over a weapon.

loving someone like that—someone who keeps himself locked away—it hurts. it hurts because wanting him feels like trying to warm your hands over a fire that won’t stay lit.

you did try to let him go. you swear you did. loving mike wheeler isn’t this soft, fluttery thing people write poems about. its something you have to learn to tuck under your ribs so it doesn’t spill out every time he looks at you with those dark, startled eyes like he wasn’t expecting you to still be there. you learned early that emotions make him skittish. not just yours—everyone’s. if you get too close, too honest, too anything, he recoils. not physically, but in words. sharp ones, sarcastic ones, the kind he regrets immediately but never admits to.

you’ve seen it happen to others, so you never risked it with yourself.

so slowly, you started stepping back. not in some dramatic teenage heartbreak way, but in the soft, invisible ways that actually matter. you sat with different people at lunch, laughing at jokes that weren’t as funny as you pretended. you stopped answering him when he’d radio you. you skipped movie nights twice in a row. you let days pass without seeking him out first.

you told yourself it was self-care, not avoidance. that maybe if you built a life without him woven through every hour of it, the ache would dull. maybe the world would shift its axis just enough that he wouldn’t be the center anymore.

the problem was… hawkins is small. memories are smaller.

how do you let go of someone whose shadow sits in every corner of your childhood? he’s everywhere. in the sunburns from summers at the quarry. in the grass stains on your jeans from bike races he always cheated in. in the smell of wet pavement after storms, because those were the nights he’d sneak out and show up at your window, whispering, “c’mon, you’re not gonna let a little rain stop us.”

he’s in the basement where you learned what loyalty felt like, lights dim, dice clattering, his voice animated and alive in ways you never heard in classrooms or crowded hallways. he’s in the scream you made the first time you saw a demogorgon, and the way his hand grabbed yours so tight it left impressions. he’s in the silence afterward, when none of you slept for days, and he sat on the floor beside your bed, staring at the wall like if he looked away, the world might break again.

mike wheeler has always been a constant. even when he’s cold, even when he’s distant, even when he’s drowning in his own head and dragging everyone with him, you never doubted his heart.

you just doubted that he’d ever let you see all of it.

he has no idea. he has no idea that your voice softens when you say his name. he has no idea that you memorized every version of his smile. he has no idea that half the jokes you make are just attempts to hear him laugh. he has no idea that you still look for him in every crowd, even when you’re trying not to. you’re too scared to hand him the truth. mike doesn’t do confessions. he doesn’t do vulnerable. he doesn’t do cornered, and loving him—wanting him—would corner him more than anything else ever could.

so you learned to swallow the things that mattered. you let him go in all the ways that count.

you didn’t expect it to work.

no one tells you that letting go sometimes means someone else finds the space you cleared. his name’s ryan, one of those effortlessly likeable golden-boy types. varsity soccer, obnoxiously good hair. he laughs easily, listens well, and calls you “dude” when he’s excited. he isn’t complicated. he isn’t haunted. he likes you openly, without fear or hesitation. you liked that. you needed that.

you didn’t expect anything to happen, honestly. but he noticed you. he asked you out. he held your hand in the hallway. he tells you good morning and actually means it. he has no idea that you’ve spent years orbiting someone who never once looked directly at the sun he was pulling toward him. maybe that’s why you said yes. ryan didn’t make your heart ache, he made it rest.

which is how you ended up here, on the old carpet of mike wheeler’s basement, legs crossed, the smell of dust and old soda cans filling the room as you tell the party about your boyfriend. mike sits across from you, half-sunk into the couch, elbows on knees. he hasn’t looked at you since you started talking about him.

dustin’s sitting criss-cross beside you, leaning forward like you’re announcing a secret mission. lucas and max are sharing a beanbag chair. max looks intrigued, lucas looks two seconds from teasing you. “okay,” dustin says. “start over. his name is ryan and… what? he just asked you out? like, randomly? popular ryan?”

you shrug, trying to sound casual. “not randomly. we talked. he’s in my english class. he asked if I wanted to get ice cream after school, and then one date turned into… more dates.”

lucas raises his eyebrows. “popular popular ryan? as in captain-of-the-soccer-team, girls-write-his-name-in-the-bathroom-stall ryan?”

max snorts. “yeah, that one.”

“he’s actually really nice,” you say, and it’s true. your voice comes out softer than you expect. “he’s funny. and he’s good at listening. he remembers stuff I say.”

that last part lands weirdly in the room.

dustin beams. “dude, that’s awesome! I mean—wow. you actually have a boyfriend. and he’s, like, normal.”

max kicks dustin’s ankle. “don’t jinx it.”

lucas nudges you with his foot. “so… you like him? like him like him?”

you feel your cheeks heat a little. “yeah. I do. he makes me feel… I don’t know. good.”

you shouldn’t be looking at him, but even after all these years, your eyes always find mikes even when you don’t mean to. dustin, oblivious, keeps going. “so when do we meet him? we have to meet him! we need to make sure he’s not some jerk pretending to be cool.”

“he’s not a jerk,” you say quickly. “he’s… he treats me really well.”

lucas nods approvingly. “good.”

max smirks. “and is he cute?”

you roll your eyes. “max—”

“what?” she laughs. “I don’t date, I just judge.”

they all laugh except mike. classic mike wheeler, feelings like locked doors. his knee bounces once—sharply—then stops, like he remembered someone might notice. he’s holding a pencil, the eraser dented from where he’s been chewing on it without realizing. he looks small, almost.

you’ve known him too long not to notice when he’s shutting down, even if he thinks he’s hiding it well. mike wheeler has never been good at quiet. not real quiet. not the kind born from feeling something he doesn’t want to say. then, finally, after too long, after the others have moved on to teasing each other, he cuts in. “so…” mike clears his throat. “ryan.”

he says the name like it tastes bad.

you blink. “yeah?”

mike doesn’t look up and instead pretends to inspect a fraying edge on the couch cushion. “he’s, what, the… uh… the popular guy, right?”

lucas eyes him. “you know who ryan is, mike.”

“yeah, obviously,” mike snaps back quickly. “i’m just—clarifying.”

max’s eyebrows rise. she knows that tone. you all do. you nod carefully. “he’s on the soccer team. people like him.”

“right.” mike flicks the pencil between his fingers. “of course they do.”

there’s something biting in the way he says it. something sour. it’s weirdly déjà vu, because mike has always been like this. since you were kids. since the fourth grade incident where you told him you had a crush on someone and he spent the rest of recess kicking gravel and making fun of the guy’s haircut.

mike wheeler doesn’t know how to be happy for people. he never has.

you feel it. max feels it. lucas definitely feels it, because he gives mike that slow head-turn that always precedes a verbal slap. dustin stalls mid–orange slice chewing. you swallow. “he’s nice.”

mike snorts under his breath. it’s small, but it’s sharp enough to cut. “yeah. sure. nice.” he taps the pencil against his knee, too fast. “just—kind of weird, though.”

max narrows her eyes. “what is?”

mike shrugs, pretending nonchalance so aggressively it’s almost theatrical. “i mean… someone like him. dating someone like—” he stops, pivots, tries to disguise the slip with a shrug that’s too casual. “whatever. it’s just surprising.”

the room freezes. your stomach drops fast, like missing a step on a staircase. lucas raises his hands. “woah. dude. not cool.”

dustin’s mouth is already open. “yeah, what the hell does that mean?!”

mike’s eyebrows knit instantly, defensively. “what?! i didn’t—I’m not—god, you all jump on everything i say.”

max leans forward. “probably because you say stuff like that.”

mike scowls at the floor like it did something to him. “i just meant—look, ryan’s, you know…” he gestures vaguely, aimlessly, like the air might fill in the blanks for him. “he’s popular. he’s… the type girls are into. it’s just—unexpected. okay?”

your chest tightens, not anger, but that old familiar sting. the one he’s been accidentally carving into you since you were twelve. “unexpected how?”

mike freezes. he wasn’t expecting you to ask. he wasn’t expecting to be held accountable. he shoves his hair back, frustrated. “i don’t know! i’m just saying it’s weird. it’s weird that he—he could date anyone he wants, and he picks—” he cuts himself off again, voice faltering. “—you.”

max mutters under her breath, “jesus christ.”

lucas covers his face with both hands.

dustin gapes. “mike. why would you even say that?”

“i’m not trying to be mean!” he shoots back. “i’m being honest! sorry if honesty is suddenly illegal.”

but it’s the way he won’t look at you that gives him away. he keeps looking anywhere else, the floor, the table, the dice, the wall, because he can’t look at your face and say the things he means. he never has been able to. you breathe in slowly, trying not to let your voice shake. “it kind of sounds like you’re saying i’m not good enough for him.”

mike’s head jerks up like the words hit him physically. “that’s not—no, that’s not what i meant,” he insists, but the defensiveness in his voice makes it hard to believe. “i’m just saying—he’s… you know. he’s that guy. the guy everyone knows. the guy who—who—”

“who what?” max presses.

mike’s jaw flexes. he looks trapped. “who… belongs with someone who fits that world, okay?” he mutters at last. “someone who… matches him.”

mike wheeler doesn’t realize how cruel he sounds when he’s scared. he never has. you feel heat crawl up your neck, because this is him. this is mike. you’ve spent years reading him like an impossible book, flipping through pages where he says one thing but means another, hoping eventually the story will get easier to understand. it never has.

mike crosses his arms now, defensive, closed-off, like he’s physically holding himself together. “i just—” he stops, searching for a tone that won’t betray him. “i mean… it’s cool. it’s fine. you’re dating him. that’s… good.” he says it so unconvincingly it almost hurts to listen to.

mike can’t hide what he feels. not really. his mouth tries, but his body betrays him every time, the tight shoulders, the clipped tone, the way he won’t look at you for more than a half-second. he’s dense. he’s stubborn. he’s impossible. he’s also transparent in the worst ways.

this exact moment is the reminder of why loving him hurt. he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. and if you point it out, he’ll only push harder, like he’s cornered, like feelings are traps that snap shut on him. you exhale slowly. “okay,” you say softly, mostly for yourself. “okay.”

something inside you folds, because this is it. this is who mike wheeler has always been. for the first time, you let yourself actually feel it instead of excusing it. he’s never going to change. not the way you kept hoping he would. not the way little-kid you imagined he might if you just loved him long enough.

mike can be a dick. he always has been. you’ve spent years smoothing it over in your head—no, he didn’t mean it like that, no, he’s just stressed, no, that’s just mike—but god, hearing it now, in this basement, in this moment when you’re trying to share something good? it lands differently.

so you shift, force your shoulders to relax, force your breath to steady. you don’t look at him again. you don’t chase the apology he isn’t going to give. you don’t try to decode the tiny flashes of panic in his voice. you just move on.

max is the first to break the silence. “so,” she says, deliberately bright, “when do we get to meet him?”

dustin jumps in immediately, nodding so hard his curls bounce. “yeah! yeah—i mean, we should obviously vet him.”

lucas elbows him. “not vet. just… meet. like normal human beings.”

“i can ask him,” you say, trying to sound casual. “maybe tomorrow? lunch?”

dustin beams. “yes. perfect. bring him to our table. we’ll be normal.”

max rolls her eyes. “we’ll be as normal as we can be.”

you laugh under your breath because of course. this is why you love them. this is why you stayed. you don’t want to look at him, you really don’t. but your eyes flick over anyway—to check, to gauge, to survive. and he’s staring at you. dead-on. not even pretending to look away this time, like he was waiting for your eyes. like he needed you to look at him.

when you do—just for a second—his whole face shifts. relief, like he’d been holding his breath. you break eye contact instantly, because no. you’re not doing that again. you’re not opening the door he keeps slamming shut in your face. max asks you another question and you turn toward her, answering, letting her voice pull you back into the circle that feels safe.

mike stays quiet, but you can feel it, his stare following you like he’s trying to will you into turning back to him. he’s a dick. and he cares. and those two things have always existed in him side by side, ruining you without him even realizing it.

and you’re done paying the price for it.

the cafeteria hums around you, winter sun spilling in through those tall windows like it’s trying to make the school look less miserable than it is. you spot the table before ryan does, mike hunched over his notebook, tapping a pen in this uneven rhythm that’s basically a heartbeat made of irritation. lucas and dustin are in a quiet but intense argument, max is peeling the label off her drink with the bored precision of someone who’s seen this dynamic a thousand times.

ryan walks beside you with that loose, easy stride he always has, hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair a little messy from morning practice. he’s warm in this effortless way, people look at him without him ever asking for the attention. he leans toward you, nudging your shoulder lightly. “ready?” he teases, but it’s gentle. he’s actually checking in.

you nod, even though your stomach flips. “yeah. they’re right there.”

“cool. let’s go.”

when you reach the table, lucas notices first, eyebrows shooting up. “oh—hey. ryan, right?”

ryan grins back, easy as breathing. “yeah. hey, man.”

dustin straightens next, suddenly animated. “dude, i’ve seen you play. you’re, like… fast. like actually fast.”

ryan laughs. “that’s the idea. but thanks.”

max’s eyes narrow with interest. “huh. so you’re the boyfriend.”

“guilty.”

everyone starts warming up instantly—of course they are. ryan has that friendly, open posture that makes people feel like they already know him. he drops his backpack, sits beside you like he’s been doing it for months, and immediately vibes with the group. it’s mike who doesn’t move.

he doesn’t look up right away, he just flicks his eyes up for a second, scans ryan’s face, then back down to his notebook. he’s not glaring, but there’s this stillness to him, like every thought he has is being corralled behind his teeth. ryan doesn’t seem fazed. “you’re mike, right? you’re the one who runs their campaigns?”

mike finally speaks, voice flat. “sometimes.”

ryan smiles like he didn’t hear the edge. “i used to play with my cousin. i’m not, like, good-good, but i know the basics.”

dustin lights up again. “wait, seriously? what class?”

“rogue.” ryan says.

“of course.” mike mutters under his breath.

lucas shoots him a look. “dude.”

mike just shrugs, eyes on his notebook again, pretending he didn’t say anything. you feel the air shift, just slightly, but enough. enough to know that mike’s mood isn’t going to magically improve just because ryan is being… well, genuinely nice.

ryan leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “i heard you guys are doing some kind of winter campaign? sounds sick.”

dustin nods vigorously. “yeah, we’re—”

mike cuts in. “so. what’s someone like you doing dating them?”

everything freezes for a second. max’s head snaps toward him so fast her ponytail swings. “mike, you can’t just say stuff like that.”

mike holds up his hands a little, like he’s pretending he’s innocent even though his tone drips. “i’m just asking. he’s… you know.” he gestures at ryan. “mr. popular. mr. soccer. mr. everyone-likes-him. just curious.”

ryan’s smile falters, not because he’s offended, but because he looks like he’s trying to figure out whether mike is joking or actually serious. you know mike. you’ve known him your whole life. this is him being serious.

you open your mouth to say something, but ryan speaks first. “i’m dating them because i like them,” he says simply. “is that… weird?”

mike’s eyebrows lift just a fraction, but he doesn’t look up. “no. just surprising.”

lucas groans. “dude.”

mike shrugs again, small, annoyed, defensive. “i’m being honest.”

max kicks him under the table. “be less honest.”

mike clicks his pen, refusing to look anyone in the eye. “whatever. it’s fine.” but it isn’t fine. not with the way his knee is bouncing, or the way he keeps glancing at you from the corner of his eye and then snapping his gaze away like it hurts to look. you’ve seen mike jealous of your friends before, but never like this. never with this intensity that feels like it’s scraping at the bottom of something deeper—fear, maybe. or that same old thing he’s never been able to hide: mike hates feeling replaced.

that awful belief that things change too fast, that people slip away without warning, that someone else can just step in and take his place before he even realizes it’s happening. he hates that feeling. he always has. lunch rolls on despite him.

ryan is… honestly perfect in that easy, unforced way that mike has always resented in other people. he answers dustin’s questions without talking down to him, laughs at lucas’s jokes, asks max about her music taste and actually listens. when he admits he skates on weekends, max pretends she isn’t impressed, but you see the tiny spark in her eyes anyway. “you skate?” she asks, leaning forward despite herself.

“yeah!”

“okay, that’s actually kind of cool.”

“only kind of?” ryan laughs.

“don’t push it.” she says, but she’s smiling.

even lucas nods, like, alright. i can see the appeal. dustin’s already halfway sold on adopting him into the friend group. “you could totally play a rogue,” dustin says, excited. “you’d fit right in.”

“i’d be down,” ryan grins. “if you guys want.”

mike’s jaw tightens. he hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. he just sits there, staring at his tray, then at ryan, then at you, then back down again, like he can’t decide whether to sulk or explode. the more everyone warms to ryan, the more mike curls inward, like watching someone else be so effortlessly liked is physically painful.

finally, five minutes before the bell, ryan glances at the clock and stands. “i should go,” he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “i told some of the guys i’d meet them before class.” he turns to you, softening. “i’ll see you later?”

you nod, and he gives you this warm smile that makes your chest feel weirdly light. “bye guys!” ryan says, cheerful as always.

“see you!” dustin replies.

“later, man.” lucas waves.

max even gives a nod. “yeah. uh. cool meeting you.”

ryan leaves. the second he’s out of sight, literally the second, mike finally lifts his eyes. they’re tight, sharp, searching for an outlet. “okay,” he says, voice low but pointed. “i don’t like him.”

everyone groans at once. dustin actually drops his fork. “what are you talking about? he’s awesome!”

lucas frowns. “yeah. he was, like… cool. what’s your problem?”

“i’m serious. didn’t anyone else get a weird vibe? like—he’s too nice. too… polished.”

“polished?” lucas repeats. “he said ‘ass’ like three times.”

“yeah!” dustin jumps in. “he’s real! he’s not fake-nice, he’s just… a cool dude! honestly, we should invite him to play with us sometime.”

mike slams his pen down. “okay, can we not act like he’s joining the party? he’s not even—he’s not—no.”

“bro,” dustin says, eyebrows raised, “why does it matter so much?”

mike has no answer. he doesn’t want ryan at the table. he doesn’t want ryan getting closer. he doesn’t want ryan winning everyone over. he doesn’t want ryan replacing him. and he definitely doesn’t want ryan taking your attention like he already has. but mike wheeler would rather bite off his own tongue than admit any of that out loud. so all he does is sit there, arms crossed tight enough to hurt, glaring at the doors ryan walked through like he wants to will him out of existence. “i’m just saying,” he mutters, voice stiff and miserable, “i don’t like him.”

every part of him feels like it’s vibrating with something ugly and hot and directionless. because he doesn’t know why he feels this way, why the sight of you and ryan walking in together made his stomach clench, why ryan’s laugh grated against something raw in him, why every tiny brush of your shoulder against ryan’s made him want to leave the room and break something.

all he knows is that it’s wrong. it feels wrong. you two feel wrong.

why him? what’s so great about him? he’s not even that funny. he’s not even that interesting. he’s just some guy. some stupid guy who smiles too much and skates and knows d&d and is apparently good at everything.

ryan is the kind of boy who wins people without trying. mike has never been that boy. mike has never been anything that easy.

watching you fall into that ease—watching you laugh at ryan’s jokes, watching ryan lean in to whisper something that makes you blush—makes him want to crawl out of his own skin. it makes his hands clench under the table. it makes his throat close. he hates it. he hates him. he hates himself for not understanding why.

what is he even jealous of? you’re his friend. his best friend since forever. that’s it. that’s all. that’s supposed to be all. when you defend ryan—when you say, “mike, come on, i promise he’s actually really nice”—it hits something sharp in him.

he snaps without even meaning to. “yeah, well, nice is easy.”

no one knows what that means. not even him.

time jumps because life doesn’t wait for mike wheeler to figure himself out. weeks pass. then more weeks. you and ryan keep dating. mike does not warm up to him. not even a little. if anything, it gets worse. mike gets snappier. sharper. more impatient. he stops pretending to be polite. he stops pretending he’s “fine.”

when ryan shows up, mike leaves the room. when ryan talks, mike rolls his eyes. when ryan laughs, mike’s fists clench so tight his knuckles go white. he keeps saying things like:

“i’m telling you, he’s weird.”

“i don’t trust him.”

“he’s acting. nobody is that nice.”

“if you guys weren’t blinded by his stupid dimples you’d see it.”

and he has this whole plan in his head, this delusional mike wheeler blueprint where he sits you down, tells you all the reasons ryan is wrong for you, and you listen. you nod. you say, “yeah, you’re right, mike,” and you break up with ryan and everything snaps back to the way it’s supposed to be.

just you and him.

like it always was.

that’s how mike sees it. that’s how it should go.

except it doesn’t.

you stay with ryan. you stay for an entire month, and mike unravels. he gets more irritable by the day. more sarcastic. more blunt. more impossible to be around. he snaps at dustin over nothing, gets into stupid arguments with lucas, ignores max’s jabs and just stews silently instead. his grades slip. he can’t sleep. he spends too long staring at the ceiling, heart racing for reasons he refuses to name.

you barely know ryan. he’s just some guy. he’s just some stupid guy you met a week ago. he’s not even part of your real world, not the world you built with him. in mike’s head, one month is nothing compared to the years he’s had with you. the sleepovers, the walkie-talkies, the bike rides, the monster-hunting, the stupid inside jokes he still remembers. the versions of you he’s seen that ryan never will.

and he cannot wrap his brain around the fact that things didn’t snap back. that he didn’t get you back. ryan is .. popular. he has friends everywhere. he can sit at any table in the cafeteria and someone will shout his name.

mike doesn’t have that. he has you. he had you.

so the fact that ryan—this boy who already has everything—gets you too? it makes something poisonous coil tight inside him.

you and mike barely hang out anymore, not really. not alone. not the way you used to. not the way where you sprawled across the floor of his basement with snacks and bad movies and mike made sarcastic comments at everything because he knew they made you laugh. now mike barely looks at you unless it’s to glare across ryan’s shoulder.

he blames it on you. he blames it on the fact that you started dating ryan—as if that alone ruined everything. as if he hasn’t been the one acting like a storm cloud stuck in human form for weeks.

but that’s the thing about mike wheeler: when something hurts, he refuses to look at the wound. he refuses to admit it’s bleeding. he’ll blame the weapon, the room, the weather—anything but the feeling.

so when he asks you to come over, just you, you think about it for a long while. because it’s been a while. too long. avoiding mike forever isn’t an option. he’s your friend. your history. your whole adolescence wrapped in one stubborn, impossible, exhausting person.

so you agree. you go.

now it’s the two of you in his basement. he doesn’t look at you right away. it’s awkward. he never used to be awkward with you.

mike sits on the far end of the couch like you’re radioactive, close enough to pretend this is normal. he twists the cord of the basement lamp around his fingers, untwists it, twists it again. he used to sprawl everywhere, limbs everywhere, taking up space because he knew you’d fill the rest. now he sits like he’s trying not to touch his own shadow. you drop onto the other cushion. “so,” you say, because someone has to. “how’s… life?”

“oh, you know,” he mutters. “same old.”

you raise a brow. “that sounds fake.”

he huffs, barely a laugh but close enough that the tension flickers. “yeah, well. i’m trying.”

“trying what?”

“to be normal,” he says, shrugging too hard. “it’s exhausting.”

you snort, and for a second it feels like the two of you used to, easy, familiar, teasing. you toss a pillow at him. he dodges, barely, and it hits the d&d shelf with a dull thump. “you still can’t catch.” you say.

“i didn’t want to catch it.”

“sure you didn’t.”

he slants you a look that’s almost a smile. “you’re annoying.”

“you missed me.” you counter without thinking.

“whatever.”

for a second it’s fine—awkward but fine. you talk about school, about how dustin accidentally set off the fire alarm in chem, about how lucas is pretending he doesn’t care basketball tryouts are getting closer. mike’s shoulders loosen; he actually laughs, runs a hand through his hair the way he does when he finally stops overthinking. you think, stupidly, maybe this can work. maybe you can fix this.

then he does what mike always does. he pushes. he leans back, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to read every expression. “so,” he says, casual in that way he only is when he’s about to be mean. “how’s… everything? you know. with you.”

“with me?” you echo. “i mean, fine. i guess.”

“yeah?” he says lightly. “i wouldn’t know.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

mike shrugs, picking at the peeling sticker on the coffee table. “just that i wouldn’t know. probably because you’ve been too busy hanging out with your new—” he makes a little face, like the word tastes foul— “boyfriend.”

the way he says it. petty. like he’s daring you to deny it. you swallow. “okay. you know what? i’m not doing this with you.”

“doing what?”

“this,” you say, standing so fast the couch groans. “the passive-aggressive comments. the attitude. the—whatever this is.” you gesture vaguely at him, at the tension, at the room that feels suddenly too small. “i came here to hang out with you, mike. not to get judged.”

“i wasn’t judging—”

“yeah, you were. and i’m not dealing with it today.”

you’re already halfway to the basement stairs. mike just stares, stunned, mouth parted like you slapped him. you don’t give him time to catch up. you climb the stairs two at a time and push open the door. karen wheeler is at the kitchen counter, peeling potatoes. she looks up with that bright mom-smile, ready to say hi—until she sees your face. the smile crumples instantly. “sweetheart? everything okay?”

you force a tight smile. “yeah, mrs. wheeler. just heading out.”

you slip past her before she can ask anything else, shoes thudding lightly across the kitchen tile. ted doesn’t even look up when you pass, just turns a page of his newspaper with all the enthusiasm of a tranquilized sloth. the air outside is cold in a way that wakes every nerve. you breathe it in. you need that. clarity. space. anything that isn’t mike wheeler and his catastrophic ability to ruin the simplest moment.

why does he have to be like this?

you walk across the lawn, hands stuffed into your pockets, heart drumming a tired, frustrated rhythm. mike is maddening. painfully, historically maddening. he can’t go five minutes without pushing a button—your button—like he’s testing the limits of how much you’ll take. he does it every time. he always has. and the worst part? half the time he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

you know him. you’ve always known him, and that makes it so much worse, because every time he acts like this, like he’s trying to drive you away, some part of you aches like you’re losing something you never figured out how to keep. why couldn’t he just be normal today? why couldn’t he just let it be the way it used to? why does he have to spit fire the second he feels even a millimeter out of place?

you reach your bike and grip the handlebars, knuckles whitening. if you leave now, maybe you’ll cool off. maybe tomorrow will be less impossible. maybe—

the door slams behind you. the sound slices clean through your thoughts. “hold on!”

you turn, startled, breath caught in your throat. mike is barreling out of the house like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. he stumbles down the porch steps, nearly tripping over his own shoelace, hair wild, chest heaving like he sprinted a mile. his face—god, you’ve never seen him look like that. frantic. unguarded. almost scared. “don’t go yet.” he says. “just—can you… just wait a second?”

you don’t answer. you’re too stunned by him. by the way he looks at you like everything inside him is spiraling.

he swallows hard. “why do you like him so much?”

the words fall out of him, unfiltered, fast, messy, the way mike gets when something breaks inside him. “i mean—he’s just—he’s just some guy,” mike continues, throwing his hands up. “he’s not even in the party. he doesn’t even know you. like, actually know you.”

you stare at him, stunned into silence, but mike keeps going, pacing one quick desperate line in the driveway. “he bought you the wrong soda at lunch,” mike says, pointing sharply like it’s definitive evidence in a murder case. “he brought grape. grape. who the hell likes grape?”

“mike—”

“and he doesn’t know your jokes,” mike says louder. “he laughs at the wrong ones. and he thinks you like those stupid pop quizzes in english—what?! nobody likes those! you get stressed over those! i know you do! you’ve only known him, like—a month. a month. and suddenly you’re always with him and he’s at your locker and he’s at your table and he’s—” mike gestures helplessly, like the word everywhere is too big for his mouth. “and i don’t get it. i don’t understand why things can’t just—go back to how they were. with us.”

you open your mouth before you can even think. “we aren’t even—” you start, but the sentence chokes on your tongue. you stop. hard. mike’s eyes flick up, confused. you shake your head, breath slicing out. “forget it.”

but the heat is already rising in your chest, curling under your ribs. all month you’ve been swallowing it down, smoothing it out, pretending it didn’t burn. and now it just—erupts. “what has been up with you?” you snap, louder than you mean to. “seriously, mike, you’ve been such a—such a dick lately. like, constantly. do you even hear yourself?”

his eyes widen, hurt flashing fast before he smothers it under anger. “i’ve been a dick?” mike shoots back, voice sharp enough to cut. “i’ve been a dick? seriously? you disappear for a month with your—your boyfriend—” he spits the word like it tastes sour, “—and i’m the problem?”

“you are the problem!” you fire back, stepping closer because you can’t help it. “you’re rude every time he’s around! you glare, you sulk, you make everyone uncomfortable! i can’t even eat lunch without you acting like someone stole your bike!”

“maybe because they did!” mike snaps, flinging his hands out. “he’s trying to take you away from—”

“he’s not taking me!” you yell, fully incredulous. “i’m a person, mike, not a chess piece you get to guard!”

“oh my god, that’s not what i meant—”

“no? because it sure sounds like it!”

“he sucks, okay?! he just—he sucks! he acts like he knows you and he doesn’t and he—”

“he doesn’t what?” you snap. “he doesn’t treat me like I’m doing something wrong every time I breathe?” you push on, voice trembling with anger and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “have you ever thought—just once—about how you’ve been acting? you keep blaming ryan for everything, but have you ever considered that maybe the reason i haven’t been around is because of you?”

his mouth opens, then closes. he looks like he’s been slapped. “because of me?” mike repeats. “that’s what you think?”

“you make it impossible to be around you. you’re angry all the time. irritated, mean, snapping at everyone. every time i try to talk to you, you push me away or pick a fight or—” you throw your hands up. “god, mike, how am i supposed to want to hang out with you when you’re like this?”

“i’m like this because he—”

“it’s not about ryan!” you cut in, louder than you intended. “it’s about you. it’s always been about you!”

“he is the problem,” mike insists. “he’s—he’s wrong for you, okay? he’s—he’s trying to take you from the party, from me—”

“he’s not!” you shout back. “why do you care so much?!”

he freezes in the middle of the driveway, breath snagging, eyes wide and almost… terrified, like he knows exactly why. like he’s known for a long time. you can see it hit him: the realization he’s been dodging, the answer he’s been choking on for weeks, the thing he’s terrified to say and even more terrified you’ll somehow already know. he forces himself to move anyway, forces himself to swallow whatever cracked open in him. he shakes his head fast, stubborn, angry in the way only someone who’s scared can be. “it is his fault,” mike snaps, stepping forward again, the space between you shrinking to nothing. “i’m not wrong about this. i’m not. you shouldn’t trust him. he—he doesn’t even notice the right things about you, he—he just—”

“mike—”

“he’s the worst,” he barrels over you, desperate, relentless. “he’s the worst, he’s—he’s not good enough for you.”

“mike—”

“i’m trying to help you,” he insists, voice cracking with how hard he’s pushing it. “i’m trying to make you see he’s bad for you, okay? he’s wrong.”

“mike.”

he shuts up instantly. the two of you are close enough now that you can feel the heat of his breath, the tremble in his shoulders, the panic trembling behind every inch of him. he looks furious and terrified and breakable all at once. you take a breath. a real one. “it doesn’t even matter,” you say. “we’re not together anymore.”

the world drops out of his face. “…what?”

“we broke up,” you repeat, more tired than angry now. “a few days ago.”

he stands there, absolutely still, like you’ve short-circuited him. like his brain is trying to reboot and failing. his mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. “you’re not—?”

“no, mike,” you say, exasperated. “we’re not.”

something bright flickers in his eyes, it almost looks like joy. the second he realizes he’s showing it, he slams it down, forcing his expression back into something flat and neutral that fools absolutely no one. “oh,” he manages. “well. uh. good. i mean—not good. not good-good. i just—i didn’t—”

“yeah,” you cut in, arms folding. “you didn’t know.”

“of course i didn’t know,” he snaps weakly. “you didn’t tell me—”

“you didn’t notice,” you shoot back. “if you’d paid attention to anyone besides yourself, you would’ve realized he hasn’t even been around the last couple of days. i wasn’t with him. i haven’t been with him. you didn’t notice, because you never do, mike. you only see what you want to see. you only hear what you want to hear. if it’s not about you—if it’s not something that affects you—you don’t pay attention.”

you’re too wound up to stop. “i don’t even know why you care so much,” you say, breath uneven. “why does it even matter to you who i date or don’t date? why do you get to be mad about this? why do you get to act like i’ve—”

“because i like you!”

the words explode out of him, like they’ve been pressing against his teeth for days, weeks, maybe years. you stop breathing. mike’s chest rises and falls like he just sprinted across the neighborhood. his eyes are huge, terrified, already regretting everything and unable to shove any of it back inside. “i—” he hesitates. “god, i didn’t—i didn’t mean to say it like that, I just— I don’t know, okay? i don’t know what’s wrong with me lately, i don’t know why i’m acting like this, i just—” he swallows hard. “i thought i hated him. like, really, really hated him. but then you said you weren’t with him anymore and it felt like—” he grimaces, shoulders curling inward. “like something in me just let go, i guess. i don’t know.” he shakes his head violently, like he’s trying to knock the words loose. “i didn’t get it at first,” he rushes out. “i didn’t know why seeing you with him made me feel so—angry. or sick. or… whatever. i thought maybe it was just because he was popular or because he didn’t fit with us or because he kept taking you away but then—” he stops himself, hands flexing uselessly. “but then i realized it wasn’t him. it was you. it was me. it was— i don’t know.”

you’re staring at him. you can’t not stare.

“i think—” he tries again. “i think i like you. or maybe i’ve liked you for a while, and now everything’s a mess because i screwed everything up and i can’t stop screwing things up and i—” he trails off, hopeless.

your heartbeat is in your throat. you’ve loved mike wheeler for as long as you can remember—through childhood, through monsters, through eleven different kinds of heartbreak he never even knew he gave you. now, the moment you finally tried to move on—finally tried to build something that wasn’t just you waiting for mike to look at you the way you looked at him—now he says it.

“i don’t know what i’m doing, but i don’t want you with him. i don’t want things to go back to how they were either because—because that wasn’t enough anymore. for me.” he forces himself to meet your eyes. “i really think i like you,” he says again, smaller. “a lot.”

your ribs are too small for everything suddenly pressing against them. “how do you even know that? you can’t just—say things like that. you can’t drop that on me. don’t—don’t mess with me.”

his face twists. “i’m not,” he shoots back, too fast, too earnest. “i’m not messing with you, i don’t know what else you want me to say. i’m just—i’m trying, okay? i’m trying to be honest.”

“honest?” you repeat, disbelieving. “since when?”

he swallows, like that one stung. “since max yelled at me.”

“what?”

“she’s the one who helped me figure it out. told me i was acting weird. told me i got… annoying whenever you were with him.“

your stomach twists, hope and fear tangling so violently it almost hurts. because you’ve dreamed of this. of him standing here, admitting something real. yet loving mike wheeler has always been a gamble with terrible odds, and you just crawled out of something that left you bruised and confused and tired. you don’t know if you can afford to trust him with something this big. not when you’ve lost him before without ever having had him. “i don’t believe you,” you say, because it’s safer than the truth: i want to believe you so bad that it terrifies me.

“i can prove it.”

you laugh—sharp, disbelieving. “yeah? how, mike? how are you going to prove it? because words aren’t—”

you don’t even finish. he moves before you can think, before you can breathe, hands coming up like he’s afraid you’ll shove him away but he still steps into your space, close enough for his breath to tremble against your cheek. and then he kisses you.

it’s not smooth or practiced or anything he had time to think through. it’s desperate, uneven, like he’s been holding his breath for years and this is the first inhale that doesn’t burn. his mouth meets yours with this startled, aching hunger, but it softens almost instantly, like he realizes mid-kiss that you’re real, that this is real, that he’s actually doing this.

your brain doesn’t catch up. it’s white noise—shock slamming through you so hard you forget every reason you had to stay angry. his lips are warm, and he’s making these tiny, barely-there sounds like he’s afraid to push, afraid to lose you, but too pulled in to stop.

your hands stay frozen at your sides for a full second—two—while your heart stutters violently in your chest. then the instinct you’ve spent years burying finally claws its way out. you kiss him back.

it’s small at first, cautious, but the second you respond he shudders, like your mouth on his is something he didn’t let himself hope for. his fingers finally touch you, sliding to the sides of your face, gentle in that frantic, unsteady way of someone who’s been imagining this and still can’t believe you’re not pushing him away. it’s overwhelming, dizzying, this thing you’ve dreamt of since you were a kid but never thought you’d have.

you pull back first, lips tingling, everything inside you way too loud. “you’re such an asshole.” you whisper, because it’s the only thing that makes sense when nothing else does.

“i know.”

you shake your head, overwhelmed, but his hands are still hovering near your face like he doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch you again. then his expression breaks, soft, pleading, all the bravado gone. “come back inside.” he steps closer again, just searching your face with that startled honesty he only ever shows when he’s seconds from falling apart. “we don’t have to talk about anything. we can just—hang out. or sit. or… i don’t know.”

you’re caught between everything you’ve ever known and everything that’s happening right now. mike’s eyes are earnest, completely unguarded for the first time in what feels like forever. he looks like the whole world has narrowed to him, to the way his hands hover near your face, hesitant, like he’s daring himself to let go of his own fear long enough to just… be real.

you don’t move. you can’t, really. your stomach twists and uncoils in a way that’s half panic, half relief, half something you can’t name. he’s finally said it. he’s finally admitted it, and you want to believe him but you don’t quite know how. your heart stutters in your chest with hope, fear, longing, because that’s what mike does. he’s always been like this: impossible to pin down, impossible to read, impossible not to feel.

“unless,” he says suddenly, “you’d rather be with ryan.” the name slips out before he can stop it, and the way he says it makes it obvious. jealousy. pure, stupid, human jealousy, and somehow it makes something flutter in your chest in a way that isn’t irritation or anger—it’s… kind of cute.

mike, dense, stubborn, impossible mike wheeler, is jealous of someone he doesn’t even like but can’t stop himself from obsessing over. instead of being annoyed—like you probably should be—it strikes you as painfully human. it’s a side of him he can’t hide, a glimpse behind the walls he builds so meticulously around himself.

you try to find words, but the sentence won’t form. there’s too much, all at once. you think of every moment you’ve loved him, all the moments you’ve fantasized about him finally saying something real, and here it is, tumbling out in the middle of a driveway. he swallows, jittery and exposed, watching you like he’s afraid your reaction will break him. you can see the restraint in him, the way he’s holding back, trying to appear calm and collected, and failing. you think about how much you’ve wanted this since you were kids, how much you’ve longed for him to feel something you’ve always felt, and it hits you in a tidal wave that maybe, just maybe, this is real.

you take a shaky breath, realizing that you has always wanted this—always wanted him like this. the flutter in your chest spreads, a dangerous, thrilling kind of hope that makes you want to both laugh and cry at once. “okay,” you say softly, letting your voice carry more calm than you feel. “okay. we’ll figure this out. we’ll… start somewhere. just… don’t mess with me, mike.”

he blinks, the faintest relief flickering across his face before he tries to mask it with a shrug. “i won’t. promise.” he says, though the words are almost too small to carry the weight of everything. he steps back just enough to give you space, but not enough to break the tension, not enough to let go.

you nod, a smile threatening at the corners of your lips despite the lump in your throat, the whirl of emotions. “okay,” you whisper, because you’re tired of avoiding him, tired of holding back, tired of the endless guessing game. “okay.”

you almost laugh, a tiny, strangled sound, because it’s mike. mike wheeler. always stubborn, always dense, always impossible, and yet somehow, here he is, looking like a boy who’s realizing his own heart too late but still willing to risk it. you shake your head, grinning despite yourself, and think, god, he really is the world’s biggest asshole. but the kind of asshole you’ve loved for forever.

he clears his throat, a little embarrassed, hands shoved into his pockets, and mutters, “so… uh, you gonna… come back inside or just stare at the street all night?”

“fine, i’ll go inside. but you owe me popcorn.”

“deal.” he says, finally cracking a grin that’s just a little too victorious, like he’s survived something fierce and now gets to savor the small victory. as you walk back toward the house, the sky deepening to twilight above you, you feel light, dizzy, and like maybe, just maybe, the hardest part is over.

a/n: genuinely not happy with how this one turned out but that’s okay 🥳 been on my stranger things shit .

STARTED 12.3.2025. POSTED 12.9.2025.

⸝⸝  masterlist  .ᐟ  𝜗𝜚

©️ latedeparture

“ DO YOU EVEN CARE ABOUT ME ?? “

you’re standing by the window, arms crossed, and mike can see the sunlight catching in your hair the way it did when you were twelve and you stayed up all night building blanket forts in the living room. “you don’t get to decide what’s best for me!” you snap, and mike flinches because he wants to tell you that he does, he’s been trying to tell you for weeks, maybe months, but every time he opens his mouth it comes out wrong, like it always does.

did he really say the thing in the car yesterday? the thing about how maybe moving to california would be easier for everyone, how maybe it would be better if you didn’t stay here messing with things he didn’t even know how to fix? he thinks he did, and the thought makes his stomach twist, because it wasn’t just a dumb joke this time. it was real. it was him admitting something he shouldn’t have, something that makes your hands curl into fists at your sides, something that makes your eyes so bright and so furious that he can barely breathe.

he glances at the scattered stack of papers on your desk, your math homework abandoned in favor of drawing tiny monsters with awkward, crooked eyes, and he remembers the first time he and will had sat here with you, the three of you together, kids with too much time and not enough sense, laughing over a board game they couldn’t even follow, your little laugh, and it hits him, hard, that you’re not that kid anymore, that you’re growing up and leaving, and he has said nothing worth holding onto, nothing that proves he’s even paying attention, it makes his chest ache. every fight you’ve had, every stupid argument, suddenly feels like a countdown, like the minutes left before he’ll never get another chance to look at you, to touch your shoulder lightly without you jerking away, to tell you that he cares about you in a way he can’t explain because he never learned the right words.

“mike!” you shout. he thinks about how many times he’s heard it like this before, when he accidentally hurt will, when he messed up with lucas, when he pushed his own fears into someone else’s space, and it’s the worst, the worst, because he knows he’s doing it again, but this time it’s you, and he can’t fix it with a joke, he can’t fix it with a bike ride, he can’t fix it with some dumb little “i’m sorry” that he doesn’t mean yet. he wants to tell you yes, yes he cares, yes he’s terrified of losing you, yes he’s terrified of never saying the right thing ever again, yes he can’t breathe because the sunlight hitting your shoulder is making him feel like he’s already too late, but his brain shuts down.

he wants to reach out, but he doesn’t know if you’ll take his hand or slap it away, so he just stands there, thinking about all the times he’s seen you as a kid and all the times he’s ignored what was right in front of him, all the little tiny moments where he could’ve said something, done something, been someone better, and now it’s all piling up, a mountain that presses down on his ribs and makes him wonder if he’s even allowed to cry, if crying would make him weak, if crying would make you think he doesn’t care, if crying would make him a coward in his own eyes, because he’s mike wheeler and he’s supposed to know how to handle this, supposed to have a plan, supposed to fix everything, but he doesn’t.

then you tilt your head, eyes flicking to the window and back, and you ask the question that makes him feel like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into a bottomless pit he can’t name: “do you even care? about anything? about me?”

yes, of course he cares. but the thought is tangled up with panic and fear and the memory of the times he’s failed before, and he can’t even say the words because saying them might break something, or it might be too late, or worse, it might be meaningless if he says them wrong. he thinks about your laugh, your smile, the way you always smell like home even when you’re mad, the way your hands are always warm, the way he wants to remember every detail of you forever, because you’re leaving, and it might be the last chance he has.

his chest tightens so fast it almost hurts, like something is cinching around his ribs and pulling, and for a second he honestly thinks he might throw up. the question keeps bouncing around his skull, do you even care, and it feels unfair, it feels like being accused of something he’s been bleeding over for years. “of course i care!” he snaps back, louder than he means to, louder than the room deserves. “why would you say that?” the words tumble out defensive and wrong, and he knows it even as he’s saying them, this isn’t how you’re supposed to answer a question like that, but it’s all he’s got. his heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears, and he hates that you’re looking at him like this, like he’s some stranger who just wandered into your room and started breaking things.

because you’re not a stranger. you never have been. you’re the kid who sat cross-legged on the floor of his basement while dust motes floated through the air, who laughed too loud at dumb jokes and stole the last slice of pizza without asking. you’re the one who tagged along on bike rides without complaining, who knew all the shortcuts through hawkins. he remembers being eight, maybe nine, sitting shoulder to shoulder with you on the curb while will drew in the dirt with a stick, the three of you so inseparable it never even occurred to him that one day things could be different.

somewhere along the way, that changed. or maybe it didn’t, maybe it just got more complicated, like suddenly there were rules he didn’t know how to follow. he remembers noticing your laugh was different, noticing that he started thinking about what you thought of him, noticing the way his stomach flipped whenever you leaned too close or said his name like it meant something. did you always look at him like that, or is he just realizing it now? did he miss the moment where things stopped being easy? he doesn’t know. he never knows. that’s kind of the problem.

“i’ve always cared. you’ve been my friend forever. you’ve been—” he stops himself, because he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence without stepping off a cliff. he swallows and shakes his head instead, frustration burning behind his eyes. “i don’t just… stop caring. that’s not how it works.” he takes a step toward you without thinking, then freezes, remembering himself too late. you’re by the window, arms still crossed like you’re holding yourself together, and he hates that he might be the reason you’re doing that. he hates that his voice came out angry instead of scared, that his instinct is always to push back when he feels cornered, like some stupid reflex he never trained out of himself. he thinks about all the times you’ve defended him, all the times you’ve stood beside him without question, and it makes his throat ache with guilt.

“you think this is easy for me?” he asks, his voice breaking again despite his best efforts, and now he’s not yelling so much as unraveling. “you think i don’t notice you packing boxes, or talking about california like it’s already done, like i’m not even—like i’m not standing right here?!” he gestures vaguely between the two of you, like the space itself is the problem. the worst part is the thought that keeps circling, the one he hasn’t said out loud because once he does, he’s not sure he can take it back: you’re excited to leave. he swears up and down he’s seen the way you talk about california, the way your voice lifts a little when you mention the weather, the space, the idea of starting over somewhere that doesn’t know about gates and monsters and dead kids. somewhere that doesn’t know about him. he tells himself he’s imagining it, that he’s projecting, but the fear feels too real, too specific to be nothing. “you’re acting like you can’t wait! like this place is just something you’re finally getting away from. like california’s gonna fix everything and you won’t have to deal with any of this anymore.” any of us anymore, he almost adds.

he thinks about you on a beach somewhere, sun in your hair, laughing with people who don’t know what you were like at ten years old, who didn’t watch you fall off your bike and scrape your knees and pretend not to cry. people who don’t know how you look when you’re scared, or quiet, or hurt. people who didn’t fight monsters with you or sit on the floor passing around flashlights when the power went out. the image makes something in his chest twist painfully, like he’s being replaced by a future he’s not invited into.

“you’re gonna be better there. new school, new people. no upside down, no hawkins, no…” no me. he feels stupid for thinking it, stupid for caring this much, but he can’t stop. it’s like his brain has latched onto the idea and refuses to let go.

the words hang in his head even after he doesn’t say them out loud, echoing like they did anyway. no me. he can practically hear it, feel it, this missing piece that’s already been cut out, already gone, and it makes him angry in this simmering way that crawls up his spine and settles behind his eyes, because he doesn’t want to be the person who needs someone this badly. he doesn’t want to be the one standing still while everyone else moves on.

he sees you step closer, hears your voice soften, even without really listening to the words. something about missing him. something about how you’ve been saying it all along. that you’re not excited, not really, that leaving feels wrong and heavy and terrifying. he registers it distantly, like it’s coming from underwater, because his brain is already twisting it into something else. you’ll miss me, sure, but missing isn’t the same as needing. missing fades. missing gets replaced by new things, new people, new routines that don’t include him at all.

that’s the thing that scares him most: the idea that you won’t need him anymore. that whatever space he’s taken up in your life will be filled in by california sunshine and strangers who don’t know the worst parts of you, or him. strangers who don’t know what it feels like to almost die together, to survive something that should’ve ruined you both. strangers who get the newer, lighter version of you.

he feels your hand brush his arm like you’re afraid he’ll pull away, and instead of leaning into it like he wants to, like his body is screaming at him to do, he stiffens. the instinct is automatic and defensive. if he lets you comfort him, that means admitting he’s afraid. admitting that he needs you more than he wants to. and mike wheeler does not do that. not well. not without lashing out first.

so he says something cruel instead. sharp and dismissive and soaked in false indifference. something about how maybe california is better. maybe it’ll be easier for you without all this baggage. maybe hawkins has been holding you back and you’re finally doing something smart by leaving it behind. by leaving him behind, even if he doesn’t say that part.

the second it’s out he knows it’s wrong. he sees it in the way you flinch, the way your shoulders tense like he’s hit you. but there’s this awful, hollow satisfaction that comes with it, because now he’s the one pushing first. now he can pretend it was his choice, that he didn’t care as much as he actually does.

he tells himself it’s fine. he had to say it. if he didn’t push first, then he’d look like the one who cares too much. he’d look weak. better to hurt you a little now than to be left standing there feeling it later.

he catches the way your lips press together, the way your hands curl at your sides, like you’re already preparing to pull away. the thought hits him so harsh it almost makes him stumble over his words: god, i almost kissed you so many times and never did. i could’ve but i chickened out. i was stupid. he sees every near-moment flashing through his head—the backyard one summer evening, the library table with your hands brushing over the same notebook, the one night on the fort couch when he almost leaned in and you laughed nervously instead—and it stings, because he knows he’s about to mess this up, and it’s all his fault.

“you’ll be better off there anyway,” his voice is tight, brittle with all the tension he’s trying to swallow down. “or maybe we’ll both be better off.”

he watches your eyes widen, sees the hurt spike there, and immediately hates himself. he wants to reach out, to grab your shoulders, to explain that none of this is true, that he just—he can’t. not without exposing how badly he’s afraid. so he leans back, like distance will protect him, even though it only makes him feel hollow. he knows he’s hurting you, and he hates that he can’t stop. he hates that he’s this scared, that he’s being a coward hiding behind cruelty.

“wow, thanks for telling me how you really feel.” you snap, and he flinches even though he’s been expecting something, anything, from you.

“i didn’t mean it like that!” he feels his stomach twist, a panic crawling up his chest. “i just—shit, you don’t get it!” his voice cracks on the last word, but he masks it with more force, with more anger than he feels. god, why did he say that? why does he always do this?

you cross your arms, glaring. “you just want to make this easy for yourself. fine. go ahead, say it. say california’s better. say i’m not even worth it.”

he gapes at you for a second, the words stabbing at him even as he wants to defend himself. “i didn’t say that!” his throat tightens. he can’t make it sound right. can’t make it true. and then he stops, because he knows it’s all unraveling, all sliding, and every word sounds weak. weak, like he’s finally admitting he’s scared. scared of losing you, scared that you’re already gone in your head, scared that you’ll remember this fight instead of the summers and the blankets and the tiny moments he almost leaned in but didn’t.

“well, congratulations,” you spit, stepping back, “because you’re doing a great job of making me feel like i should be excited to leave.”

“maybe you should be excited to leave!” he blurts, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you. the words taste wrong in his mouth the second they leave, but he can’t take them back, can’t undo the defensiveness that’s built up into a wall between the two of you. he’s furious and scared and proud all at once, proud that he finally pushed first, scared that he’s burned whatever bridge might have been left, and furious at himself for letting it come to this.

for a second he swears he can see the hurt like a living thing in your eyes. “get out.” you say, and it’s not just a request—it’s a verdict. “right now. leave.”

he hesitates, half-expecting you to beg him to stay, half-expecting the door to slam itself in his face. instead, you just stand there, waiting, and that’s worse. he swallows, heart hammering, and finally jerks himself toward the door. he’s not proud. he’s not even angry anymore. mostly he just feels hollow, a pit of something raw and too big for him to name.

the hallway is quiet, and then he passes jonathan and will, your brothers, sitting on the couch, eyes fixed stubbornly on the floor like if they ignore him he’ll vanish. he can’t look at them, can’t meet their eyes, because that would be admitting that he’s just left a war zone in your bedroom, just told you things he doesn’t even fully mean, just let fear and panic rule him instead of whatever the hell he’s supposed to do when he cares this much.

jonathan shifts slightly, and will’s hands curl into his knees. mike feels a stab of shame. he knows they’ve heard everything, and somehow that makes it worse, makes it feel permanent, like all of hawkins is watching him crumble. he swallows, ears ringing with the echo of your words, and keeps moving, one foot in front of the other, until he’s out the door.

he wants to rewind, to crawl back into your room and take it all back, but he’s mike wheeler. pride doesn’t let him, or maybe it’s fear—fear that if he tries, you’ll slam the door in his face again, or worse, that you’ll let him stay and he’ll crumble in front of you. he doesn’t know which is worse.

days pass. your last week in hawkins. he imagines you in california already, unpacking your things in a sunlit room he can’t see, making new friends, laughing, thriving—without him. it twists his stomach into knots. he’s convinced that every box you’ve packed, every mention of your move, is a countdown to being replaced, that you’re going to forget all the little things about him, the way he always knows when you’re lying about liking something, the stupid nicknames, the board games you argued over for hours. he’s certain you’ll leave, and someone else will take the space he’s always occupied. maybe you already have.

there was one time only, just a couple days after the fight, when mike actually tried. he showed up at the door with a piece of paper clutched in his hand, something tangible to make sense of all the jumble of feelings, a speech he’d probably written down in neat, uneven letters, something he could read without tripping over his own words. jonathan let him in, wary as ever, one eyebrow raised, lingering suspicion in the way he leaned against the doorframe, but he didn’t tell mike to leave. instead, he nodded toward your empty room and muttered something about waiting, how you weren’t home that day. so mike sat there, cross-legged on your bed, staring at your neatly packed boxes, rehearsing every line he had written a dozen times in his head, waiting for you to come home, knowing all along that you might never walk through the door while he was there. hours passed, and you didn’t show. he left without giving it to you.

the day you left hawkins was unbearably bright, like the sunlight had been turned up too high just to make everyone’s tears more visible. your backpack was slung over one shoulder, straps digging into the fabric of your jacket, your hair falling in messy waves that even the back of your neck felt the warmth from. people were everywhere, packing up the last of the moving boxes, saying their goodbyes like it was supposed to make it easier. joyce’s voice cracked while she tried to sound strong, listing off reminders to the others, “don’t forget this, don’t forget that,” each word punctuated by a sob that made the car ride there feel smaller, heavier.

mike was there, of course. he said goodbye to el, hugged will, gave an awkward wave to jonathan. he said nothing to you—he didn’t hug you, didn’t glance at you while everyone else clung to each other. watching as everyone else got their chance to touch you, to remind themselves of what they were losing. he caught fragments of conversation, will saying, “i’ll write, promise i’ll write,” your mom’s voice breaking, “be safe, be careful,” eleven mumbling something that sounded like a wish for luck, and mike’s chest ached. he didn’t want to be seen, because if he looked at you, if he really looked, he would unravel completely, and everyone else would see it too. maybe they already had.

the car door was open. he saw you swing your backpack onto your shoulders, ready to step inside, and he realized he couldn’t bring himself to speak. every instinct screamed at him—say something, say anything—but his throat felt like sandpaper, his mouth a locked cage. so he stayed where he was, arms stiff, eyes downcast, pretending it was indifference, when in reality every step you took toward that car was another knife twisting in his chest. when the engine turned over and the car began to roll away, he felt like he’d missed it, all of it, every chance to be a part of your leaving, and for the first time he allowed himself to hope you might look back and see him, but you didn’t. not once.

he’d lost more than just a friend that day, he’d lost years of history with you, the late-night conversations, the glances when no one else was looking. eleven, will, jonathan—they were all in that car, leaving him behind with his own stubborn pride and the terrible echo of “maybe we’ll both be better off” that he had said.

time passed in a blur after that. mike walked the familiar streets of hawkins with aimlessness sometimes, seeing all the little things that would never feel the same. the library steps where you had leaned over the same notebook, the corner of the arcade where you’d argued about high scores, the trail in the woods where the three of you had wandered for hours and imagined worlds that didn’t exist. every sight, every sound reminded him that you weren’t coming back tomorrow, next week, or ever the same.

meanwhile, in california, it wasn’t perfect. you were homesick and angry. will noticed, of course—he always noticed. even when he tried to be cheerful, trying to set up a game or bring you something small, you could tell he was fighting the same unfamiliar absence that mike had left behind. he tried to be strong, he tried to act like it didn’t hurt, but there were days when his shoulders slumped too heavily, when his smile faltered, when he glanced at the window hoping for a shadowy bike on the horizon that would never come. jonathan did what he could—trying to fill gaps with reminders and presence—but he knew, and you knew, that it wasn’t enough to replace the gaping hole mike had left. he was everywhere in memory and nowhere in reality.

you spent nights staring at boxes, at your walls, at the ceiling, thinking about how easy it would have been to call him, to write, to reach across the miles—but pride and anger, old habits that had hardened in hawkins, kept you from doing it. mike, meanwhile, imagined every possible version of you: laughing with new people, forgetting how your laugh sounded when he made a joke, forgetting the brush of your hands in the library, forgetting the weight of the little arguments that had somehow meant everything. he hated himself for it, hated that he couldn’t reach out first, hated that he had been the one to make it impossible, and yet part of him clung to the idea that maybe, somehow, you’d still think of him—that maybe some tiny piece of the old friendship, of the old love, had survived the distance, had survived him.

months pass. the calendar pages pile up faster than you notice, the sun rising and setting over california in the same indifferent way it did in hawkins, and somehow it makes the distance feel both bigger and smaller. you start school eventually, new hallways and lockers and faces. it’s strange, the way you keep glancing at empty spaces in the classroom like he might somehow be there, like he might just appear, arms crossed, defensive, scowling, and yet, impossibly, familiar. your thoughts wander to him sometimes, more often than you care to admit, and each time it twists you up, madness at how easily he let it slip, how quickly he let himself push you away, how badly he needed to protect himself with cruelty.

he never writes. he never calls. that one time he actually showed up before you even moved, the day jonathan told you he had a piece of paper clutched in his hand like some armor for his feelings—you can’t stop the bitter knot forming in your chest at that memory. jonathan said he let him wait, let him sit there for hours, but you weren’t home, and mike left without giving it to you. just left. you remember the surge of anger you felt when your brother told you that, the ache, the hopelessness of it all. he couldn’t manage his own feelings for more than a single afternoon, and that alone—how reckless, how selfish it felt—stings more than anything.

slowly, day by day, you learn to fill the silence, to distract yourself. classes, homework, awkward cafeteria conversations, the small victories of navigating a new life without him underfoot. you laugh more, you argue with people you barely know, you find new routines that make the air feel less heavy, but none of it fills the space he left, none of it replaces the absence of mike wheeler in your world. even as you start to make a place for yourself, even as you start to think about friends who aren’t ghosts of your past, a part of you holds onto the sting, the fight, the thing that shouldn’t have ended like it did, the way he had to be cruel to hide that he cared too much, the way he made it impossible for either of you to come back.

you still think about him. always. sometimes when you’re folding laundry or brushing your teeth, sometimes when you’re trying to sleep, sometimes when a memory you thought buried resurfaces. you think about how much better he could have been, how he could have reached, how he could have stopped hiding behind a wall of bitterness for five seconds and just said what he really felt. and yeah, you’re angry. furious, even. furious at him for making it so hard to forgive him, furious at yourself for missing him so badly despite everything, and furious at the way the world keeps spinning while the two of you exist in separate halves of it, both pretending the other doesn’t still matter.

but life doesn’t stop. months pass. seasons change. new friendships grow roots. slowly, just slowly, you start to find that distraction doesn’t hurt as much. the hole he left isn’t gone, but it’s filled with new experiences and small victories.

you’re sitting on your bed one day, tugging at the strap of your new backpack, trying to psych yourself up. arcade night. new friends. this is supposed to be normal. fun. easy. but your stomach is tight anyway, because it hasn’t been easy or normal. you’re halfway through a mental pep talk when jonathan pokes his head into your room. “hey,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “how was your day?”

“good,” you say quickly, hoping it sounds casual enough. “um… could you drive me to hang out with some friends later?” you’re already imagining the arcade, the noise, the lights, trying to convince yourself you deserve it.

“yeah, sure,” jonathan says, nodding. he hesitates a beat. “hey… have you seen my old tape recorder? the one i use for work stuff… interviews, you know, the little sony?”

you freeze, stomach doing that same coil it always does when something from hawkins or the past sneaks into the present. tape recorder. of course he means the one you might have borrowed to copy music, or maybe he actually used it for something useful—probably the latter—but your brain immediately goes to your closet. your old backpack. the one you stuffed into the corner the day you moved into your new house, the one you haven’t touched since hawkins, since moving across the country, since pretending that opening it would be okay.

“yeah. i think i might have it. i’ll go check.” you say quickly, trying to sound casual, trying to ignore the way your hands prickle at the thought of digging through that old thing.

“cool,” jonathan says, shrugging. “thanks… uh, i’ll be in the car?”

you nod, getting up to check, and jonathan has already walked away. you stop in front of the closet and stare. the old backpack sits there, cornered against the wall, faded patches of color, the zipper a little stiff. your fingers hover above it. months of avoidance, of pretending it doesn’t exist, have hardened into a kind of dread. you remember shoving it in here, begging your mom to let you get a new one, and the relief of carrying something fresh, something that didn’t smell like hawkins and goodbye and mike.

you unzip the old backpack slowly, because everything about it feels like a trigger. the smell of old paper, of pencil graphite, of memories you thought you could leave behind, washes over you. you dig past notebooks, a couple of half-finished sketches, some loose papers, and finally your fingers brush the recorder. you lift it out, heart thumping in the way it did the day mike left, in the way it did when you realized some things don’t go back in the box even if you try.

for one quiet, traitorous second, you let yourself wonder what he’s doing right now. not in the big, abstract way you usually shut down—no future, no what-ifs, no rehearsed arguments in your head—but this exact moment. is he in his basement? sitting on the edge of his bed? hunched over a board game with the pieces half-put away, like he never bothers to finish setting them up anymore?

and you think his name. mike. you don’t flinch. you don’t correct yourself. you don’t tack on a mental lecture about pride or self-respect or how you’re supposed to be over this by now. you just let it sit there like a bruise you’ve stopped poking.

it hurts. worse, it feels familiar.

you shake it off—because you have to—and tuck the tape recorder under your arm. your fingers fumble with the zipper as you push the backpack back toward the closet shelf, already bracing for the relief of closing the door, of putting hawkins back where it belongs. that’s when you see it.

a sliver of paper, pale and folded, caught in the side pocket. not labeled. not obviously anything. just there.

your stomach drops anyway. immediate, instinctive. the kind of dread that doesn’t need proof or logic. your chest tightens, breath catching halfway in, as if your body recognized it before your brain could catch up. you freeze.

for a second, you consider pretending you didn’t see it. shoving the bag deeper into the closet. closing the door. walking out with the tape recorder and letting this stay buried where it’s been for months. but your hand is already moving. you pinch the edge of the paper between your fingers and pull it free. whatever it is, you know—you know—that once you open it, something you worked very hard to survive is about to come undone.

you sit down hard on the edge of your bed, like your legs gave out before you consciously decided to move. you set the tape recorder down beside you, careful, like it might break if you’re not gentle—or like you might. the paper is thin between your fingers. old. folded once, then again, creased with the kind of care that comes from someone who didn’t want to wrinkle it too badly. you turn it over, then back again, as if the words might reveal themselves through the page if you look long enough. they don’t.

your heart won’t slow down. it thuds against your ribs, each beat whispering the same thing: don’t. don’t. don’t. you smooth the paper against your knee, then crumple it slightly without meaning to. your hands are shaking. that annoys you—still?—and you curl your fingers into your palms, forcing them to still. you take a breath. then another. neither one helps.

because you already know.

you don’t know how you know, exactly. there’s no handwriting visible yet, no name scrawled across the top, no obvious proof. it’s just the weight of it. the way it feels like a trap you set for yourself months ago and somehow forgot. the way your throat burns like you’ve swallowed something sharp. mike never wrote. not a letter, not a note, not even something stupid and half-hearted. that was the rule your brain settled on, the fact you remembered when things got bad. he didn’t try. except—

except he did. once.

jonathan’s voice drifts back to you, from weeks ago in the kitchen, casual in that careful way he uses when he doesn’t want to push. he had a piece of paper, he’d said. waited in your room for hours.

your stomach twists.

you unfold the paper.

the handwriting hits you first. uneven. familiar. mike’s. the letters lean a little too far right, some pressed darker where he must’ve stopped and started again. your chest tightens before you even read a word. you tell yourself not to cry. you fail immediately.

Okay.

I don’t know how to do this. I mean obviously I don’t because if I did I wouldn’t be writing it down like this instead of just talking to you.

your thumb smudges the ink a little. you remember him doing that, pressing too hard, gripping pens like they might run away from him.

I was going to say this out loud. I swear. I even practiced. But every time I thought about seeing you I just kept thinking about how stupid I sounded last time and then I’d start over and then I wouldn’t say anything at all.

there’s a scribble here, where the pen must’ve stalled.

I keep replaying the fight in my head. Like on a loop. And I know I shouldn’t because it just makes me feel worse but I can’t stop. I know I said things I didn’t mean. Or— I don’t know. I guess I meant them in the moment, but not like not the way they came out. I wasn’t trying to say you don’t matter.

I keep thinking you’re excited to leave. I know you told me you weren’t but my brain keeps telling me that once you’re gone you’ll realize how much easier everything is without me. That you’ll be happier, I guess. And I won’t fit anymore.

you squeeze your eyes shut. california sunlight flashes behind your eyelids. new hallways. new lockers. you’d been terrified, not excited. you’d wanted him to see that.

It feels like you’re already gone. Like you’re already halfway to california even when you’re standing right in front of me. I know that’s not fair because you didn’t do anything wrong but I can’t stop thinking about it. About you getting there and liking it better. About you meeting new people and realizing you don’t need me anymore.

I know that sounds selfish but i keep thinking it anyway.

he’s underlined keep so hard the paper is almost torn.

I don’t know why I always think the worst thing first. So I made it your fault. And I’m sorry. I should’ve been braver. About everything. I should’ve told you how many times I almost kissed you. I should’ve said something the night we were on the couch and you laughed like you were nervous and I pretended not to notice. I was scared if i said it out loud and you didn’t feel the same I’d lose you completely. I guess that doesn’t matter now though because I lost you anyway.

If you’re reading this instead of hearing it it means I didn’t say it. Which figures. I actually came over to give this to you but when jonathan opened the door and looked at me like that I started having doubts (i don’t think he likes me very much anymore.)

your mouth twitches despite yourself. jonathan has never liked him very much. mike must know that.

He let me wait in your room though. So that’s something. I sat there for a long time. Long enough to feel really stupid about writing a speech instead of just talking.

I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or write back. Or anything, really.

If you see this before you move i’ll be at castle byers. Most nights. Not in a creepy way. Just in case you want to talk.

If you don’t come i’ll understand. I won’t bother you. I won’t make it harder. I won’t hug you.

I hope california is everything you want.

I hope you miss me.

I guess that’s it. Sorry this is long. Sorry it’s a mess.

— mike

your vision blurs halfway through the last line, the words melting together until you have to blink hard, over and over, like that might stop it. it doesn’t. the tears come anyway, the kind you try to swallow back because you’re not supposed to be crying over this anymore, over him, months later, in a room that isn’t hawkins and doesn’t know any of your history.

you think about castle byers, about the path through the trees, the splintered boards, the stupid name you all took too seriously. you imagine mike there at night, sitting on a fallen log or pacing holes into the dirt, checking the road every time a bike went by. waiting. for you. not knowing you never even had the choice, never even saw the paper folded into your backpack. it makes you angry in this helpless way—angry that he waited instead of knocking again, angry that he didn’t fight harder, angry that he knows how to push and hurt and run but not how to stay.

all this time you thought he hadn’t tried. all this time you told yourself he didn’t care enough to reach out, that if you mattered he would’ve said something, anything. and he did. once. badly. in the only way he knew how. the realization settles sour in your stomach, because it means you both lost for the same reason, standing on opposite sides of a door that never opened.

you wipe at your face with the back of your hand, breath hitching, and stare at the crossed-out line again. i hope you miss me. you do. you always have. you fold the letter carefully, like if you’re gentle enough it might change something, and tuck it back into the backpack you swore you were done with.

for a moment you just sit there. you think about how close you were to never finding it, how easy it would’ve been to leave this bag buried forever, to keep telling yourself a simpler story where he didn’t try, where he didn’t wait, where you didn’t miss each other in the same stubborn, impossible way. it would’ve been easier. it would’ve been wrong.

you imagine him writing this, hunched over, crossing things out, pressing the pen too hard, stopping to think and then writing anyway because stopping never helped him. you picture the way he probably folded the paper, once, twice, checking it like it might disappear, like he might lose his nerve before it ever made it to you. the thought makes your throat tighten again, a fresh wave of grief rolling in for a version of the two of you that almost existed.

you stand and slide the backpack deeper into the closet, not hiding it this time, just putting it away. you don’t know what comes next. you don’t know if this changes anything, or if it only hurts more because now you know how close you were to something you never got to choose.

knowing is worse than guessing. knowing means there’s no one to be mad at anymore except time and timing and the two of you, equally bad at saying the right thing before it mattered.

it feels cruel, realizing this now. cruel that the truth waited patiently in a dark closet while months stacked up between you like miles. cruel that the version of him who waited at castle byers every night doesn’t exist anymore, that the version of you who could’ve gone to meet him vanished the second the car crossed state lines. there’s no fixing it without tearing something open again, and you don’t even know if there’s anyone left on the other end to hear it.

this is what it is, you think. not closure. not peace. just the knowledge of what you missed, and the certainty that it mattered more than either of you knew how to say. you realize some things don’t break when they end, they just stay with you, forever unfinished.

outside, jonathan honks the horn once, reminding you the world keeps moving whether you’re ready or not.

and somewhere, months ago, in a town you don’t live in anymore, mike wheeler stopped waiting.

thank you to my oomf @dviniity for the cropped gif….

STARTED 12.4.2025. POSTED 12.13.2025.

  ⸝⸝  masterlist  .ᐟ  𝜗𝜚

©️ latedeparture

The water was pink with blood. Mike stared at the shower floor through blurry eyes, watching his mother’s blood mix with the grime of the day’s events, both silently running down the drain, melting with the suds of your sweet-smelling body wash. He hadn’t bothered to read the bottle, but it smelled like you. Vanilla, maybe.

He rested his head against the wall of the shower and closed his eyes. Your parent’s house was quiet, save for the sound of water running down his body, just as it had been for the last twenty minutes.

Maybe closing his eyes hadn’t been the best idea.

There, behind his eyes, lay the body of his mother with Nancy by her side, both covered in blood. Karen’s gashes were so deep, Mike could see portions of muscle unveiled by her torn skin. She was heaving, choking on her own blood. He had never been so scared. So helpless. 

The memory shifts to the echo of Nancy’s screams as he ran through the house in search of Holly and his father. Mike found his father in his room, unconscious and bleeding from the abdomen. Even if it weren’t for the current uninhabitability of his home, Mike would never sleep in his room again. He remembers the fear he felt, not at all comparable to the rush of fearful adrenaline upon an incoming attack, no. This fear ran deep. It pulled from the deepest parts of Mike’s soul and consumed his every thought. This fear was debilitating. The fear that his parents were going to die and he was too late.

A quiet knock on the bathroom door pulled him from his memories. A small mercy.

The door creaked open slightly, allowing for some of the room’s dense steam to escape. As he opened his eyes, your voice cut through the silence of the house, “Sorry, I’m not looking- I just found you some clothes. I’ll leave them here.” Hurriedly, you placed your older brother’s sweat set that he’d left before leaving for college on the bathroom counter. You turned on your heels quickly after, eyes downward, avoiding the silhouette of the boy visible through the fogged up shower door.

As you closed the door behind you, Mike mumbled a forgotten “thank you,” and all was quiet again.

Mike knew his time in the steamy bliss of the shower was coming to an end. The water was nowhere near as hot as it was when he first got in and his fingers were pruned. With a sigh, he washed away the rest of the soap and turned off the shower. He stood there for a while, staring at the droplets of water on the door, his body a couple steps behind what his brain was telling him to do. By the time he reached for the towel, his hair had stopped dripping and no longer was he warm from the scalding water.

He worried for his parents, and no amount of reassurance from the doctors at the hospital would make their condition an easier pill to swallow. In part he blamed himself, considering his knowledge of Vecna and the Upside Down preceded this attack tenfold. If only he had said something earlier- convinced them to get out of Hawkins. Maybe then his mother would have functioning vocal cords. Maybe then his sister would still be here. Maybe.

As he ran your towel through his hair, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the foggy mirror. For a second, he almost didn’t recognize himself. His face was hollow and his shoulders were a little wider. He was taller than he’d realized- older. Over the years, he’d spent so much time focused on saving the world, that somewhere between imminent death and science class he’d forgotten that he was no longer a boy.

There would be time to dwell on that later, he supposed. For now, he had to focus on finding Holly. He hung up the towel and dressed himself in the clothes you’d provided him. Your brother was a couple sizes larger than him, but fresh clothes free of his mother’s blood left little to complain about.

He didn’t expect to find you staring at the bathroom door as he stepped out. Awkwardly, he stopped and motioned towards the vacant room, “‘s all yours. Thank you.”

You nodded, getting up from the crisscrossed position on your bed. “I spoke to my parents. They shouldn’t be back until next week, so- um, yeah. Feel free to stay as long as you need. Nance called, too. Your mom’s doing okay. Your dad is still in a coma, though.”

He nodded slowly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“I’m sorry,” you continued. “I wish I could give you better news.” You wrapped your arms around your pajamas as you stood in front of him, a sad sort of frown marring your face.

He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “It’s okay. I’m trying not to dwell on it.” He gave you one last glance before heading towards the backpack thrown carelessly on the floor by your bed.

Rummaging through it, he spoke, “We have to streamline our focus. Nance and I were able to get in the room with Mom. Holly had this imaginary friend- Mr. Whatsit. Her teacher caught her talking to him before she went missing. We think Mr. Whatsit is Henry.” Satisfied, he pulled out his walkie-talkie, extending the antenna.

“Henry? As in Creel?” You leaned up against the bathroom doorway, clearly surprised by what you had just learned. Your memory was a little fuzzy at the moment, and you were quickly trying to understand what Henry Creel could possibly want with Holly. 

Mike nodded, pressing the side of the device. “Dustin, Lucas- it’s Mike. Do you copy?” He waited a beat. Nothing.

“Dustin! Lucas! It’s Mike. Do you copy?” He repeated. Nothing again. “Shit,” he sighed, tossing the walkie atop his bag, “they’re supposed to be up. This important, we have to-”

You pushed yourself off the frame, walking into the bathroom and turning the shower on. “Mike, it’s late. We’ve had one of the worst days of our lives,” you called. “Maybe it’s best if you just rest for a bit? The boys are probably exhausted, too. You can’t think right if you’re tired.”

And tired you were. Your bones ached. There was long scrape on your side, mystery bruises at their beginning stages on your extremities. Henry, however his involvement in Holly’s disappearance, could wait until the morning. You needed a hot shower and some hard drugs. Unfortunately, five hours of sleep would have to suffice.

You pulled on your face in the mirror, trying to bring it back to life, while Mike mumbled angrily from somewhere in your room. “This can’t wait,” he huffed your name, walking towards the bathroom, locking eyes with you in the mirror. “Holly is missing. My parents got hurt, and Vecna is not going to stop there- more people are going to find themselves in the middle of this shit and we have to do something to stop it. Like I told Nancy, I don't want any more regrets. I’m tired of sitting here and doing fucking nothing.”

“You’re not doing nothing, Mike. You’ve done everything you can for today. I agree that this is important, but Vecna, or Henry, or whoever-the-fuck will still be there tomorrow morning, and frankly, I don’t remember the last time we slept for more than thirty minute intervals. We’ll think better if we get some sleep.” Your eyes pleaded with him through the mirror.

He scoffed, running his hands through his hair. “Yeah, because it’s so easy for you to sleep right now and ignore everything. Your parents are away. Your brother is safe. Holly is still out there and we don’t know where the fuck she is. How could you even sleep right now knowing what’s at stake?”

He answered his own question. “Right. It’s so easy for you to detach yourself because you don’t have anything at stake.”

Well that was fucking rude. Anger swelled in your chest at his words. You whipped around to face him, digging your finger into his chest. “Fuck you, Michael Wheeler.”

After everything that you had sacrificed in helping the party, you were taken aback by Mike’s blatant disregard for your loyalty to the cause. Tears of frustration welled in your eyes as you annunciated your words with another harsh poke to his chest. “How dare you? I have been your best friend for seven years and with all the absolute shit I have endured because of you, I cannot believe you even have the fucking nerve. No one is forcing me to be here. Last I checked, Hawkins is my home, too. Will is my friend, Holly is like a sister to me, and I know that my level of pain is nowhere close to yours, but I’ve lost people too, Michael.

“So quit being such an ass. I have everything to lose. My home, my friends, everything. I know you want to find Holly and I know it seems like we’re getting nowhere, but you need to sleep. We’re no good to anyone if we get picked off by a Demo-thing because we’re fucking exhausted! Dustin and Lucas have also been working around the clock on this. Let them fucking sleep.” You shoved him out of the doorway and slammed the bathroom door shut.

You let out a shallow breath as you gripped the front of the counter. Your head hurt. You know he didn’t mean it, but Mike could be so mean sometimes. You also know that his outburst was likely a projection of his own feelings for himself unto you, but his words hurt nonetheless.

Mike let out a sigh from behind the door. He regretted the words the moment they came out of his mouth, but he was nothing if not stubborn, so he let them out anyway. The look on your face while he spoke had left him with this ugly pit of disgust for himself. He didn’t mean it. You were a vital party member, and Mike was a self-deprecating shithead who would have someone else feel the hurt rather than feel it himself.

After a moment of staring at his feet in front of the locked door, he finally spoke. “I’m sorry. I-,” a beat passed, “I didn’t mean that. I know why you’re doing this and that was horrible of me to say.”

You could barely hear him through the door and the running shower, but you chose to say nothing. 

“I’m scared,” he continued. “I’m so fucking scared of losing everyone. And today was the closest we’ve ever come to that. That’s why I can’t stop going. I feel like the longer we sit around with no answers, the closer we get to not being able to find Vecna and kill him. Not before something happens to one of us. I’m sorry.”

Mike was still angry with his idleness, but there was something about hurting you that made him feel infinitely worse than his worst bout of anger had ever made him feel. He didn’t understand this feeling of guilt that had washed over him. All the times he had said hurtful things to Lucas, Will, or Dustin, which were his closest friends, didn’t amount to even a quarter of the shame he felt in this moment. 

After a while of standing by the door with no response, Mike walked over to your bed and sat on the corner, staring at the bathroom door just as you had minutes prior. 

You showered silently. The pounding in your head was getting stronger, and the hot water was doing nothing to alleviate your condition. You felt so stupid. In your life you have been chased, threatened, and moments away from painful, excruciating deaths more times than you could count on one hand, but nothing had ever made you feel like breaking down the way you did now. 

You had always believed that if you and Mike were in it together, nothing could ever be as terrible as one day losing each other. The way you felt for him, as you often dislike to admit to yourself, was blurring the platonic expectations for your relationship. You were beginning to feel things for him, or maybe you had been for a while; and these feelings made his comments hurt like a motherfucker. 

You thought about him often, secretly, in the quiet of your room when it was hard to sleep. You imagined going out to the movies- not as friends. You imagined him holding your hand as you walked around town. You imagined his arm around you when you all hung out with your friends, quietly reminding you of his presence. You imagined what a kiss on your forehead would feel like after a day like today. You imagined sleeping next to him, feeling his arms enclosing around you to keep the nightmares at bay. You thought worse things, too. Thoughts of his lips on yours,  then on your neck. You thought of yourself in his lap, grinding against him while his hands gripped your waist and the underside of your thigh, inching dangerously close to your ass. 

You imagined what he would feel inside you, foreheads touching as he rocked his cock into your aching cunt.

Except, you didn’t really know what that felt like at all. You knew about sex, obviously, but with yearly near death experiences came little time for romantic encounters. You didn’t know what sex actually felt like, but you knew that you wanted it. The raunchy romance novels that you liked to read explained it well enough, and the influx of hormones as you neared your 20’s made you crave it. You craved it with Mike.

So yes, Mike’s grip on your emotions had long surpassed the point of platonic affection, but you were never going to tell him. The dynamic between the party was delicate, as you were sure Eleven felt some way about him, as well. Never would you do anything to jeopardize your friendship. You’d rather have him as a friend than to not have him at all, and scaring him away with your pining was sure to do just that. 

By the time you turned the shower off, you had come to terms with Mike’s outburst, some of your hurt minimized by the feelings, which urged you to forgive him. 

You stepped out, eyeing Mike’s bloody clothes thrown haphazardly on your bathroom floor. You avoided stepping on them as you made your way over to the mirror, wiping away the dew. The shower had helped a little. The shower didn’t remove your internal impurities, such as the dark circles of exhaustion under your eyes, but no longer were you covered in Karen’s blood.

Unwrapping yourself from the towel, you reached in your medicine cabinet for some disinfectant and bandages. The scrape wasn’t deep, but it was long. It stretched from the side of your right hip to the bottom of your right breast. It would make you feel better if you had gotten it while doing something meaningful, but instead you had tripped over the gate in Mike’s kitchen, falling straight into the Upside Down. Your presence seemed to have stalled the gates closure for a brief moment, but long enough to allow Eleven to slip in, chasing the sound of Holly’s cries.

You shook your head at the sting of the alcohol on your side, gingerly dabbing a cotton ball along the length of the scrape. You decided to forgo bandages all together, not wanting to waste them.

It hurt to move. You could feel the cuts stretching as you turned your body. Somehow, you managed to throw on your pajamas without causing yourself too much pain, but you knew you wouldn’t be sleeping on your side for at least a couple days. After popping some ibuprofen, you rubbed the towel through your wet hair, wincing at your moving torso. Satisfied with the reduction in moisture, you threw the towel on the floor and opened the door.

Mike looked up from position on your bed as soon as he heard the door open, the notebook he was looking through long forgotten and tossed to the side. He shifted to face you, hands at his sides, waiting for you to say something. As he stared at you in the doorway, he realized that he rarely got to see you like this. Your hair was wet and slightly messy, a stark contrast from its usual up-kept appearance. The shirt you were wearing was large enough to fall down your shoulder, and drops of water from your hair raced down the exposed collarbone, soaking themselves into the shirt’s collar. Your cheeks were flushed from the heat of the shower, and your eyes bored into his expectantly, full of emotion.

Mike would be a fool to deny that you were beautiful, but usually, you had a wall around yourself. It was rare that he got to see you so carefree and vulnerable. Now, you looked as if you had been rubbed clean, the rawness of your appearance striking him and engraving itself into his memory.

“I’m scared, too, y’know. Really scared,” you whispered from the doorway, pulling him away from his thoughts. “I’m sorry if it seems like I’m not taking this as seriously as I should. It’s just that we’ve been doing this for months. I know we’re closer than ever to ending this, but we’re not super soldiers. We can’t just constantly run on empty and expect not to shut down. I’m exhausted Mike, and I think one night where we don’t have to think about the end of the world would help.”

You sat down next to him, legs dangling off the side of the bed. You placed your hands on the mattress, and turned your neck to look at Mike while you spoke. He was so close now, your shoulders grazing.

He shook his head when you sat down. “You don’t need to apologize. I was an ass. I’m sorry. You’re an amazing asset to the party, and I-we, don’t know where we would be without you.”

You smiled, looking down at your hand next to his, noticing how his pinky had made its way between your pinky and ring fingers. “Thank you. And you’re an amazing leader, Mike. I feel like we don’t tell you that enough. But even the strongest leaders know when to rest.” You didn’t know if it was the exhaustion or the warmth of his body, or maybe both, but you gently laid your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes and savoring the moment.

Mike turned his head to look at you, eyes closed and blissful. You looked beautiful, he thought once more. Maybe he thinks it often. He hummed in agreement, slouching to allow your head a more comfortable place to rest. He could feel his heart speed up, not used to having a girl so close. He silently vowed not to move until you did. You could lay upon his shoulder as long as you’d like. He would savor this, too.

You both stayed like that for what felt like forever, when in reality it was only a couple of minutes. In your sleepy state, time was simultaneously blending together and pulling apart. Slowly, you lifted your head from his shoulders, realizing then that his head was lying on top of yours, too.

“I think I’m gonna head to bed,” you let out a small yawn. “Carson should have extra blankets in his room. Let me know if you want me to bring you anything else.” You gave him a sleepy smile, expecting him to sleep in your brother’s room.

Mike got up from your bed, running his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, okay. Um- yeah, I’ll sleep there.”

He sounded off. You cocked your head to the side, curious as to his hesitation to sleep in the other room.

“Well,” he started, voice wavering. “You know what, forget it. It’s okay. Goodnight,” he said, mumbling your name.

Oh.

Oh.

He didn’t want to sleep alone.

Understanding rushed through your face, “Oh God, no please, sleep here! I’m so sorry Mike, that was so stupid. I didn’t reali-”

“No! No, it’s okay. It’s just been a long day, I just- I don’t know. After what happen- don’t worry. I’ll see you in the morning.” He turned to leave.

You silently chastised yourself. Hours earlier, Mike had bore witness to the brutal assault on his parents. He found his father bleeding out in his own room. You wouldn’t want to sleep alone either.

You bounced up from the bed, wincing at your side, and grabbed his hand before he could leave. Mike turned around, quickly glancing down at your intertwined fingers and then back up to you.

“No Mike, I’m serious. Sleep here. There’s plenty of room.” You urged, pulling him back towards the bed.

Either he had no fight left to give, or he realized that he really was too unnerved to sleep alone tonight. He nodded and allowed you to pull him with you.

You began to make room on the bed, throwing your decorative pillows and stuffed animals onto the floor. Mike stood and watched as you reached for a black stuffed cat at the opposite end of your bed, but mid-reach you stopped, dropping your hand down to brace yourself on the mattress.

“Ow, shit.” You grumbled. You weren’t used to having to control your movements, and your reach had pulled on the scrape, causing it to light up in blinding pain.

“What happened? Are you okay?” Mike rounded the corner to meet you on your side of the bed. He looked you over, searching for the source of the pain.

You nodded, slowly and stiffly flipping yourself over to face him. “Yeah, I just got this scrape on my side. It hurts like a bitch when I move it sometimes.” You let out an awkward laugh.

“Let me see it, maybe it opened.” He demanded.

You shook your head, “No, don’t worry. It’s okay. It’s just a scrape. It’s not deep or anything. It’ll be better in a couple days.”

Mike stared at you with firmness. “Let me see it,” he pressed. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

Rolling your eyes with a sigh, you pulled up the side of your shirt to show him the scrape. You stopped midway, realizing that you never put on bottoms over your black panties.

Play it cool, you thought. You pulled the shirt up the rest of the way, showing Mike the remainder of the injury. Luckily, he didn’t notice your lack of inferior modesty, because as soon as he looked at the scrape his eyes shot open in alarm.

“What the fuck? That is not a scrape,” he rushed towards your bathroom, bringing back the bandages and wound supplies you had left there from your shower.

“I’m fine, Mike, really!” You reasoned. He gave you a look of exasperation, signaling you to hold your shirt higher.

He began to unwrap a long, cloth bandage, placing it next to the disinfectant. “You’re actively bleeding and I can see into the hole. Now shut up and let me do this.”

It was entirely possible that you had downplayed the extent of your injury to yourself. In actuality, it was much more than a scrape. There was a wound in the center, about a couple centimeters deep, where a branch had managed to wiggle its way into the soft flesh of your side. The rest of it was very much scrape-like, but that stupid hole was causing you serious amounts of pain.

Mike kneeled down by the side of your bed, now eye-level with your injury. He had, in-fact, noticed that you were not wearing any pants, and he hoped you couldn’t gather as much by the way his hands shook while pouring some rubbing alcohol onto a gauze.

You obviously didn’t do a good job of anything when it came to proper wound care, as the rubbing alcohol burned much stronger than it had a little bit ago. You clearly hadn’t cleaned it correctly. You hissed as Mike continued to dab it. “Sorry, I’m almost done.” He looked up at you through his long eyelashes.

You nodded, blinking back sharp tears of pain that prickled in your eyes. “Almost done.” He mumbled again. His free hand was on your waist, moving his thumb in soothing circles while he worked.

When he finished the sterile assault on your injury, he tossed the dirty gauze in a pile of other used up pieces. There had been a lot more blood than you’d realized.

Delicately, Mike placed the cloth bandage over the worst of the wound, securing it in place with medical tape. It tickled when he touched you, but his cool fingers felt nice against your inflamed skin.

You watched him work, noting how his brows scrunched together with focus. He was so pretty. He had grown-up well, filling in all the awkward spots from his youth. His hair was fluffy and framed his face nicely. His cheekbones had hollowed out, reinforcing the masculine structure of his face. But his hands, oh his hands. His fingers were long, deliciously so, but yet his hands were nimble. You’d watch him over the years, painting tiny figurines for various D&D campaigns. His hands were so careful, and with that same care he worked on you, delicately ensuring the gauze was stuck properly to the most important parts.

“There,” he mused. “Done. You’ll be more careful, yeah?” He chided lightly. You nodded, offering him a quiet ‘thank you’ as he rose to his feet. You let your shirt fall back down, covering yourself under his watchful eye.

The gauze felt nice over the wound. You gave your torso an experimental twist and- ouch, still hurt. Mike was thorough, but he wasn’t a miracle worker. It would take a couple days before it was healed to the point of painlessness.

“Try not to move so much.” He said softly.

You breathed a laugh out of your nose. “Funny. I’ll just ask the monsters very nicely to stop chasing us. That should hold them off.” You looked up at him with a small smile.

“Any other injuries for Dr. Mike?” He joked. Your laugh was music to his ears.

You continued the bit, “Well, Dr. Mike, I have a brutal stab wound right here. Do you think you could make it better?” You pointed to the small cut on your cheek, no bigger than a scratch. An actual scratch.

To your surprise, he leaned forward to get a better look, his face just mere inches from yours.

“Oh wow, that’s killer. My diagnosis says,” he waited a moment, locking his eyes with you before whispering dramatically, “terminal.”

You faked a gasp, a small giggle leaving your throat shortly after. He smiled, but didn’t say anything, his face still so, so close.

The joke dissolved as quickly as it had started, replaced by a palpable tension in the air. It all happened so fast. Mike didn’t move. You didn’t move. You both stayed there, faces almost touching, waiting for something to happen. His eyes left yours so briefly that you would’ve doubted yourself if you hadn’t been paying such diligent attention. He had looked at your lips.

You had never been this close to him, or to anyone for that matter, but it made butterflies swarm in your stomach. Your heart pounded expectantly. Mike was stuck, unable to pull himself away from your gaze. His back hurt from leaning forward, but he had never been so transfixed.

The room was hotter, the tension impossibly thicker. Somehow, your legs had ended up between his, his long body caging you in. Both brains were buzzing, unsure and apprehensive. Finally, your whisper broke through the heavy silence.

“What are we doing, Mike?”

He started back at you, matching your whisper. “Anything we want.” You both were still staring, still waiting.

“And what is it we want?” Another whisper from you.

Mike was unsure as to where his confidence was stemming from. Mentally, he felt like a calf learning to walk. He had no idea what to do, or where to touch, or what to say. He had no idea how to move forward. But his actions were a different story. He didn’t think about what he was saying, he just said what felt right. For now, it seemed like he was saying the right things.

He brought his hand up to cradle your face, hesitantly. Your eyes widened just a touch. “Is this okay? Is this what you want?” He asked. You nodded slowly into his palm. 

And then he kissed you. Mike Wheeler actually kissed you. Your brain was swirling. You had no idea how you had even gotten here, but now Mike Wheeler was kissing you, and you had to manually tell yourself to start kissing him back. 

At first he had lightly placed his lips on yours, testing. That was fine, you could do that. Calm. Easy. However, nothing could have prepared you for when his lips started moving. You were reeling, unsure of how to even approach a kiss with any sort of sexual appeal. You panicked, pulling back. 

“I’m sorry- God, this is so embarrassing. I’ve just never had-I’ve never been,” your panic made you animated, talking quickly with shaky hands. “I’ve never done this before.” 

Mike had taken a step back, initially shocked by the perceived rejection. “If it makes you feel better, I haven’t either. I’m not necessarily a chick magnet.” He scratched the back of his head. 

Shocked at the revelation, all you could say was “oh.”

“How about we forget this ever happened and go to sleep, yeah? I’ll go to Carson’s room.” He turned to walk out of your room for the second time that night. 

“No, wait! I want to, it’s just,” you sighed. “I don’t want to mess anything up, okay? Like, I don’t  even know how to kiss correctly, let alone any of the other stuff.” You let out a dry laugh, wrapping your arms around yourself. It was true, you really did want to. Kissing Mike was a dream come true, but you didn’t know the first thing about any of it. By the grace of all that was evil, you seemed to have forgotten everything you’d learned from those damn romance novels the moment his lips touched yours. 

Mike’s heart skipped a beat about the possibility of continuing to kiss you. “We can take it slow. We’ll learn together, yeah?” 

Mike had never given you even the slightest inclination that this was something that could even be possible between the two of you. You were caught off guard by Mike’s desire to kiss you, searching within yourself the best way for move forward.

Ultimately, you conceded. “Okay, yeah,” you nodded, making some space for him on the bed.

When he was fully sat in front of you, knees touching yours, Mike stopped, hand caressing your face similarly to before. To your disappointment, he didn’t kiss you again.

“Hi.” you giggled, trying to fill the silence.

“Hi.” he repeated. Mike was stuck at a crossroads. Could it really be that you felt the same? He didn’t know exactly what would come of this and how you would play a part in his life once this was over. You were his best friend and you would always be, but he didn’t know if there was space for anything more when your lives revolved around saving the world, the risk of danger lurking in every corner. He did know, however, that he felt strongly for you.

He was thinking too much.

“I’m gonna kiss you again, okay?” He whispered.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed as he moved his head closer, his warm lips breathing life into you once more.

At first no one moved, allowing your lips to accustom to the sensation of one another. Slyly, your tongue dipped out, lining his bottom lip and inviting yourself in- tempting him. He accepted the intrusion with eagerness.

Your mouths began to move slowly, softly exploring one another. There was still a lingering hesitation around your actions as you both tried to not overpower the other. It was nice. Slow and expirimental.

But soon you became restless. Poor Mike had one hand on your face and one on his own thigh, nervous to make any unreciprocated movements. With a surge of confidence, you grabbed his hand and placed it on your good side, your hands then rooting themselves on the back of his head.

You voiced your need through actions, kissing Mike with a touch more force. Your tongue played with his, occasionally sucking the tip into your mouth during a slow roll of your lips. His lips molded with yours perfectly, the tempo becoming increasingly feverish as you grew more comfortable with each other.

Your hands tangled in his hair, giving it an experimental tug- oh my God. He'd let out the most beautiful noise into your mouth, almost like a broken whimper, the sound going straight to your core. Mike deepened the kiss, moving his hand to the back of your head, gripping at your hairs, as well.

Mike was fervent. He needed you closer. He pulled at you by the waist, moving your body forward. As gracefully as you could without breaking the heated kiss, you uncrossed your legs and moved yourself onto his lap.

Oh, he was warm. His left hand migrated to rest on the curve of your thigh and ass, gently kneading the flesh below the start of your injury. His right hand splayed on the center of your back, holding you in place as you inadvertently rocked yourself against him.

You drank up his groans like water. His length was impossibly hard under you, hitting your clit deliciously with every roll of your hips.

"'S that good?" You broke the kiss briefly, worried that you may be putting too much pressure on his lower extremities.

He nodded vigorously. "Yeah, s'good, don't stop."

Ignited by his newfound praise, you kissed him again, frenzied. In the wildness, your teeth clunked together lightly, his hands gripping you harder. If he had any complaints, he didn't voice them.

Your hips were moving at a maddening pace atop him, chasing that building feeling in your core. Mike began to guide your hips, pushing and pulling you against him until the both of you fell into a broken rhythm. His grip tightened, catching on your scrape. The pain surfaced just as your clit rubbed on the head of his clothed cock, causing you to drop your head down onto his shoulder and grit a moan through your teeth.

Mike had never been so turned on. His hips shot up to meet yours, turning his head to look at you buried in his shoulder, letting out tight little breaths of pleasure. He held his breath as your hand trailed from the back of his neck, slowly making its way down, down, down to the waistband of your brother's sweatpants.

You lifted your head from his shoulder, looking at him. "Can I touch you?" you murmured, fingers toying with the strings at the front of his pants.

Mike looked at you as if you had hung the moon. His best friend, his beautiful, smart, brave, perfect best friend, was asking to touch his cock in the most selfish way. He would never expect you to, nor did he think it would get to this, but no- you wanted to. You looked at him through pretty lashes, damp hair framing your face as you coyly asked to touch him. He felt himself throb at the thought. Jesus, he was such a virgin.

"Sure, y-yeah, go ahead." He choked out, watching your hand leave the waistband of his pants to fully palm his clothed cock. He was hard under your hand, not very thick, but long. You ran your fingers over the light wet spot at his tip, causing Mike to hiss out a breathy, "fuck."

He watched you through a cloud of desire. You were taking your time with him, feeling his length through the pants, giving an experimental squeeze here and there, smiling lightly when you felt him twitch under you.

You honestly didn't know what you were doing. You did know, however, that you wanted to take your time feeling him, learning him, discovering what he liked. You gripped him through his pants again, mouth watering at the way his eyes closed and his breath hitched.

He had started to squirm again, hips rolling up to put more pressure between your hand and his cock. His needfulness had you deciding against anymore significant teasing, so you worked your fingers back up to his waistband, dipping your pointer finger inside to run against the seam.

"Can you take them off?" you asked, pulling your finger away, the band snapping back against his waist.

Mike could not believe what he was hearing.

"Only if that's okay," you added quickly after noticing his hesitation.

Instead of the rejection you assumed was forthcoming, he grabbed your face and kissed you softly, pushing your body off his. Once he had room, he stood by the edge of your bed, pulling his pants down to the floor.

As soon as they dropped, it's like you couldn't look at anything else. Mike's cock sprang free, all red and leaking. You were transfixed, mouth watering. It was so pretty, you thought, as you confirmed your prior theories. It was long and slender, and so perfectly Mike. You licked your lips, looking away to meet Mike's eyes.

"It's pretty," you said softly, waiting for him to sit down again.

Mike's faced flushed with pink, letting out a small laugh. "I've never thought to describe my dick as pretty, but I'm glad you think that." He bounced back on the bed, his light demeanor clearing some of the stuffiness from the room.

While he situated himself, you stood up, placing yourself at the side of the bed where he'd stood just moments before.

"Where are you go-" he started. Before he could finish, you pulled at his arm, guiding him to sit in front of you with his legs off the bed. Once he was where you wanted him, you dropped to your knees, hitting the fuzzy carpet on the floor.

"Hey, no it's okay. You don't have to- um," His eyes widened when he realized what you were plotting.

You gave him a small pout, lightly running your nails over his pale thighs. "Mike, I want to. If you don't we can stop now, but I promise I'm okay."

He felt stupid for folding so quickly, but when a pretty girl shows him she wants to suck his cock, he's not usually going to turn her down. He balled his hands at his sides, nodding to you.

You hummed with delight and inched your hands towards his cock. It was soft, almost velvet like. You took it in your hands, repeating the same experimental squeezes and touches from before.

It dawned on you then. You still had no fucking clue what you were doing. Gazing up at Mike from your position, you noticed him leaning back on his hands, patiently awaiting your next movements.

"Um," you started sheepishly. "I don’t- um, I don't really know what I'm doing at this point. Could you, maybe, guide me?"

Mike ran a hand through his hair. "Well your guess is as good as mine, seeing as I've never sucked dick before," he joked. You gave him a stern look and lightly slapped his thigh.

"No, dipshit, obviously not." You deadpanned. "I more so meant like, y’know, when you touch yourself. What feels good so maybe I can mimic it, I don't know. You do do that, right?"

You gave him an upward stroke, cock still painfully hard as you asked him about his masturbation habits. Why was that so hot to him? You, wanting to know what he did to himself late at night in the quiet of the dark.

"Y-yeah, yeah I do. To be fair, I'm already, like, forty percent there from before, so it really won't take much." He said, referencing your previous grinding. He needed to shut the fuck up. He talks too much when he's nervous.

You waited patiently for him to continue, sitting on your heels, one hand politely in your lap.

He cleared his throat and continued. "The tip is the most sensitive part, so don't squeeze it too tight. No teeth. Oh, and it has to be wet. One time I almost gave myself a fucking rug burn- uh, anyway, the wetter the better." He paused for a minute to think, ignoring his own stupid rambles. "Try to keep a consistent rhythm, and you can squeeze it tighter than you think you can."

You nodded, understanding. Bringing your face closer to his length, you let a glob of spit dribble from your mouth onto his tip. Using your left hand to spread it out, you began moving up and down in slow, firm strokes.

Mike threw his head back and choked out a moan. “Holy fucking sh-shit. Steve was right, it feels way better when you’re not the one doing it.”

You let out a giggle at his sudden wantonness.

Your tongue reached out to leave a tentative lick on his tip, and Mike swore he could’ve died right there and gone to heaven.

You relished in the salty taste, pairing your first lick with a long one from his base to his tip. Humming in approval, you took his tip into your warm mouth, swirling your tongue around it. Scared to take too much in at once, your hand pumped what was exposed.

Mike’s moans were music to your ears. You’d never realized how badly you needed to be praised, and his reaction fueled your enthusiasm. Lifting your head, you let another dollop of spit fall on his tip, but this time you dragged your lips up and down, spreading it with your mouth.

“Is it good like that?” You asked, looking up at him again.

“Fuck, yes. Oh,” he groaned. “You can go a bit faster, if y’want.” Mike sounded so broken, like he was lost in a world high above the clouds. You would be lying if it didn’t make you impossibly wet to have him crumbling under you like that.

Your thighs clenched as you sped your hand up, mentally preparing to take more of him. Your cunt throbbed, searching for relief wherever it could. Your mouth found his tip again, suckling sweetly. Slowly, your head starting bobbing, taking more of him into your mouth at every descend.

Once you were satisfied with the rhythm, making sure that your mouth was open wide enough to engulf most of him, you quickened your pace, stroking whatever you couldn't fit with your hand.

Mike's hands immediately tangled into your hair, a whimpered series of so good's falling from his perfect lips. He was hitting the back of your throat at this point, and you were trying to keep your gag reflex at bay for just a couple more seconds.

It happened accidentally, really. You had stopped bobbing your head at the base of his cock, feeling it nestled softly in the back of your throat. So much spit had trickled out of your mouth that you'd decided to try and swallow some of it back down. With Mike's cock down your throat.

Mike had never felt anything so amazing. The sensation traveled all the way down to the tip of his toes. Unknowingly, you had hit the golden buzzer. Your throat constricted around him like a vice, squeezing him dry. Pathetically, you'd barely had your mouth on him for five minutes and Mike was already seconds away from the most earth-shattering orgasm the Sweet Lord had ever graced upon him.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-" Mike's hands yanked you off of him roughly by your hair, breathing rapidly.

Your eyes widened in fear. "I am so sorry, did that hurt? Mike, I had no idea."

If Mike hadn't actively been trying to fight off the World's Most Premature Orgasm, he would focus on how downright fuckable you looked right now. Your lips were puffy and wet with spit, and your eyes were glossy with unshed tears from taking his cock so far down your throat. If he didn't die from embarrassment, he fully believed you would kill him.

"No, fuck sorry, it's just, it was getting too- holy fuck- and I didn't want to come too soon." He panted out, laying down on the mattress.

You slowly got up from the floor, sitting back on the bed, careful not to look as his reddening tip for fear of not being able to control yourself.

Why would he not want to come? Was that not the whole point of this? Back in senior year Sex Ed. you'd remembered Mr. Clarke mentioning something about men having a longer refractory period than women. Well, that wouldn't be an issue unless Mike wanted to have sex- oh.

Mike wanted to have sex.

You looked at him laying with his eyes closed on your bed, breath finally evening out, but still painfully hard.

"Mike," you called for him.

"Hmm," he mumbled in response. His brain was not functioning at the moment.

"Do you want to have sex with me?" You asked him nonchalantly. Desperately, you hoped he said yes. Sucking Mike off had been the hottest experience of your life. You could feel your wetness seeping through your panties and onto your thighs, coating the skin in your juices. If you didn't get fucked in the very foreseeable future, problems would be had.

"Yeah, totally." He mumbled lazily, not fully registering what he was saying. As soon as the words came out, his eyes shot open and his face turned to look at you, awaiting your reaction.

You nodded and got up from the bed, telling Mike to wait where he was. You had an idea.

Your sock-covered feet padded against the wooden floors of your house and across the hallway to your brother's room. "C'mon Carson, I know you have some," you mumbled to yourself, rummaging through his nightstand. Nothing. Shit.

You took yourself to his bathroom, checking the medicine cabinet and under the sink. Your prize was nowhere to be found.

Thinking of the last spot your gold could be, you dropped down to the floor and looked under his bed. Bingo. He had left behind a shoebox. The Forbidden Shoebox.

Reaching for it with an outstretched hand, you pulled the dusty shoebox from under his bed, awaiting to scavenge the treasures inside. Shoving aside cigarettes, a Playboy, and other various paraphernalia, you found what you were looking for- your holy grail in a tiny silver packet.

Jumping to your feet, you kicked the shoebox back under your brother's bed, heading back to your room with a self satisfied-smirk.

Mike was still laying on your bed, arms behind his head. His cock had softened a touch, but not by much, just enough to stop the intense throbbing he had felt after edging himself.

You threw the condom at him, hitting him square in the chest. Before he could react, you made your way onto the bed and swung your leg to sit once more in his lap, careful not to put all your weight completely on his erection.

Mike sat up, confused, grabbing the condom off his chest.

"You said we could do whatever we wanted, right? Well," You whispered, toying with the hem of his sweatshirt. "This is what I want."

The one thing you could not get out of your head was how casual this felt. Sure, you were nervous, even anxious at a point, but not because it was Mike you were doing this with. He'd never given you any reason to feel insecure, and you didn't feel a pressure to perform the way you thought your first time would require. But that was him. He made you feel comfortable, so care free. You were both figuring it out together, what you liked, what you didn't, and that's what made it all feel less daunting.

Mike looked at you with dark eyes, his cock twitching slightly at your words. He looked down to examine the condom in his hands, nodding. "Yeah, okay. Let's do it."

You kissed him, letting out a small hum of excitement. Your hands returned to the back of his neck as he deepened the kiss, his hands lightly playing with the waistband of your panties.

As he sucked your bottom lip between his teeth, you gently grabbed his right hand from its position on your waistband and brought it to cup your pussy. Mike nearly choked, feeling the wetness seeping through the fabric to cover his fingers. Now it was his turn to figure you out.

"Off." He mumbled into your lips, swiping his fingers up your clothed slit.

You slid off his lap, kicking your panties off your legs to land somewhere on the floor. Mike removed his sweatshirt and situated himself behind you, cold hands finding your waist as you removed your shirt.

"I want to make you feel good, too." He spoke into your hair, hands inching dangerously close to your bare pussy, rubbing the inside of your thighs. "Tell me how."

You sighed, leaning back against his chest. His hands felt so nice, but you couldn't stop staring at his fingers brushing your lips, not touching where you needed him most.

His hands traveled upwards towards your breasts, stopping just under the curve, hesitating, waiting for you to give him your approval.

"You can touch them," you whispered, tilting your head to look up at him. He had his bottom lip between his teeth, gaze transfixed on your pillowy breasts and pebbled nipples. Slowly, painfully so, Mike moved his hands up the rest of the way, encapsulating your tender breasts with his palms.

His kneads were soft at first, but once small, quiet mewls of pleasure began to leave your mouth, he gathered the courage to squeeze just a touch harder.

"So fucking hot." He spoke, more to himself than anything. Mike was in love with your tits, taking his time to play with them, lightly pinching your nipples as your eyes scrunched in pleasure.

Your poor neglected cunt ached. Once more you tried to squeeze your thighs together, briefly trapping some sort of pleasure between your legs. Mike was in his own world, kneading and groping your tits, his hard cock digging into the small of your back.

"Mike, please." You had enough of his teasing, your voice coming out as a half whine.

His hands stilled. "What's wrong? What do you need?" He spoke in your ear, making you shiver.

"Touch me." Another whine. You sounded bratty, but you were too far gone to care.

"I am touching you." He countered, resuming his assault on your breasts. Smartass.

Your head shook against his chest, your fingers digging into his arms, urging him down to your wet heat.

Truthfully, Mike was stalling. He didn't want to rush this. He may have almost come in five minutes but that didn't mean you had to. The sounds you made were addicting, and it made his brain fuzzy thinking about how you got like this for him.

"There?" He asked as his fingers finally touched your pussy. You spread your legs out, allowing him open access to your heat.

Your breath hitched as his middle finger grazed your clit, involuntarily thrusting your hips up, chasing the ounce of pleasure he'd gifted you. You nodded your head vigorously. "Yeah, r-right there. I usually, um, rub in circles, sort of near the to- ngh."

It seemed he was a quick learner. Mike began to softly rub your clit before you'd even finished talking, pulling a groan from your lips mid-sentence.

You were strung so tight you could've cried when he finally touched you. Mike's left hand continued to tweak at your nipple while his right rubbed slow, tight circles on your clit. He looked so fucking good. His hand flexed while he worked, highlighting the veins on the back of his hand. You felt yourself clench at nothing, pleasure rocking through you.

Your nails dug into his arm, your chest heaving at the building pleasure. In a stroke of genius, Mike reached down to your weeping hole, collecting some of your arousal and smearing it back up on your clit.

"How's that? You're so wet, shit." He asked. Your face filled with heat at his comment, his fingers sliding deliciously over your swollen nub.

"So, so good Mike, please don't fucking stop." He drinking up everything you had to offer. He'd come to the conclusion that he could stay between your legs forever, if you'd let him. He imagined plunging his cock into your warm, wet cunt, you squeezing around him as you buried your head in his shoulder. Fuck, he was getting close just thinking about it.

He kept rubbing you until you started to get restless. Your hips shot up on their own accord, your legs shaking from their outstretched position between his own.

"You can- oh fuck," it was getting hard to think. The pleasure was building up in your core, but you needed more to push you over the edge.

"You can put t-them in-inside." You instructed him, desperate for something to fill you up.

"You sure?" He stilled. "That won't hurt you or anything, right?"

You shook your head. "N-no, I've done it a couple times. Just start with one, I guess. It's been a while."

You chewed on your bottom lip expectantly as his hand traveled south, his pointer finger tapping at your tight entrance. You were so wet that there was practically no resistance, Mike's finger entering you like it had meant to be there the whole time.

"You want me to fuck you with it?" You knew he was asking purely because he didn't know what to do, but his words shot straight to your core, making you clench tightly around his finger.

"Mhm, you can curl it too, ifyouwant." Your sentence ended in a high-pitched rush.

Mike started to pump his finger in and out, curling against your g-spot with every stroke. Soft moans left your lips as he fingered you, your hips rolling in time with his pumps.

His palm rested on your enlarged clit, rubbing together with every roll of your hips. The pleasure was building, finally finding exactly what you needed to pull you over the edge.

"You look so pretty right now," Mike's free hand went back to your breast, playing lightly with your sore nipples. "Could do this all day."

Your brain was fried. His words fueled your delirium, your curses coming louder and quicker. Without warning, he slipped in a second finger, curling it alongside the first.

His fingers sped up, palm rubbing harshly against your nub. You could hear the lewd sounds of your wetness as he fucked you with his fingers, your nails digging into his arms and your head moving uncontrollably from side to side.

It was so good, too good. Better than you'd ever made yourself feel.

"Fuck, Mikey, pleasepleaseplease," you were blabbering at this point, words coming out with no meaning.

The feeling in your core was pulling tight, teetering on the edge of snapping. There was so much going on, so much to feel. You titled your hips up allowing Mike to hit that spongey spot inside you repeatedly, and-

You were coming.

It was fucking devastating. The pleasure slammed over you like a wave, clearing your mind of anything and everything. Your back arched, vision fuzzy as you peaked.

Mike's fingers wouldn't stop, extending your orgasm to the point where you thought the fall would never come. You stayed there, waiting for the crash, clenching your hands into the comforter and poor Mike's arm.

You'd lost control of your body. You heard yourself let out a groaned 'fuck' from somewhere down on Earth. It rolled through you so powerfully, that you didn't know where your orgasm started or finished. Just when you though your abused cunt would catch a break, it dropped.

The back-end of your orgasm hit you harder than the first. It desecrated through you like molten lava, burning your skin and scorching your mind. Your legs snapped together, aiming to provide you relief from the assault. Unfortunately for you, that caused Mike's hand to remain trapped between your legs, working you through the after-shocks.

You had been about thirty seconds into the come-down before you realized Mike had been speaking to you.

“C’mon, there you go.” He spoke softly into the top of your head, fingers rolling to a stop.

Your breathing was erratic as you tried to gain recollection of where you were and what was going on around you.

You were halfway down Mike’s chest at this point, looking up at him easily with just a slight tilt of your head. Slowly he slipped out of you, your legs jerking at the sensation.

“Oh God,” you exhaled, covering your face with your hands.

"How'd I do?" he asked, obviously knowing the answer.

You decided to bite, anyway. "Really good," you sighed dreamily. "Just gimme a second and then we can, y'know," you picked the condom up and threw it at him again.

Observing you in your fucked out state, Mike had almost forgotten that there was more to this for the both of you.

He leaned back on the pillows at the head of your bed, hands crossed at his chest.

"You look hot when you come, by the way," he spoke into the air. You rolled around to face him, careful to not put too much pressure on your injury.

"Michael Wheeler, are you trying to talk dirty to me?" You laughed, looking at him.

He threw the condom back at you, "I've been talking like this for a while, it's not my fault you weren't coherent enough to pay attention."

You faked a gasp, "you're an ass."

"C'mere." He smirked, motioning you over with a twist of his head. Heeding his request, you crawled over to him on all fours, planting yourself in his lap once more.

He uncrossed his harms, bringing them to your hips. Gently, he pulled you closer, kissing you softly.

You took this chance to take him in your hand again, giving him a few pumps to warm him back up. He groaned into the kiss, happy to have your attention back on his cock.

"Put it on," you whispered into his mouth, squeezing the tip slightly.

Mike didn't need to be told twice. He pulled away from you and grabbed the condom off your bed, ripping the packet open with his teeth.

"So, uh, how does this even go on?" He asked, holding it up with two fingers.

"My guess is through the big hole at the bottom." You said sarcastically, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Okay, I gathered that, thanks." He brushed you off, attempting to roll the condom over himself. It took him a couple tries, but soon the condom was on snug over his angry, red cock.

You spit in your hand, giving it a little extra lubrication.

"Woah, that feels weird," Mike looked down at your hand over his condom-covered erection, perplexed.

"Like bad weird or good weird?" You asked curiously, still stroking him.

"Good weird, I think." He concluded.

Taking that as an invitation to continue, you got up on your knees, lining yourself up with him. You took in a shallow breath, preparing for the rather large intrusion, and slowly began to sink down onto him.

You scrunched your eyes in discomfort as he entered you, burying your head into the crook of shoulder with a quiet groan.

"Hey, oh fuck, you okay?" Mike asked through a pained breath.

"Ngh, hmmyeah, just really, ugh- tight?" You couldn't focus. It didn't hurt. Mike had made sure of that when he finger fucked you to oblivion, stretching you out. You were just so not used to being stretched out like this.

"Look at me, hey," he placed his hand on the back of your head, urging you to turn.

You stilled, getting used to the stretch. Lifting your head from his shoulder, you looked at him through half-lidded eyes. "Fuck," you whispered. "How much more?" You asked, not wanting to look.

"Just a little bit, shi-you're okay. Jus' keep your eyes on me, if it helps." He smoothed your hair down, touching your forehead with his.

"O-okay," you nodded. You felt comfortable enough to start moving again, keeping your eyes locked with Mike's as you continued.

You felt so full. The stretch was never-ending as you slowly worked him in, wondering if he had grown in length since when you'd started. "Mike," you mewled, a small pout on your face.

"Almost there, fuck you're tight." He wouldn't let you look away from him. His eyes bored into yours, one hand still cradling the back of your head, one on your hip for stability.

Mike was trying increasingly hard to keep himself together for you, but his resolve was quickly crumbling as your tight heat engulfed him. He tried in earnest to keep his eyes on yours, but he would fail at his own command, occasionally looking down to where you were joined to watch your slick pussy suck him in.

"Fuck, you're so- look at me, there you go." He was rambling again. You looked a dream, with your jaw slack and your eyes trying their best to stay on his.

When you finally bottomed out, you were past the point of full- you felt like you were about to burst. You clenched around him, causing Mike to throw his head back in pleasure.

The feeling was so intense it had you wondering how you would even bring yourself to move, let alone move quickly.

You remembered sneaking into the back of Family Video once with Max and El, Robin and Steve occupied at the front with the boys.

On the trailer screens they were showing a raunchy video, one of a girl dressed up as a nurse getting fucked roughly by a man dressed in a white coat. She looked to be having a great time, letting out "happy screams," as Max called them.

What you couldn't imagine in your current state, was getting pounded into that aggressively and it somehow not feeling like trying to squeeze your foot into a boot that was two sizes too small.

"You doin' okay?" Mike asked tightly. He looked like he was about to combust at any moment. Did it maybe feel the same for him?

You gave him a curt nod, wiggling your lower half to accustom yourself to the stretch. His breath hitched as you moved, gripping your hips a touch harder than he would've liked under different circumstances.

"Oh god, fuck hol' on." He practically begged, voice cracking.

"Does it hurt?" You wondered.

He threw his head back again when you clenched once more, involuntarily. "No, its good, really good, uhh, jus' a lot at once."

You took a beat to let him acclimate. The tightness had subsided substantially and you felt much less uncomfortable.

"I think I'm okay to move again," you offered.

Mike gave you a confirming grunt, and you slowly lifted yourself off him, stopping at his tip, and descending back down again. You were able to repeat the movement a couple times before Mike completely broke down, that thin resolve finally snapping.

"Fuck-you're," he moaned gorgeously, the hand on the back of your head gripping your hair tightly. "So warm, oh shit, fuckin' wet, fuckfuckfuck." He was drowning in your pussy, unable to come up for air, and once again so fucking close.

Your movements sped up slightly and sounds of pleasure began to leave your mouth. To your surprise, the stretch had almost completely dissipated, replaced instead by the feeling of Mike's cock stroking your g-spot with an increased precision.

You moaned his name, head once again dropping to his shoulder. You could understand the porno girl just a little bit better now. You're taking him so fucking deep, the feeling so much more intense than that of his fingers.

This was starting to feel really fucking good. You braced your hands on the headboard in front of you, now truly bouncing on him.

"Ngh, oh God, Mike pleasefuck, umm," you hiccup, your movements getting erratic. His cock was hitting places inside you that you didn't even know existed. His hard head never missed your spongey spot at this angle, each bounce hitting you like the most delicious, mouthwatering, punch to the gut.

Mike'd rambles grew louder, and he needed to ground himself. He began to place sporadic, open-mouthed kisses on your arms, his hips thrusting up to meet your bounces.

On a particularly hard thrust, your eyes crossed, head thrown back in ecstasy, releasing the most seductive moan Mike had ever heard. It came from deep within you, a product of the pleasure running through you.

His thrusts were getting harder, so you stilled your hips and let him fuck up into you, chasing his own pleasure. You wrapped your arm around the back of his neck, crying into his shoulder, your hand coming up to slap on the wall in front of you. Your body was betraying you, trying to find stability in the intense throes of pleasure consuming it.

You could hear Mike's breathing become ragged, his thrusts inconsistent. The closer he got to his peak, the harder he slammed his hips into yours.

"Holy fucking shit," you grit out, biting into Mike's shoulder. The bite catches him off guard, mixing with the hot pleasure forming in his tightening balls.

He comes. He chokes out something incoherent, pumping his cum into the condom. He can feel it down to his toes, his whole body floating. He keeps chasing it, thrusting into you, and fuck you, he just keeps coming. His hand is pulling insanely tight on your hair, forcing you to throw your head back and look at him. If he thought you were beautiful when you came, then he was something else entirely. His head was thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open. He looked utterly fucked. He looked like he was made especially for you. The whole world full of people but no, you got to witness Mike Wheeler come undone under you.

Mike soon stilled, releasing his grip on your hair. You both fell into each other like jelly, chests heaving together from exertion. You felt unreal. There was static humming throughout you, buzzing lightly in your ears.

"Fuck me," Mike was the first to speak.

"Think I just did that, actually," you hummed into his neck. Slowly you lifted yourself off of him, ignoring Mike's hiss of sensitivity, flopping on the bed next to him.

"Well that was..." you trailed off, still fuzzy.

"Yeah," he cleared his throat. "It was."

You turned to look at him, wiping away some of the hair stuck to your forehead. He, too, was covered in sweat, red splotches on his cheeks and chest. The room felt hotter, and it reeked of sex.

"I'm gonna go toss this," he motioned to the full condom still attached to him. You nodded silently, and watched him get up to throw it out. Your eyes fell on the alarm clock on the nightstand. Shit, it was almost four in the morning.

Exhaustion rolled over you like a freight train, returning more intensely than you'd felt it after your shower. The post-sex bliss had made you sleepy, so you managed to haul yourself up, heading towards the bathroom to clean up.

Mike was wiping himself off with some toilet paper when you arrived, condom long disposed of in the bin. You gripped the sink, looking at yourself. You didn't look any different, sure maybe a bit sweaty and a lot more tired, but you still looked like you. You felt different, though. No longer a virgin, for one. But you felt different as to your relationship with Mike.

What happened now? Now that you had known each other as intimately as you did? Do you move forward like nothing happened? Do you keep this a secret, meeting in the middle of the night when you need each other?

That's a lot of fucking questions. And you were too tired to answer any of them.

Mike came up behind you, interrupting your deep thought. He wrapped his arms around your chest and you grabbed onto his arms, leaning back into him.

"So what now?" he whispered, in-tune with your thoughts.

"Now we sleep. Finally. We have to be at The Squawk at nine. Gives us about 4 hours, give or take." You closed your eyes, feeling him behind you.

"That's not what I meant and you know it." He countered, giving your shoulders a light squeeze.

"I know. We'll talk about it later, when this all blows over. I don't think we need another thing." You tried to reason with him.

"It's not a thing if we don't make it thing. I don't want this to be awkward in the morning." His hair was tickling your face.

"I won't make it awkward, will you?" You opened your eyes to look at him in the mirror.

"No, never." He said, matter-of-factly.

You pressed a quick kiss to his arms. "Then there, it's settled. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

Mike looked at you one last time through the mirror before shutting the bathroom light off.

"Okay, cool. Tomorrow."

“ WHY DOESN’T MIKE LIKE ME ? “

you whispered, because this was serious, urgent business, and also because mike was upstairs in the kitchen, apparently helping himself to the last of the chex mix, and you were not about to ask in front of him. he’d probably short-circuit again, and you didn’t need another trip hazard incident involving spilled snacks. you had waited for him to leave the room, watched him linger just a little too long by the door, one hand awkwardly waving at lucas because he was never sure how to act around you, before finally making his excuse to head upstairs. as soon as the door clicked shut you slid down onto the worn carpet of the wheeler basement.

dustin’s pencil dropped onto the floor. lucas pinched the bridge of his nose. you noticed that their subtle, semi-controlled groan had a pattern — it was the we’re about to tell you something you aren’t ready for groan. “he… definitely likes you.” lucas said slowly, as if saying it too fast would break the space-time continuum. he leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, and tried not to sigh too loudly.

mike is upstairs, technically. physically. mentally he’s still in the basement, because of course he is.

the chex mix tastes like cardboard and salt and regret. he crunches anyway, standing barefoot on the cold kitchen tile, elbow braced against the counter like that makes him look casual instead of like someone who fled the room under the pretense of snacks. smooth. real smooth. he probably hovered too long in the doorway. he always does.

he pictures it anyway. you on the carpet, cross-legged, leaning forward when you talk, the way you tuck your hair back when you’re thinking, like you don’t realize you’re doing it. stop. he bites down harder on the cereal to give himself something else to focus on. crunch. crunch. this is normal. people stand in kitchens. people eat snacks. people do not obsessively replay the way someone looked at them ten minutes ago because they laughed at the wrong time.

he can’t hear the words, but he knows dustin dropped his pencil because dustin always does when something dramatic is happening. he knows lucas pinched the bridge of his nose because lucas does that when he’s bracing himself to be the only sane person in the room. pattern recognition. very useful. very annoying.

downstairs, you blink at them. once. twice. no. that’s not right. lucas says it like it’s a object he’s setting down carefully, like if he puts too much weight on the sentence it’ll collapse on itself. dustin’s already nodding, like this has been obvious for weeks and you’re the last one to catch up. which — no. impossible. you would’ve noticed. you notice things. you notice everything. unfortunately.

“no,” you say, immediately, because if you don’t say it out loud it might accidentally become true. “he doesn’t.”

dustin makes a noise. not words. a noise. the kind that lives somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “okay, but see, that’s what someone says when they don’t want to accept reality,” he says. “which is fine. denial is a stage.”

lucas shoots him a look. then looks back at you. “he’s just… bad at it,” lucas says, shrugging one shoulder. “like, people. feelings. all of that. you’ve seen him.”

you have seen him. that’s the problem.

you think of mike standing half a step too far away every time you talk to him. like there’s an invisible line on the floor he refuses to cross. the way he answers questions like he’s afraid of getting them wrong. the way he goes quiet when the attention drifts too close, like a radio losing signal. that’s not a crush. that’s discomfort. that’s someone who doesn’t want to be here. “he barely looks at me.” you say, because this is evidence.

dustin lights up, which is never a good sign when he’s trying to debate a point. “yes! exactly!” he says, pointing at you. “classic mike wheeler symptom. eye contact avoidance. verbal short-circuiting. sudden interest in literally anything else in the room.”

lucas nods. “he almost knocked over the lamp last week trying not to stand next to you.”

you shake your head, laugh once — too quick. defensive laugh. you recognize it. you use it all the time. “no,” you say again, softer this time, like maybe if you say it gently they’ll understand. “mike doesn’t like me. he’s just… awkward.”

you think of the way he waved at lucas earlier. not you. lucas. like that was safer. like you were something he wasn’t sure how to approach without setting off an alarm. you’d clocked it immediately, filed it away under okay, cool, noted, and you’d shrugged it off. people don’t owe you interest. especially not quiet boys who look like they’re always thinking six steps ahead and still somehow missing the obvious ones.

lucas exhales slowly and sits back against the couch. “he’s awkward,” he agrees. “but not like that.”

“yeah,” dustin adds. “there’s a difference between ‘i don’t care’ awkward and ‘i care way too much and it’s ruining my life’ awkward.”

ruining my life feels dramatic. mike wheeler doesn’t do dramatic. he does contained. repressed. folded in on himself like he’s trying to take up less space than he already does. you glance instinctively at the basement stairs. the door at the top, the place where he disappeared ten minutes ago under the very believable excuse of snacks. you picture him upstairs, probably standing too still, probably overthinking something stupid, probably not thinking about you at all.

if he liked me, you think, i would know.

wouldn’t you?

of course you wouldn’t. why would you? from your perspective, he’s… what. quiet. weird. avoidant. the guy who goes red when you ask him a question and then answers it like he’s reading off a cue card.

you think of the way he offered you the last soda once and then immediately looked like he regretted existing. the way he always ends up sitting across from you, never next to. the way he talks more when you’re not directly involved in the conversation. that’s not interest. that’s avoidance. “i think you guys are reading into it,” you say finally. “he’s just closed off. and i’m new. and he already has his people.”

will, mostly. the entire party. history. shared trauma you’re not part of. inside jokes you don’t get yet. you’re a late addition, an extra piece. you don’t expect anyone to rearrange themselves around you.

dustin and lucas exchange a look. they definitely exchange a look. lucas rubs his face with one hand. “okay,” he says carefully. “hypothetically.”

you already don’t like this.

“hypothetically,” he continues, “if someone liked you but didn’t know how to act normal about it… what would that look like to you?”

you don’t answer right away. your brain, unhelpful as ever, supplies images instead. easy smiles. teasing. confidence. someone leaning in instead of backing away. not mike. “not like that,” you say, eventually. “it wouldn’t look like… whatever this is.”

dustin hums. “interesting.”

that word alone is a problem.

“what.”

“nothing,” he says, which means everything. he rocks back on his hands, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling like mike might hear his name through two floors and a lifetime of anxiety. “i just… like… okay. example.”

lucas exhales through his nose. long-suffering. resigned. “we’re doing this?”

“we’re doing this,” dustin confirms. then he looks at you, all earnest now, like he’s about to present a powerpoint you did not ask for. “remember when you first came over? like, the first first time?”

you do. unfortunately. you remember tripping over the edge of the rug and laughing too loud about it, remember max giving you that don’t worry, they’re idiots look. remember clocking the room fast, faces, vibes. survival instinct. social edition. “yeah,” you say. “i sat on the floor.”

“right,” dustin says. “and mike immediately stood up. and then sat down. and then stood up again.”

lucas adds, “and then asked if anyone wanted water.”

you blink. “…he lives here.”

“exactly,” dustin says. “he lives here. he has never once offered me water in his entire life.”

you frown, thinking. a flicker of the memory surfaces: mike hovering by the stairs, hands shoved into his pockets, asking too quickly if anyone needed anything. you’d assumed it was politeness. nerves. host duty. “he was just being nice.” you justify.

“he knocked over a chair.”

“…so?”

“four times.”

you open your mouth. close it. your brain supplies the image anyway, mike flushing red, muttering sorry to no one in particular, pushing the chair back like it had wronged him. you’d smiled. he’d looked at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole. awkward. just awkward. “okay,” you say. “he’s clumsy. that’s not—”

“hold on,” dustin cuts in. “round two.”

you sigh. this is turning into a thing.

“remember movie night?” he continues. “when we watched the thing and you said you’d seen it already?”

you do. you remember leaning back on your hands, stretching your legs out because your foot had fallen asleep. you remember the couch being full, the floor being full, space limited.

“mike moved,” dustin says. “like, immediately.”

lucas nods. “gave you his spot. sat on the floor instead. didn’t say anything about it.”

“i thought he just wanted more room,” you say, weakly. because that’s what you told yourself then. because it made sense. because it didn’t require reading into anything.

“he sat directly under the vent,” lucas says. “he hates the vent.”

you remember that too, now. the way he kept tugging at the collar of his shirt. the way he’d shifted, restless, uncomfortable. you’d asked if he was cold. he’d said no. you’d chalked it up to shyness. to newness. to the fact that he talked more when will was around, when dustin filled the silence instead, when you weren’t the one next to him.

oh god. yes. you remember. once you start pulling on that thread, everything comes with it. the cafeteria memory. bright and loud and sticky with soda. mike sliding into the seat beside you like he’d rehearsed it, careful, careful, and then you’d smiled, nothing special. normal. friendly. his hand had jerked.

soda everywhere. soaking into his math homework, bleeding blue across the page like an ink blot test gone wrong. he’d frozen for half a second, staring at it like it had betrayed him, then scrambled so fast his tray tipped and fries skidded across the floor. “sorry— i— i mean—” words piling up, tripping over each other. his face so red you’d worried, briefly, that he might pass out.

you’d laughed, because it was funny and human and not a big deal. he’d looked at you like you’d set him on fire.

lucas’s voice pulls you back. “exactly. and then there was that time he—”

you groaned because you remembered this too. gym class. the thud of dodgeballs. the smell of sweat and rubber soles. mike lingering by the lockers afterward, pretending to re-tie his shoes for way too long until you were close enough to talk to. “uh,” he’d said. “you throw… balls… really… hard.”

you’d laughed because you couldn’t not. it was awkward and kind of endearing and clearly not meant like that. he’d laughed too, nervously, then backed away like you’d burned him, nearly tripping over the bench in his hurry to escape.

dustin snorts beside you now. “he hid in the bathroom for the rest of the period.”

“i thought he was embarrassed.” you mumble.

lucas gives you a look. “he was terrified.”

another memory crowds in. the time you’d borrowed a pencil in history and mike had dropped his entire pencil case trying to hand it to you. erasers scattering, graphite rolling, him insisting it was fine, really, he didn’t need them, while kneeling on the floor gathering them up anyway.

or the way he’d always end up sitting one seat farther away than necessary. close enough to listen. far enough not to risk brushing arms. or the time you’d waved at him across the hall and he’d waved back, then walked directly into a locker.

“he does that thing,” dustin adds thoughtfully, “where he over-prepares. like you’ll say hi and he’s already planned the next three sentences and if you deviate from the script at all, it’s game over.”

you think of all the half-conversations. the false starts. the way mike sometimes seemed like he wanted to say something and then swallowed it whole. “i just thought…” you trail off. that he didn’t care. that you were an afterthought. that if someone liked you, you’d know. because mike liking you would be ridiculous.

right?

mike wheeler liking you would be absurd in the way only things-that-are-actually-true feel absurd when you’re standing too close to them. you let out a short breath that’s almost a laugh. “he barely talks to me.”

lucas doesn’t even hesitate. “he talks around you.”

that’s— annoying, because it’s accurate. your brain immediately starts pulling evidence like it’s been waiting for permission. the way he’ll answer dustin instead of you, but angle his body in your direction anyway. the way he’ll agree with something you say, quietly, like he doesn’t want to interrupt you but also doesn’t want the thought to go unclaimed. the way he listens like every word is a thing he might need later.

you think about the time you’d complained offhandedly about the basement being cold, and the next week mike had dragged down an extra blanket “because mom said it might get drafty,” even though mrs. wheeler had definitely not said that. the blanket had been folded. neatly. like it mattered.

you think about movie night. how he’d chosen where to sit, then re-chosen, then pretended he’d always meant to sit on the floor instead of the couch. how your arm had brushed his when you reached for popcorn and he’d gone completely still, like a possum playing dead. you’d asked if he was okay. “yeah,” he’d said, too fast again. “just… uh. comfy.”

dustin clears his throat. “also he practices conversations with will.”

“what.”

“like, rehearsal. ‘does this sound normal?’ ‘would this be weird?’ ‘is this too much?’”

lucas snorts. “it’s always too much.”

your face feels warm. you don’t love that detail. you don’t hate it either. it sits somewhere inconvenient in the middle. “so,” you say slowly, “you’re telling me he’s not ignoring me.”

“no. he’s not ignoring you.” lucas says.

that’s… worse. better. both. before you can untangle that thought, footsteps sound on the stairs. you all pause like animals hearing a branch snap. mike appears at the bottom a second later, expression already halfway to defensive. he’s holding the empty chex mix bowl like evidence. “nancy’s mad.” he announces, immediately, because apparently that’s the safest possible opening line.

no hello. classic.

“why?” dustin asks.

“because i was ‘just standing there,’” mike says, doing air quotes with one hand, bowl tucked under his arm. “which apparently is a crime now. i was thinking.”

lucas raises an eyebrow. “you were blocking the fridge.”

“i was near the fridge,” mike snaps, then deflates. “whatever.” he finally looks at you then, just a flicker. his ears are pink. that seems relevant. you realize, distantly, that you’ve never seen him enter a room casually. there’s always a pause. a recalculation, as if he needs to know the emotional layout before he steps fully inside it. he clears his throat. “uh. what’d i miss.”

dustin grins like he’s about to die happy. lucas sighs like he’s been through this war before. “nothing.” you say quickly. which is ironic, considering everything.

mike nods and accepts it immediately. “cool,” he says. “good.”

which is mike-speak for i am absolutely not cool but i have decided to pretend very hard. there’s a beat, then another, the kind that stretches until it gets uncomfortable and nobody wants to be the first one to move because that would mean deciding something. his eyes flick down to the bowl in his hands. empty. useless. then back up — not to you, exactly, but close enough that it counts. “uh,” he says, shifting his grip. “i forgot to ask. did you guys want anything?”

dustin’s mouth twitches. “like… food?” lucas asks.

“or drinks,” mike adds quickly. “or. i don’t know. whatever.”

his eyes finally land on you then, just for half a second. you realize, distantly, that he’s holding the bowl like an offering. “i’m good,” you say casually, like this isn’t suddenly the most important exchange of your life.

“yeah, same.” lucas says.

dustin doesn’t say anything, he just looks at you. then at mike. then raises his eyebrows in a way that is deeply unhelpful. you give him a look back that says do not. he gives you one that says i told you so. “actually,” he says, casual like he’s not absolutely stirring the pot, “do you still have those fruit snacks, mike? i’ll take some of those.”

mike’s head snaps up. “no.”

“what? you always have fruit snacks.”

“yeah, well,” mike says, already moving, already done with this conversation, “not right now.”

which is a lie. a bad one. a very transparent one. you’ve seen the stash. he bought them in bulk. dustin once joked that mike could survive the apocalypse on fruit snacks alone. but mike doesn’t elaborate. he just sets the empty bowl aside with more force than necessary and drops down onto the floor instead, cross-legged, back against the couch, close. still not next to you. never next to you, but close enough that your knees are almost touching his shoulder.

dustin stares at him for a second longer, then grins to himself like he’s just won something invisible. “so,” dustin says, stretching out on the carpet, “what are we doing? because i vote we stay up late.”

“it is the weekend,” lucas adds. “technically.”

mike shrugs, but it’s lighter now, less defensive. “we could play something. or just hang out.”

someone — dustin — inevitably suggests video games, like it was always going to end there. the tv hums when mike turns it on, that electronic whine that takes a second to settle, and he has to crouch in front of it to adjust the knob because the picture’s doing that weird rolling thing again. “don’t touch it,” he says automatically, then softer, like he realizes who’s in the room, “i mean— it’ll fix itself.”

it does. eventually.

“you can pick first.” he says, handing you a controller before anyone else can even register the offer.

dustin squawks. “hey!”

“you picked last time.” mike says without missing a beat, which is not true. not even a little. you hesitate and mike immediately fills the space. “i mean— if you want. you don’t have to.”

you pick anyway. something simple. familiar. mike watches your hands like they’re doing something impressive, nodding to himself when you make a choice. the game starts. the room settles into button mashing, electronic sound effects, dustin’s commentary getting louder as the night goes on. someone opens a soda. someone else spills it just a little. it doesn’t matter.

you notice things. how mike leans over to explain controls to you but never touches your hands, even when it would make sense to. how he lets you go first every round. how when dustin complains about it, mike snaps back without looking up — and when you mess up he just laughs like it’s no big deal. “it’s fine,” he says, every time. “you’re doing fine.”

it’s weird, because he’s not like this with them. with them, he argues. he snaps. he gets loud and stubborn and digs his heels in like it’s his job. with you, he bends. sometimes too much. at one point he says, “sorry— i mean— that was a dumb move,” about himself, and you realize he apologizes to you more than anyone else in the room, like he’s preemptively worried you’ll think less of him.

hours pass. you know because the movie clock on the vcr blinks 12:00 for a while before someone fixes it. because the soda cans stack up. because dustin gets loopy and starts narrating his own losses like a sports commentator. you think, not for the first time tonight, that liking someone like mike wheeler probably feels like this. incremental. full of tiny choices that mean more than they should.

the game gets louder anyway.

mike and dustin end up head-to-head, controllers clenched like it’s a life-or-death situation and not a pixelated battlefield. dustin trash talks constantly while mike goes sharp and focused, muttering under his breath. “that’s cheap,” mike snaps when dustin pulls off a move that absolutely is cheap.

“it’s strategy,” dustin says. “you’re just bad.”

mike scoffs. “you button-mashed.”

you laugh without thinking. just a small sound. mike glances at you mid-argument and the edge in his voice dulls immediately, like someone flipped a switch. “i mean,” he adds quickly, softer, “it’s— it’s fine. it counts.”

dustin stares at him. “who are you.”

he lets dustin finish his gloating speech before cutting in again, but not too sharp. never all the way when you’re listening. later, when dustin knocks his character off the map again, mike groans. “are you kidding me?”

you grin. “you hesitated.”

he opens his mouth, probably to argue, then stops himself. “…yeah,” he says instead. “i did.”

at some point, you lean in to say something — a joke, you think — and catch yourself halfway through. “sorry, i mean— do you wanna—”

mike freezes. like, fully. controller still in his hands. eyes on you, wide, alert, waiting. “yeah,” he says before you can finish. “whatever you want.”

it’s said so fast it’s almost painful. you blink. dustin snorts. lucas, from the floor, mutters, “wow.”

mike flushes. “i just mean— we can switch games. or keep playing. or—”

“i was gonna say you left yourself open.” you finish.

he deflates. “oh. yeah.”

and it’s like that, over and over. mike snapping at dustin, then catching himself when you speak. mike getting stubborn, then backing off when you raise an eyebrow.

the basement door opens with a creak. “hey,” nancy’s voice cuts in, already irritated. “mom said you guys need to keep it down. dad’s trying to sleep.”

“it’s the weekend.” mike says immediately, defensive reflex engaged.

“it’s still midnight,” nancy counters. “and you’re yelling.”

“we’re talking.” mike argues.

nancy looks at the room. the controllers. the mess. you. her expression shifts just slightly, curious, assessing. “also,” she adds, “you left the chex mix box on the counter. again.”

“i was gonna clean it up.” mike says.

“when,” she asks. “next year?”

“why do you always do this.” mike groans.

nancy crosses her arms. “it’s my house.”

“no, it’s mom and dad’s house.”

“wow, philosophical,” she says. “lower the volume or i’m telling dad.” mike opens his mouth, already gearing up for the argument, you can see it coming, but then nancy’s gaze shifts and lands on you. “hey.” she says. to you.

the difference is between obligation and intention. you sit up instinctively. “hi.”

nancy nods, like she’s clocking you properly now. the controllers. the way you’re tucked into the corner of the couch. mike on the floor, close enough to count. “you guys having fun?” she asks.

“yeah. sorry. we’ll keep it down.”

mike reacts instantly. “yeah,” he says. “we will. totally. we can be quiet.”

you can almost see the moment she notices it, the way his tone shifts when it’s you. how the fight drains out of him like someone pulled a plug. “…okay,” she says. “thanks.” she turns back to you. “i like your jacket, by the way.”

“oh— thanks.”

mike, who has been watching this entire exchange like it’s a high-stakes negotiation, suddenly stands. “i’m gonna run upstairs real quick.”

nancy frowns. “why.”

“to ask mom if they can sleepover,” he says. then adds, too fast, “before she goes to bed.” he gestures at the room. at all of you. at the concept of time continuing. “i’ll be right back,” he calls, like anyone was planning on leaving.

his footsteps disappear. nancy exhales and leans against the back of the couch, arms crossed loosely now, less big sister. more… person. “he’s been weird.” she says, conversational.

dustin perks up. “thank you.”

“more than usual.” she clarifies.

lucas hums. “yeah.”

nancy glances at you, something knowing flickers there. observant. mike comes tearing back down the stairs like he’s afraid the answer might change if he slows down. “okay,” he says, breathless. “so. mom said—” he stops at the bottom step. “she said only one person can spend the night.”

dustin squints. “what?”

nancy frowns again. “wait, i thought mom said she didn’t—”

“—because,” mike cuts in, cutting her off mid-sentence like it’s instinct, “it’s already late and dad’s asleep and there’s only so much room and— yeah. one person.”

nancy blinks at him. you can almost see her connecting dots in real time. “huh.” she says slowly.

dustin opens his mouth. “okay but how do we—”

mike pivots immediately. points, not aggressively, just decisively, at dustin. “didn’t you say you had to get home?” he asks.

dustin stares at him. “i did not.”

“you did,” mike insists. “earlier. you said your mom wanted you back.”

lucas snorts. “no he didn’t.”

mike barrels on. “and lucas, you said you were tired.”

lucas raises his eyebrows. “i am tired, but—”

“see?” mike says. “so it makes sense.”

it’s not subtle. not even a little. wow. master manipulator.

dustin sighs dramatically. “fine. whatever. i guess i’ll go.”

lucas shrugs. “i’ll go with you.”

mike nods far too quickly. “yeah. cool. thanks.”

dustin grabs his jacket, muttering, “unbelievable,” but there’s no real bite to it. he throws you a look on the way out, smug, satisfied, i see you, and lucas follows, already halfway asleep on his feet. the basement door closes. footsteps fade. suddenly, it’s quiet in a different way. nancy lingers a moment longer, looks at mike, then at you, then back at mike. “…only one, huh?” she says.

“mom’s rules.”

nancy smiles. “sure.” she turns to you. “you okay staying?”

your answer comes easier than you expect. “yeah.”

“good,” she says. “bathroom’s down the hall. extra blankets are in the closet. don’t stay up too late.” then she shoots mike one last look — warning, fond, amused all at once — and heads upstairs.

the stairs creak. a door closes. mike stands there, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands now that his plan has… worked. “uh,” he says. “so.”

so.

it’s funny how loud the basement feels with just the two of you in it. just the tv, the ticking of the clock upstairs, mike wheeler visibly buffering in front of you. he shifts his weight, clasps his hands, unclasps them. wipes one palm on his jeans like he’s nervous they might betray him. you watch him for a second longer than necessary. now that you know, it’s impossible not to see it.

the way he’s standing angled toward you. the way he keeps checking your face like he’s waiting for instructions. the way his shoulders are tense but not defensive — hopeful, almost. he’s cute. actually cute. soft features, earnest eyes, hair that never does what he wants it to. you’re a little surprised, honestly, that more people don’t notice. maybe they would if he talked more.

his personality can be… a lot. stubborn. intense. bossy when he gets worked up.

but so what.

he cares. clearly. deeply. maybe too deeply. there’s something disarming about that — about someone who feels things without trying to look cool about it. “we can stay down here for a while longer. i mean— if you want. or— we don’t have to. we could sleep. or— not sleep yet. obviously.” he winces slightly, like he’s aware of how that sounded. “i mean. later. sleep later.”

“a movie?” you suggest, gently.

“yeah. yeah, movie’s good.”

he moves fast now, energized, grabbing tapes from the stack with a kind of nervous enthusiasm. they clack softly as he flips through them. “okay, so, this one’s good but it’s kind of slow, and this one’s also good but the effects are— not great, and this— okay, this one.” he pulls out excalibur like it’s a decision he’s been circling for a while. “it’s fantasy,” he says immediately, because of course he does. “but not like cheesy fantasy. it’s—” he pauses, searching. “it’s about kings. and choices. and, uh… destiny.” that last word comes out quieter than the others. “and magic,” he adds quickly, as if remembering he’s allowed to like that part too. “but magic that costs something. you don’t just get it for free.” he shifts his weight. “i watched it with my dad once. he fell asleep halfway through, but— i didn’t.”

too much information. abort.

he clears his throat. “it’s long. if that’s okay. we can switch if you want. i just—”

you smile. “i’m good with long.”

his eyebrows lift, surprised. pleased. a little flustered. “okay,” he says. “cool. yeah. okay.”

he slides the tape into the vcr with exaggerated care. the machine whirs, then clicks, then the screen blooms into dark greens and silvers. you sit on the couch. he hesitates, the pause is noticeable now that you’re looking for it, then sits beside you, leaving a careful gap. his knee bounces. stops. bounces again. you wonder if this is him trying. if asking you to stay, if picking this movie, if sitting here instead of on the floor is him pushing past something internal and stubborn.

the movie opens, steel, mist, prophecy. very mike. he leans forward without realizing it. “okay, so— that sword matters. like, a lot. and merlin—” he stops himself mid-sentence, winces, and glances at you. “sorry.”

you shrug. “you can talk.”

he nods like he’s been granted permission. “okay. just— if i start rambling, tell me.”

he still rambles a little. under his breath. comments that are half-thoughts: “this scene’s brutal,” “that’s actually really sad,” “i forgot how intense this gets.”

you don’t mind. it feels like being let into something.

this has never happened before. just the two of you. no one watching. no one interrupting. just shared space and a story he cares about more than he’ll ever admit.

the movie keeps going. swords and shadows and people making terrible decisions because they think they’re chosen for something. you don’t fully understand all of it, but you understand him watching it, the way his attention sharpens, the way he leans in at certain parts like proximity might help. he forgets to be quiet sometimes. “i just— i like this part,” he says eventually, gesturing vaguely at the screen. “everyone thinks being king means you get everything, but it’s mostly just responsibility. and messing up. a lot.”

you glance over. he’s not looking at you. he’s looking at the tv, like he’s saying something else but doesn’t know how. “you sound like you’ve thought about that.” you notice.

he shrugs, a little too quick. “i guess. i mean, stories are better when the hero’s kind of bad at it at first.”

that makes you smile. he notices. immediately panics. “not bad, bad,” he rushes. “just —- human. like—”

you don’t mind the rambling. actually, you kind of like it. he lights up when he talks about things he cares about, words tumbling out faster than his self-doubt can catch them. it’s like watching someone unlock. at one point he tries to explain a plot detail and gets halfway through before realizing he’s contradicted himself. “wait. no. ignore that. that’s later. i’m bad at this.”

you grin. “you’re really not.”

this version of him feels different. looser. did someone tell him to do this? max, maybe. lucas. even nancy. someone nudging him, daring him, saying just try. the idea makes you curious. if this is him trying… it’s working.

he makes a dumb joke about a knight’s haircut. it’s bad. really bad. you laugh anyway, surprised at yourself.

time moves strangely after that. the movie blurs into moments instead, his knee bouncing, then stopping when he notices yours isn’t. the way he offers you the blanket. the way he apologizes when his elbow bumps yours and then doesn’t immediately retreat. he talks more as the movie goes on. about d&d campaigns. about how fantasy worlds make sense because the rules are clear. you listen. you ask questions. he answers them like he can’t believe you care. somewhere between a half-whispered rant about prophecy tropes and you gently correcting his pronunciation of a name, it clicks — this isn’t avoidance. this isn’t disinterest. this is nerves.

you glance at him again, at the concentration crease between his eyebrows, at the way he keeps sneaking looks at you when he thinks you won’t notice. maybe you misread him. maybe mike wheeler has been here the whole time.

hours stretch. the basement loses all sense of time. it all blends into the background as you talk. really talk. not the small talk that stretches across passing periods or awkward lunches, not the “hey, remember that?” jokes that end because someone else is watching. actual words, sentences flowing, thoughts spilling. about school, about max, about the dumbest things that happen in your day, about nerdy stuff mike’s obsessed with — d&d campaigns, sci-fi movies, plot holes he notices that nobody else seems to, and how the soundtrack in some fantasy movies is technically a character all on its own. he rambles. a lot. nervous, starts a sentence, stops, rewinds, starts again. he’s self-conscious, stumbling over words, and you’re aware — like painfully aware — that he’s never talked to you like this before.

you lean back against the couch. mike’s on the floor again, knees up, arms draped across them, chin resting in his hands, watching you like you’re a new kind of puzzle. the basement feels impossibly intimate. then he yawns. stretches one arm behind his head. rubs his eyes. he looks… defeated, like he’s thinking the moment has to end, and your first instinct is relief. you think he’s probably going to his room to crash, and you’ll stay here in the semi-dark, tucked in the quiet of the basement.

but he scrunches his face when you don’t follow him once he stands, frowning in that adorable, confused way he does when he can’t decide between logic and impulse. “what are you doing?” he asks, like he’s asking a question and also trying not to sound like he’s asking a question.

“i’ll just stay down here,” you say softly. “you can sleep… if you want.”

he scrunches again, shakes his head like he’s trying to organize an internal spreadsheet of every possible objection. “no—i mean… come to my room with me.”

your brow furrows. “your mom wont care?”

his face contorts, like he’s calculating all possible consequences of every adult decision. then slowly he shrugs, incredulous but also smug in a way only mike wheeler could manage. “why would she care? even if she did it wouldn’t matter.” and it’s true. he’s always been that way. stubborn. fiercely independent. doesn’t bend to peer pressure. doesn’t care about approval — unless it’s someone he actually… notices. adults? forget it. authority? laughable. his parents? love them, mostly, but when it comes to minor stuff like staying up late or who’s sitting where? inconsequential.

you nod slowly. it makes sense. of course it does. mike wheeler isn’t going to let anyone else dictate this, not tonight, not with this.

you follow him upstairs. he moves with that mix of awkward determination and tiny bursts of energy, shoving aside laundry, tugging extra blankets off the shelf, finding a sleeping bag that isn’t too lumpy. he spreads it out on the floor, flattens it with an unnecessary amount of care, then pats it like he’s claiming territory for you. “okay. here,” he says, stepping back. “this should— you know. work.”

you crouch to check it. yeah, fine. more than fine. he’s fussed, rearranged, and basically built a little nest just for you. his bed? he collapses on it with a sigh that’s half relief, half exhaustion. you sit cross-legged on the sleeping bag. he mutters comments about the ceiling texture, about how it looks like clouds frozen mid-movement. you hum, half-listening.

the conversation trickles at first. little threads about the day, things you didn’t know, stories he’s remembered in the moment. then it gets slower.. and it’s suddenly… honest. impossible to talk, really talk, because every time you open your mouth, you think: how lucky am i to be here? just talking to him. mike wheeler. right now.

you laugh quietly to cover it, and he glances down at you. you shrug like it’s nothing, but inside, your chest is tight in a way you can’t explain. it’s fun. it’s exciting. it’s also… new. you can’t tell if this is infatuation, or suddenly seeing him the way everyone else must see him, and realizing you like it, maybe like him.

mike notices the shift in your expression, probably thinks it’s just the light, the shadow from the lamp flickering across your face, but he can’t stop seeing it as you noticing him. the thought makes his stomach twitch, like a loose spring. don’t get weird now. don’t say something dumb. don’t mess this up. “so,” he blurts, faster than he means to, “did dustin actually finish the uh… that… the paper thing?” he means the math homework he didn’t help with. the words stumble out in the wrong order because he’s too busy watching your face.

“he… sort of. not really. he kept narrating it like it was a space battle.”

mike snorts, a coughy snort like he almost choked on air. good one, brain, real smooth. that’s clever. you clever idiot. he remembers dustin in the cafeteria last week, talking like he was commentating on the dodgeball game and spilling chocolate milk everywhere. mike had laughed, of course, and gotten chocolate on his sleeve, and he’s still annoyed at himself for being amused. you were laughing too. wait, why would that matter? doesn’t matter. stupid detail. stupid brain. “space battle…” he mutters. “yeah. sounds… strategic.”

you tilt your head. “strategic?”

“you know… like… uh… tactical. not… important. it’s fine.”

he’s lying. tactical is the wrong word. i just want to sound smart. not sound dumb. not be dumb in front of you. why do my hands sweat? why am i talking like i’m fifteen again? you laugh softly again, and he notices, almost trips over the sound in his head. it’s the kind of laugh that makes him want to lean in closer because he wants more of it. he’s been noticing you for weeks. weeks. maybe months. little things. harmless. harmlessly distracting. stop thinking about that, idiot. just talk. just breathe. just don’t say i like you, god, don’t say that.

“so…” you say, shifting slightly, moving your hand across the blanket on the floor, “what have you been doing?”

“i don’t know. just stuff. video games. watched movies. fantasy ones. not, like, boring ones. not that boring. i mean… not like… you know…” he stops. too many words.

you laugh. “oh? what kind?”

“labyrinth kind. fantasy.. goblins. evil king. lots of… musical numbers.” he grins like he’s proud. “it’s good. i like it. probably you’d like it. probably. maybe.”

stop. too many probablys. you’re making it weird. you are a nerd. congratulations.

you blink at him, heart thumping a little faster than you want to admit. “can i… ask you something?”

“sure.” his voice is calm enough, but his brain has immediately sprinted to oh god oh god oh god what are you gonna ask me. do you know? you can’t know you can’t know you can’t know. he pinches the bridge of his nose. don’t say something dumb, wheeler. don’t mess this up.

if you know…

no. not know. if you even think about it.

if the idea even exists in your head, he’s done. he has no plan past step one, and step one was do not make it obvious.

which he has apparently failed at.

“why were you so weird around me?”

he freezes.

“uh, i… dunno. my brain doesn’t really work with me sometimes. i get a brain freeze or something.”

“brain freeze?”

“yeah. like, i try to say normal stuff. or like things i think are normal. and then… i… can’t. it just stops. then i say something weird. or nothing at all.” his hands fidget again, tugging at the corner of the blanket.

you grin softly. “so, you’re… awkward because your brain freezes?”

mike shifts on the bed, hands fidgeting with the blanket, trying not to overthink. brain freeze. nailed it. sounds normal. you’ll buy it. “yeah,” he says finally, voice steady-ish. “brain freeze.” he glances at you quickly, checking for reaction, then back to the ceiling.

“makes sense.”

“like that time at dodgeball when i tried to compliment you and just… uh… well, yeah. balls.”

you smile softly. “balls. right.”

he grins faintly, cheeks tinged pink, like he’s daring the world to judge. “hey, it was heartfelt.”

“so,” you say after a beat, “do you… always get brain freezes around everyone?”

he shakes his head, a little embarrassed, tugging the blanket again. “no. mostly… just… around certain people.” he pauses. “it’s… selective.”

“so i’m… selected?”

he shifts, the movement rustling the sheets. “yeah. i guess.”

you talk about favorite books, the weirdest moments in class, little childhood stories you’ve never shared with anyone else. he laughs at your anecdotes, sometimes dryly, sometimes genuinely surprised. you notice that even when he’s teasing or making a joke, his attention is mostly on you, not on proving anything to anyone else.

the night continues, hours stretching lazily over the room. the shadows from the blinds creep across the floor, painting stripes over the carpet and blankets, the hum of the heater keeping time with your conversation. every so often he glances your way like he wants to move closer, like he wants to get down next to you and lay on the floor, but is terrified of overstepping some boundary. you don’t mind.

between the laughter, the stories, the accidental brush of hands when passing a blanket, it feels comfortable. the kind of night that lingers in memory, where words stumble and brains freeze, yet everything feels exactly right.

morning comes. light spills through the blinds, brushing over blankets and the smell of popcorn lingering from yesterday. mike squints, stretching, hair sticking up in every direction. the quiet is broken by mrs. wheeler’s voice, light but pointed.

“oh - good morning sweetheart! mike, i thought all your friends were sleeping over honey. where’s everybody else?”

STARTED 11.29.2025. POSTED 12.14.2025.

  ⸝⸝  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 of the Henderson household was a stark, almost jarring contrast to the cacophony of New Haven. For the better part of a year, Y/N's auditory landscape had been dominated by the boring intellectual posturing of lecture halls, the ceaseless hum of the library, and the nocturnal heavy bass of dorm parties. Now, standing in the center of her childhood kitchen in Hawkins, the silence felt.. heavy, to say the least. 

It was late afternoon, the sun slanting through the blinds in beautiful thick, dusty beams of gold. Y/N leaned against the granite counter, waiting for the kettle to scream. She had arrived only an hour ago, and her suitcases were still standing like sentinels in the hallway. Incredibly, it had been one full, round year since the last time she had put foot on Hawkins. 

—and one full, round year since she had been brutally rejected by one of Hawkins biggest losers, as well.

Y/N had changed immediately. The act of shedding her boring travel clothes felt like shedding skin she didn't want to be seen in. She'd rather be caught dead. Yale surprisingly had hardened her, sharpened her edges, and refined her aesthetic into something bolder, more deliberate and kinda threatening. She was no longer just the sweet, conservative Homecoming Queen of Hawkins High; she was a woman who had walked the halls of the Ivy League and realized she could command a room without saying a word.

She caught her reflection in the darkened window of the oven. She was wearing a cropped polo shirt—a navy blue Ralph Lauren piece she'd taken scissors to, leaving the hem raw and hovering distinctively just below the curve of her underwire, exposing a smooth expanse of midriff. Below that, a white pleated tennis skirt sat low on her hips, the length bordering on scandalous and promiscuous for good ol' suburban Indiana. It was an outfit designed for, hopefully a fun summer, for tennis courts and country clubs, but worn in the sanctity of her kitchen, it felt like armor.

But of course, who else was going to see it? Only her sweet twin brother and her mother were possibly going to. Right? unless Dustin—

The kettle whistled. As she poured the boiling water over the tea bag, the steam rising in a fragrant plume of Earl Grey, her mind drifted, unbidden, to the reason she had stayed away so long.

The other Henderson knew, of course. He was the only one who knew about him. 

Y/N hadn't returned for Christmas... or New Years. She had concocted a lie about a mandatory skiing trip in Vermont with her sorority sisters from Kappa Alpha Theta—a fabrication that was plausible enough to satisfy her mother and vague enough to keep Dustin from asking irrelevant questions. The truth was far more pathetic: she simply couldn't bear the thought of running into Michael Wheeler in the exposing light of winter.

The "rejection" had happened in late April, months before she left for Connecticut. It had been a completely random Tuesday. She remembered the scent of rain on the pavement and the way the streetlights reflected in Mike's dark eyes when she had finally, after years of dancing around the tension, laid her cards on the table. Oh.. how she wishes that didn't happen.

It had been a night defined by water. The rain in Hawkins that spring had been torrential. That day, specifically, had turned the world into a blur of gray and charcoal. Y/N was standing at the end of the Wheeler driveway, the engine of her car still idling a few yards away, reminding her she had to go.

Mike stood three feet away. He looked miserable.

The rain dripped from the ends of his hair, running in rivets down his pale face, mimicking tears. He was looking everywhere but at her.

"Say it," Y/N had whispered, her voice barely audible over the drumming of the rain. "Just say it, Mike."

He flinched, finally dragging his gaze up to meet hers. His dark eyes were pools of conflict, swimming with an apology she didn't want to hear. 

"I can't," he said, his voice cracking. "I just... I can't."

"Why?" Y/N took a step closer, ignoring the way her boots squelched in the mud. She was desperate, like she had never been for a boy, "Is it because of Dustin? Because we grew up together? Because that's bullshit, Mike, and you know it."

"It's not Dustin," he said quickly, clarifying. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, hunching his shoulders. "It's... it's everything."

He took a ragged breath, the vapor clouding in the freezing air between them.

"I don't feel the same way," he said. The words were quiet, but they hit Y/N with the force of a physical blow. "I've tried. You're... you're amazing. You're beautiful, and smart, and any guy would be lucky to have you. But when I look at you... I don't feel that."

The rejection was bad enough, but the gentleness of it was excruciating. It was pity.

"Is it her?" she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it. "Is it still Jane?"

Mike went still. The mention of the name seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air. Even though Jane had been gone from his life in that romantic sense for a while.. she kind of was the reason.

He looked down, kicking at a loose stone on the asphalt. "I'm not over her," he admitted, his voice rough. "I don't know if I ever will be. It's not just a breakup, Y/N. It's... she's a part of who I am. And until I figure that out, I can't be with anyone else. Especially not you."

"Why especially not me?" 

"Because you deserve someone who is all in," Mike said, looking at her with a devastating earnestness. "You deserve the whole thing. And I'm... I'm hollowed out right now. I have nothing left to give you."

Y/N felt foolish. She felt small, humiliated. She was the Homecoming Queen, the girl who had her pick of the senior class, the girl who scored a full ride to an Ivy League.. standing in the rain begging a boy who was still in love with a ghost.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice breaking.

She didn't wait for him to respond. She didn't wait for a hug, or a goodbye, or any more of his agonizing pity. She turned on her heel, and marched back to her car. She climbed in, slamming the door against the storm.

After that day, Y/N promised herself she wouldn't talk to Michael Wheeler.

He simply does not exist.

Michael. Wheeler. Does. Not. Exist.

Y/N took a sip of the tea, the bergamot burning her tongue pleasantly. She was over it, she told herself. She had spent a year surrounded by the intellectual elite of the East Coast—which in other words, means the hot guys who also have the brains. She had dated a mathematician from UPenn and had a messy situation-ship with a finance guy from Brown. Michael Wheeler was a small-town boy with a bad haircut and the style of a cheap, blind clown. They were obviously in different leagues.

The sound of gravel crunching in the driveway made her flinch.

Y/N frowned, setting the mug down. She wasn't expecting Dustin until tomorrow. That was the plan; she would have twenty-four hours or so to decompress, unpack, and prepare herself mentally for the chaotic energy of her brother and mother.

But the noise outside was undeniable. A car door slammed. Then another. Then the unmistakable, chaotic symphony of annoying male voices rising in debate.

"I'm telling you, it's a statistical impossibility for a dragon to spawn in that biome!"

"It's not statistics, Lucas, shut up!"

Y/N froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs. That wasn't just Dustin.

OH, fuck no it wasn't. 

The front door lock clicked, and swung open.

"Mom? We're home early! The campaign went to shit so we're crashing here!" Dustin's voice boomed through the hallway, cracking slightly on the last syllable.

Y/N stood rooted to the spot near the island, completely frozen, her hand gripping the edge of the granite. She didn't have time to run. She didn't have time to change.

She couldn't make any noise.

Dustin led the charge, dumping his backpack on the floor, followed closely by Will Byers and Lucas Sinclair, all cracking jokes and laughing. And trailing behind them, looking taller and lankier than she remembered, was.. 

Oh.

They were laughing, shoving each other, completely oblivious to the presence in the kitchen until they rounded the corner.

The silence that fell over the room was instantaneous and absolute.

"Holy shit," Dustin breathed.

Y/N forced her posture to relax, leaning back against the counter with a practiced nonchalance she didn't feel. She brought the mug to her lips, blowing softly on the steam, her eyes scanning the group.

"Hello, brother," she said, her voice cool. "You're a day early."

Dustin's jaw was practically on the floor. He blinked rapidly, his brain short-circuiting. "Y/N? You... you're here. Wait. You were supposed to be here Saturday. Today is Friday."

"Today is Friday," she agreed dryly. "I assume at your grown age you're capable of reading a clock."

The boys stood frozen in a semi-circle. They had changed. That was the first thing that hit her. The last year had been kind to them, stretching them out, shedding the last vestiges of boyhood softness. Lucas had filled out, his shoulders broader. Will looked more soft, more self-assured.

But it was Michael who, unfortunately, drew her gaze, despite her best efforts to look anywhere else.

He had changed the most. He was leaner, sharper. His hair was no longer that ugly shaggy mop, but shorter, with tighter curls, that frame a face that had lost the tiny remains of baby fat, revealing his usual sharp jawline and high cheekbones. He was wearing ripped black jeans and a flannel shirt over a band tee that fit him loosely. He looked like something out of a grungy music video. He looked.. cool. Y/N cringed at the thought.

And he was staring at her.

His eyes were wide, fixed on her. Y/N knew what Michael was seeing. He was seeing the cropped polo, the non-conservative overexposure of skin, the way the short skirt showcased her legs. He was seeing a new girl. A college girl who drank espresso, read french philosophy, and got fucked pretty often.

The shock on his face was satisfying. It was a mixture of recognition and total disorientation, as if he was trying to reconcile the girl he remembered with the woman standing in front of him.

"Y/N," Will said, breaking the tension with a warm smile. He stepped forward for a hug. "We didn't know you were back."

"Surprise," she said, overly sweet, hugging Will back, careful not to spill her tea. "Dustin got the dates wrong. As usual."

"I did not!" Dustin protested, his face flushing pink. He seemed to suddenly realize what his innocent sweet sister was wearing. He made a vague gesture toward her midsection. "And why are you... where is the rest of your shirt? Mom is going to have an aneurysm."

Y/N smirked, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Mom's in Chicago for the conference, Dustin. And it's called fashion. You should look it up sometime."

Lucas laughed, shaking his head. "I agree with you, Y/N. You look great."

"Thanks, Lucas." She flashed him a dazzling smile, the kind that had won her the crown before graduating.

Finally, she turned her gaze to Mike. Y/N's expression immediately turns into a nonchalant, cordial one. 

He hadn't moved. He was standing near the refrigerator, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Michael looked flustered. Actually, genuinely flustered. His eyes darted from her eyes to her waist and then quickly back up, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the heat outside.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight awkwardly. "It's, uh... good to see you," he said. 

Y/N let the sentence hang in the air, dying a slow, suffocating death without being paid attention. She didn't return the sentiment. She didn't even blink. Instead, she plastered the fakest smile onto her face.

She walked straight toward him. Mike stiffened, his shoulders rising slightly, perhaps anticipating a hug, perhaps anticipating a slap—but he got neither. She stopped inches from him, invading his personal space just enough to be unsettling.

"You're blocking the refrigerator, Wheeler," Y/N said, her voice dropping to a dismissive tone. "I want a peach."

Mike blinked, the color draining slightly from his face as the rejection landed. He scrambled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet to get out of her way. "Right. Sorry. Yeah."

Y/N didn't look at him again. She opened the fridge, and began to inspect the fruit drawer with exaggerated interest, as if the boy behind her didn't exist.

Dustin caught it immediately. He looked between them, his eyes darting back and forth like a spectator at a particularly violent tennis match. He sensed the sudden, crushing drop in barometric pressure. He saw the way Mike was awkwardly looking at the floor, and the way Y/N was aggressively ignoring him.

"Okay!" Dustin shouted, clapping his hands together with a deafening crack that made Will and Lucas jump. "Okay, wow! Great reunion! So wholesome! The energy in here is... weird! It is weird!"

He stepped physically between Mike and Y/N's back, waving his arms like he was landing a plane.

"We are going to order pizza," Dustin announced, his voice pitched an octave too high. "We are going to go into the living room, we are going to order three large pepperonis, and we are going to watch a movie. And no one is going to talk about the past.. or feelings.. or anything that isn't cheese, or pepperonis... or vampires! Understood?"

Lucas and Will exchanged a swift glance across the kitchen island. It was the silent, frantic telegraphing of confusion shared between the two. Will's brow furrowed in a distinct what-the-hell-was-that expression, while Lucas just widened his eyes and gave a shrug. 

-

The credits of The Lost Boys rolled in a silent, monochromatic scroll of white text against black, casting a flickering light over the living room. Dustin was sprawled in the recliner, mouth agape, letting out a rhythmic snore that sounded like a deflating tire. Lucas and Will were tangled in blankets on the floor, as asleep as one can be.

And then there was Mike.

He had fallen asleep on the opposite end of the couch, his head tipped back against the cushions, his long legs stretched out. While asleep, the brooding edge of his features had surprisingly softened. The sharp jawline was still there, the dark lashes against his pale cheeks, but the tension that radiated off him like heat waves had finally disappeared.

Y/N sat upright, wide awake. For two hours, she had sat there, acutely aware of every shift in his breathing, every movement, every facial expression. The proximity was a torment. Although she was "over it", she couldn't help to wonder; is he thinking about her? Is he seeing anyone at all?

The thought of Michael sweetly daydreaming about any girl, including Jane, made her nauseous. It was a physical assault on the composure she had spent a year carefully constructing. She couldn't do it anymore.

She stood up, moving with the silent grace of a cat, careful not to wake any of the boys up. She stepped over Lucas's outstretched arm and navigated the obstacle course of soda bottles. She paused for a fraction of a second to look down at Mike. Even in the unflattering blue light of the television, he was devastatingly handsome. Y/N sighs.

She turned on her heel and left.

The sanctuary of Y/N's bedroom was a relief that was almost physical. She closed the door softly, leaning her forehead against the cool wood for a moment to breathe. The room was exactly as she had left it months ago. Posters of Madonna everywhere, a vanity cluttered with scrunchies and lip gloss, a bedspread covered in pastel florals. It felt childish. It felt like a cage.

Y/N pushed off the door and walked to her mirror. The adrenaline was finally fading, leaving a dull throb behind her eyes. She reached for the hem of her cropped polo, ready to peel off the outfit of the day and scrub the makeup from her face. She wanted to be clean. She wanted to be unconscious.

Knock. Knock.

Y/N froze for a second, her fingers still gripping the hem of her shirt. She stared at the door.

"Go to sleep, Dustin," she whispered, her voice low and weary. "I'm not discussing the skirt with you until morning."

Silence stretched on the other side of the door. Then, a voice—low, raspy from the sleep, and unmistakably not his twins'—drifted through the wood.

"It's not Dustin."

Y/N's hands dropped to her sides. The blood rushed in her ears.

"What do you want?" she asked, her voice sharpening. "I'm sleeping."

"I know you're not," Mike replied. "I saw you leave. Can I come in?"

"No." The refusal was instant. "Go away, Michael."

"Y/N." His voice was closer now, as if he had leaned his forehead against the door, mirroring her earlier posture. "Open the door. We need to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"Well, I have something to say to you," he shot back, a flash of irritation piercing through the whisper. "You barely said two words to me all night. You owe me five minutes."

"I owe you nothing," she hissed.

"Open the door, or I'm going to keep talking out here until Dustin wakes up and asks why I'm begging to get into his sister's bedroom."

Fuck, Y/N thinks. "Manipulative asshole" she whispers to herself.

She marched to the door, unlocked it with a violent click, and yanked it open only wide enough to fill the gap with her body.

"You have three minutes," she said coldly. "Start the clock."

Michael was standing in the dark hallway, illuminated only by the moonlight spilling from her bedroom window behind her. He looked disheveled, his hair messy from sleep, his flannel shirt unbuttoned to reveal the band tee underneath. He looked tired, but his eyes were wide awake, dark and intense, locking onto hers with a gravitational pull she had to physically resist.

He stepped forward, forcing her to step back or collide with him. He pushed into the room, closing the door softly behind him. 

"Get out," Y/N said, though the command lacked the venom she intended. She was seriously fighting the urge to drop the act and kiss him. 

"Drop the act," Mike said. He didn't shout; his voice was quiet, dangerously calm, demanding at the same time. He leaned back against the closed door, crossing his arms over his chest, blocking Y/N's only exit.

Y/N let out a short, incredulous laugh. She walked over to her vanity, putting proper distance between her and the boy who broke her heart. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The Ice Queen thing," Mike said, gesturing vaguely at her. "The 'I'm too cool for this town' thing. The way you looked at me in the kitchen like I was a piece of furniture you didn't like. It's bullshit."

"It's not an act," Y/N lied, turning to face him, leaning her hips against the vanity. She crossed her own arms, mirroring his defensive posture. "I've changed, Michael. It happens. People grow up. I went to Yale. I have a life. I'm sorry if my lack of interest in your Dungeons and Dragons drama bruises your ego."

Mike pushed off the door. He took a step toward her. Then another.

"It's not about my ego," he said, his voice dropping an octave, pointing at himself. "It's about the fact that you're treating me like a stranger. Like I didn't spend ten years of my life sitting at your dinner table."

"You made it very clear where we stood," Y/N replied, her voice trembling slightly with suppressed rage. "You didn't want me, Michael. So don't come in here pretending you have a right to my time. Get over it."

"I remember..” Mike said softly. He stopped in the center of the room, only a few feet away from her now. "And maybe I was an idiot. But that doesn't mean you get to erase me."

"I didn't erase you," she said, her chin lifting defiantly. "I just grew up. I literally do not care about your existence."

"Liar."

The word hung in the air, vibrating.

Mike took another step. He was in Y/N's personal space now, close enough that she could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, and his freckles..oh his beautiful—

"If you didn't care," he murmured, his eyes dropping to her lips before snapping back up to her gaze, "you wouldn't have run out of the living room the second everyone fell asleep. Every time you look at me, you get reminded of that night.."

"You're delusional," she whispered, cutting him off. "Get out of my room."

"No."

"Wheeler, I'm serious. Get out."

"Make me."

"..Why are you doing this?" her voice raised, shaking with a sudden, volatile mix of impotence and exhaustion. "Why do you even care, Michael? You're the one who left me standing under the fucking rain!"

Mike opened his mouth, but she cut him off, stepping into him, poking a manicured finger hard into his chest.

"Literally, what is this? YOU don't care about me. And YOU know it." she spat, her eyes flashing. "It seems like you just want to confuse me again. You want to see if you can still snap your fingers and make the stupid little Henderson girl fall apart. Fucking asshole."

"Y/N, stop—"

"No!" She shouted, shoving him. It was a real shove, putting her weight into it, her hands slamming against his flannel-covered chest. "Get out! I hate you! I hate that you're here, I hate that you think you can just—"

She went to shove him again, harder this time, intending to push him all the way to the door.

She never finished the motion.

Mike's reflexes were sharper than she remembered. As her hands hit his chest, his hands shot up, lightning-fast, and clamped around her wrists. His grip was firm, bordering on bruising, halting her assault instantly.

"Let go of me!" she complained, struggling against his hold. 

"No."

He didn't push her away. He pulled. With a sudden, violent jerk, he yanked Y/N forward. The momentum threw her off balance, and she crashed into him, her body colliding flush against his hard frame. The air left her lungs in a gasp. They were tangled together now, chest to chest, hip to hip. Her hands were trapped between them, resting uselessly against his heart, which she could feel hammering a frantic rhythm against her palms.

Mike looked down at her. His eyes were no longer soft or pleading. They were pitch black, dilated, burning with a terrifying mixture of anger and raw, starving hunger.

"I don't want to confuse you," he rasped, his voice dropping to a low, rough growl that vibrated through her bones. 

He didn't give her time to process the words. Instead, Mike dipped his head and crashed his mouth onto hers. It wasn't a kiss of affection; it was a kiss of possession. It was angry, messy, and overwhelmingly hot. He kissed her like he wanted to devour the accusations right out of her throat.

Y/N let out a muffled sound of shock against his mouth, her body stiffening. One of his hands released her arm and tangled roughly into the hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back to deepen the angle, forcing her to take him. The sensation was blinding. His lips were hot, searing against hers, moving with a desperate, demanding pressure. 

The anger in her veins progressively started to fade. Her fingers, which had been pushing against his chest, curled into the fabric of his flannel shirt, gripping him tight, pulling him closer. She opened her mouth to him, and Mike took the invitation with a groan, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting her deeply, claiming her.

The friction was electric. Mike walked her backward until her lower back hit the edge of the vanity, pinning her there. He stepped between her legs, his thigh pressing firmly, deliberately against her center. The contact sent a jolt of pure, white-hot pleasure straight to her pussy, making her knees buckle. He caught her, his arm sweeping around her waist, his large hand splaying over the bare skin of her back exposed by the cropped polo.

Y/N moaned, the sound lost in his mouth. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her hands in his thick, dark curls, dragging him closer, needing more friction, more pressure, more him. 

Y/N couldn't believe she was finally tasting Michael Wheeler. The DND loser, now somehow hot Michael Wheeler. 

They kissed like they were drowning, teeth clashing, breath mingling, fueled by a year of silence and resentment. 

Mike broke the kiss to gasp for air, but he didn't pull away. He dragged his lips down her jawline, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of her neck. "Tell me you hate me now," he whispered against her throat, breathless. He sucked a mark onto the soft skin below her ear, making her arch her back with a shudder. "Say it, fuck. Tell me you want me to leave."

"Mike..." Y/N whimpered, her head falling back, exposing her throat to him. She was trembling, every nerve ending in her body singing.

"So.. I am Mike now, not Michael.." He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were wild, unhinged. His lips were wet and swollen, red from the force of their kissing. He looked at her like he wanted to rip the rest of her clothes off with his teeth. "I would fuck you so good right now."

Y/N couldn't even process the nature of the words he was saying.

"Admit it," he taunted, his hand sliding boldly up her thigh, his fingers slipping under the hem of her skirt, his thumb grazing the inside of her leg. "Is this what you wanted?"

"Mike, please," she begged, her head spinning, her body aching with a hollow, throbbing need. She didn't even know what she was pleading for.

He leaned in, brushing his lips against hers, teasing her. Every time she tried to kiss him back, he pulled away just a fraction, maddening her.

"Please what?" he whispered, his breath hot on her lips. "Please stop? Or please don't stop?"

Y/N let out a frustrated sound, grabbing the back of his neck and forcing his mouth back onto hers. This time, she kissed him, hard, biting his lip, pouring all her confusion and desire into it. She ground down on his lap, feeling him groan in response, feeling the undeniable evidence of how much he wanted her pressing against her.

Mike's hands moved from her waist to the hem of the navy polo. His fingers brushed the underside of her breasts, a light touch that made her breath hitch in her throat. Y/N didn't stop him. She couldn't. She lifted her arms, a gesture of total surrender that felt like leaping off a cliff. Mike pulled the shirt over her head and tossed it carelessly onto the floor, leaving her standing there in just her white skirt and a sheer lace bra.

“Beautiful." he whispered, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a low rumble.

He dipped his head and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of her breast, just above the fabric. His hand, which had been resting on her waist, began to move. It slid down, heavy and warm, tracing the curve of her hip over the white pleated skirt. He didn't stop there. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of the skirt, gliding up along her thigh until he found the lace.

With a slow, agonizingly deliberate movement, Mike hooked his thumb into the fabric and pulled Y/N's underwear to the side. His fingers traced over her soaked slit, driving her borderline insane. 

"Mike!" she cried out, a strangled, needy sound, her head falling forward to rest over his shoulder. Her body trembled violently, her hips instinctively pushing into his hand. Y/N moaned out as Michael started rubbing slow circles into her clit. Her eyebrows furrowed exaggeratedly when he slipped two of his fingers past her slick folds.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath coming in hot, ragged bursts that scorched her skin.

"That's it," he whispered, his voice a low, rough vibration against her pulse point. "You're so beautiful, God.."

Mike's fingers picked up their pace, becoming a blur between her legs. Y/N let out a high-pitched moan, biting down hard on her lower lip to stifle it. She squeezed her eyes shut, her head falling back against the mirror, exposing her throat to him. Her hands were clutching his shoulders so tightly her knuckles were white, holding onto him as if world was going to end. It was almost enough to tip her over the edge, right then and there, but Mike had other ideas. He abruptly removed his fingers, drawing a desperate, guttural protest from Y/N. Her eyes shot open in disbelief. Before she could utter a complaint, Mike was dropping to his knees, hands braced on her thighs, meeting her gaze with a worshipful look.

He gripped the backs of her knees, spreading her legs so that her skirt bunched up at her waist. He just pressed his mouth to her pussy, slick and messy and impossibly thorough. He licked her like he was starved for it, desperate, mouth and fingers working in tandem until she couldn't tell where one sensation ended and the next began. Every warm and wet flick of his tongue made her clench around nothing, her thighs trembling so hard she almost lost her balance above him. 

Y/N had fantasized about this, of course she had thought about this—but nothing, not even the most delusional corner of her heart, had prepared her for it.

Y/N's hand slammed to the back of his head, tangling in the short curls, holding tight. Mike sucked her clit mercilessly, rolling it between his lips, and slid two fingers inside her again, curling them with perfect precision. She shattered almost instantly.

Her orgasm was an explosion, a blast that left her ears ringing and her muscles spasming. She felt it from her scalp to her toes. Her head thudded softly against the mirror behind her, a deep animalistic sound clawing out of her throat. 

When she came back to herself, Mike was still on his knees, hands braced on her bare thighs, looking up at her with an expression she'd never seen on him before. It wasn't bashful, or hungry, or even smug.. well, maybe a little bit of all three, but mostly it was just...satisfied. Like he'd spent the last year plotting for this moment and was genuinely happy to see it land on her face. 

Michael rose, slow and deliberate, the smudged line of her arousal shining on his lips. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, watching her catch her breath. His pupils were blown wide.

Mike was the first to speak. His voice, when it came, was confident but soft, more than she'd ever heard it. "On a real note, you’re gonna be fine," he said. He looked away from her, running a hand up the side of his neck, eyes fixed on the swirling pattern of her wallpaper. "You always are. I mean, you go to Yale. You're like... unstoppable now."

Y/N clung to the edge of her vanity, legs trembling. She could still feel the echo of his mouth everywhere. She was about to tell him to go to hell, or at least wipe that look off his face, but all she managed was a sigh.

"I mean it," Mike insisted, fidgeting slightly. "I, uh... I didn't plan any of this either, but I'm not sorry. You should know that. You should know..."

There was a long, uneven silence. "What are you talking about?" Y/N breathed, her voice raspy.

"I'm saying that I don't want to be the reason you have a miserable summer," he said, his jaw working. "I just needed to know... I needed to know if it was real. Whatever was happening between us. But now I know."

He shrugged, a jerky, uncomfortable motion.

"So, just... make your stay good. For you and for Dustin. I know he missed you." He paused, his gaze dropping to the floor. "If you don't want me around, I won't be around. I won't get in your way again."

Y/N felt the air leave her lungs as if she'd been punched. The whiplash was nauseating. He was giving her an out. He was trying to be noble, or maybe he was just scared, but it felt cruel. It made the last ten minutes feel transactional.

God, it felt like that one night all over again.

"Mike," she started, the word fracturing in her throat. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to grab him and shake him and ask him what the hell was the point of all this if he was just going to walk away.

But the words wouldn't come. Her pride, which he had so effectively dismantled, came rushing back to choke her.

Mike didn't wait for her to find her voice. He seemed to take her silence as agreement. 

He turned and walked to the door, his movements stiff. He placed his hand on the knob, pausing for a fraction of a second. He didn't look back. He didn't wink. There was no teasing left in his tone, only a flat, devastating finality.

"See you at breakfast, Y/N."

The door clicked shut.