➷ summary: you’re the captain of the briar girl’s volleyball team, leading your team through the ncaa volleyball semifinals in the hopes of reaching the championship. and you do achieve that, but not after experiencing the most insane introduction with john logan, a man you hadn’t known to exist until now
➷ word count: 5464
pt. 2 here!!
➷ warnings: cursing, sexual references kind of (no smut), probably inaccurate volleyball because i literally have never played and don’t know anything about it (i was researching as i wrote this, so i'm genuinely so sorry if it’s completely wrong. also, for the sake of plot making sense, we’re gonna say the ncaa volleyball tournaments take place in march because i want hannah and garrett, and allie and dean to be together)
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
It was nearing the end of the 5th set, and yet, still, both Briar U and Harvard’s girl’s volleyball teams were tied. Fucking 24 points each, both having two winning sets beneath their belts. Meaning, whoever got the last two points– the points that both teams desperately needed– would get a ticket straight to the NCAA Championship.
And you, the libero on the team, the captain, were fucking livid.
Your team, as well as yourself, had been playing sloppy– or at least, it felt like you had– and you really had no clue why. You guys had been perfect during practice, together as one team. Hell, the first two sets had been great, too. Wipeouts.
But then, of course, because it was fucking Harvard, they won the third set. And then the fourth.
And now you were on the fifth and final set of the NCAA Semifinals, tied 24 points each.
It had to be the most intense game you had ever played in your 15 years of volleyball.
It didn’t help that Harvard was absolutely, 100%, targeting your ass. You guess it made sense– since your freshman year, you’d been talked about. A prospect that sports sites couldn’t stop talking about. Your name had been in their mouths since your first game at Briar U, and it hadn’t left since.
And that’s because you– to be totally, completely humble– were a really fucking amazing libero.
Your defensive moves and tactics were the highlights of many games, the Briar U volleyball account literally reposting edits that fans have made of your best saves. You didn’t let it get to your head, of course. You couldn’t, even if you had tried. You weren’t like that– you could never be like that, because in all honesty, you knew the only reason you had gotten as good as you had was because of past coaches and teammates. As well as current ones.
So yeah, you were good, maybe even great as some of the sports sites put it, but it was all through the effort of others.
And, to be honest, right now, you didn’t feel great.
Or good.
You felt completely, utterly, horrible, because during this set– despite it being in the beginning– you had failed to save two hits, the spikes from the opposing team smacking the center of your side of the net. This meant that Harvard had earned two points because you couldn’t get your shit together, and it was driving you fucking nuts.
You felt like you had the pressure of this win on your shoulders, and it really didn’t help that the stands were filled to the brim with students. Harvard students, yes, but mostly Briar students, since it was ‘Briar Blackout’ tonight, a term coined for any sports event when they were wanting to fill the stands, especially now, since it was semifinals, which were held in an arena very close to campus. And boy, were they filled. Which made this all that much worse. God, did it feel like you were letting them down right now. It was embarrassing. Every time Harvard got a point, the disappointed groans of your supporters met your ears, and the usual smile that you wore on your face as you played had been completely wiped from your features during the third set. Because genuinely what the fuck?
This game had been disappointing on so many levels to the point that you were now actively listening to the chants from fellow students and supporters, something you never did. You always tried to block them out, to focus on yourself, but right now, you needed the support.
And it helped a bit, hearing the chants of your name, as well as the other names of girls on your team, shouting how you guys totally ‘got this’.
The people sitting in the courtside seats were the loudest.
In the chairs to your right sat people who had actually bought tickets, while the courtside seats to your left was the Briar boys volleyball team. And, in the courtside seats directly behind you sat the Briar U boys hockey team. Which was new.
You’re pretty sure it was because they had won nationals, so they were here to support the girls volleyball team as they fought for their place. Which you were dreading may be coming to a dead-end tonight.
But you couldn’t be thinking about the hockey boys right now– you couldn’t be thinking about any of this, not when you watched as Luisa Elliot, your best friend, your outside hitter, stumbled as her hands tapped the ball, sending it in the completely wrong direction. Instead of it going back over the net like it was meant to, it had been hit completely off course.
It flew over your head, and was heading straight for the stands directly behind.
That was no good.
You sprint with not an ounce of hesitation towards the ball, following its movement with your eyes and legs, and you knew there was no way in hell you were going to make it– not when you were coming horribly close to the hockey boys. And, if you ran into them before you sent that ball back where it was meant to go, then you might not get the point, or, worse, Harvard could get the point.
And, fuck, you really couldn’t have that.
So you did what you always did– you leaped, quite literally throwing yourself forward in a dive, right arm pointed straight out, desperate to hit that ball back to your teammates. And you felt it, the ball smacking against the fleshy part of your hand below the knuckle of your thumb.
You figured it went as planned, your eyes watching as the ball went back over your head– and, when a loud, collective, deafening cheer sounded from your side of the stands, you were positive that your play had gone perfectly, the ball going exactly where it was supposed to be.
However, you were not where you were supposed to be.
No, you were currently dangling over one of the Briar hockey boys.
In the save that may have kept Briar in the game, you had sacrificed your dignity, because here you were, body pressed against and over a man you had never once spoken to– hell, you didn’t even know which hockey player was beneath you. All you knew was that you could feel his face pressed into the fabric that covered your stomach, the rest of your upper body draped over the top of his head. The only reason why you hadn’t flipped completely over the man was because his right arm had instinctively secured itself around the back of your thighs, keeping you in place.
To your left, you heard the loud cackle from one of the boys, and to your right, you heard another one of the guys react with a shocked, “Oh, shit!”
You tried to move quickly, hearing the game continuing behind you as the ball was passed between the Harvard girls. Your hands, which had previously been held out in front of you, trying to balance yourself, now were being grabbed by the two other hockey players beside you, who helped tug you to an upright position as quickly as they could.
As they do this, you feel the arm of the guy that you are currently straddling slide away from your thighs, and he holds his hands back, palms facing you as if he was surrendering to something.
You only get a quick glance of the guy’s baffled– but heavily amused– eyes before your left hand quite literally presses against his face, using it as leverage to push yourself off him, where you start at a sprint back towards the game that had your entire focus. And, it’s lucky you did that, because just as you were about to make it back to the court, the middle hitter of the Harvard team had spiked the ball straight to the floor on your side of the court.
Again, you dove to the ball, slamming your hand down on the polished wood floor just in time. Instead of the volleyball making contact with the planks of wood, it ricochets off the back of your right hand, moving upward where another one of your teammates– Liliana Amato– bumps it up and over to Louisa.
Louisa, the fucking amazing hitter that she is, spikes the ball with the palm of her hand, sending it straight to the back corner of Harvard’s side of the net.
Their libero isn’t fast enough.
No one on their team is fast enough, because the ball hits the wood with a loud smack, resulting in the entire room to vibrate with the loud cheers and screams of Briar students and fans.
You jump up quickly when you hear the whistle from the referee, and you swear you could cry from pure glee when the ref announces that, yes, the point did count, despite the Harvard team trying to claim that your pancake move hadn’t actually saved the ball.
This causes another wave of loud cheers to erupt in the room, and you move to Louisa and Liliana, a giant grin on your face as you three high five, but not before each of you took a running headstart, jumping as you met in the middle, your shoulders colliding in a celebration of glee. It was something you always did, the three of you, because, as fate had it, you three were the ‘big three’. You guys moved with an efficiency like no other, and as it turned out, sports websites loved it.
All you needed now was one point.
One point, and you would be two points ahead, and then you’d win.
If you guys got this point, you’d make it to the NCAA Championship, something that Briar girls volleyball hasn’t been to in over ten years.
The arena gets quiet again as the two teams get ready, and from the corner of your eye you watch as Macey Cameron, your team's setter, tosses the ball up into the air, using her palm to serve it to Harvard.
And, like that, another intense battle ensues. You swear to God you’ve lost at least twenty pounds through this game because the Harvard girls really were putting you to work– the ball had gone over the net and back three times in the last thirty seconds, and each time, you’ve had to dive to save the ball from one of the girls' vicious spikes.
Like now.
You had just gotten to your feet again when Harvard’s middle hitter sent a completely fucking lethal spike your way. It was going down and over your head with a speed you didn’t even know was possible, and you tossed yourself backwards, right hand out to save the ball from hitting the floor. As it flies up, your body rolls on top of itself, and you’re pretty sure you’ve done some sort of fucking backward sumersault, because one second you’re on your back, and the next you’re on your knees, panting as you rise back to your feet, watching as Liliana sends the ball back over the net.
You watch as the ball flies near the back of the court, hitting the polished wood planks before any of the girls can get it.
But the room stays deathly silent because was that out?
It couldn’t be out.
There was no way you guys just did all that shit for the fucking ball to go out.
Everyone’s eyes are on the ref, who’s talking to the other referees. They’re huddled in a group, and after thirty seconds, they step apart. You watch, and you feel like it’s in slow motion as the man points to your team, nodding.
It had gone in.
The ball had gone in, meaning that Briar had just won the second point needed.
Meaning you were going to the fucking NCAA Championship.
In an instant, the room erupted in cheers so loud that it vibrated through the ground, reaching your feet as you and your team jumped up and down, your coaches– who have yelled at you more times than you could count this game– joining in. You’re so ecstatic that you don’t even think to apologize to the hockey boy that you had run down just minutes prior.
The hockey boy that is now watching you as he cheers, a soft, intrigued smile on his face.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Typically after volleyball games, you went straight home, where you would take a shower and then slump into bed, passing out before you could even question if you were comfortable. It was a ritual at this point; you play a game, you go home and sleep immediately after.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, you and your team had made it to the fucking NCAA Volleyball Championship, which Briar hadn’t done since you were still in elementary school. So, yes, you would fight through your exhaustion for one night, and head to Malone’s for a late night meal with three of your teammates– your best friends– and you would have a great time despite desperately wanting to get comfy in your bedsheets.
Which is how you found yourself now, at 10:30 p.m., entering Malone’s with Louisa, Lililiana, and another girl on the team, Jade, at your side, the four of you walking through the doors of the popular diner.
You were chatting with Louisa who walked directly next to you, and you laughed at something she said, the soft sound carrying through the diner over the group you had yet to notice. The group you had yet to ever meet.
“Holy shit, it’s her!” Dean hissed, leaning across the table to nudge Logan in the shoulder from where he sat beside Garrett. “She’s literally right there–”
“Yeah, I have fucking eyes and ears, man,” Logan responded back quickly, voice terse as his eyes sideglanced you and your group, watching as the four of you walked past the table that currently held six people, including himself, without any knowledge that you were being watched. He looked back to Dean, eyes narrowed, “Can you be quiet?”
“Why?” Dean asked with a smirk, leaning back against the booth chair, his arm still hung comfortably around Allie, who was grinning with Hannah. “You’ve been aware of this girl for four hours now, and it’s obvious you already have a massive crush on her.”
“I don’t–”
“You’ve been stalking her Instagram since the game ended,” Garrett interrupted with a snort. “I’m pretty sure you’ve scrolled down to her sophomore year of high school.”
Hannah laughs into her drink at that, sharing a look with Tucker who had been snacking on the basket of fries that sat in the middle of the friend group.
Logan feels his face heat up at that, and he promptly shuts off his phone, pressing it face down onto the table. Then, he picks up his drink, taking a large sip as he shrugs, speaking into the glass, “She’s interesting.”
“Yeah, interesting because she practically gave you a lap dance mid-game,” Tucker snickered, which, as a result, caused Hannah and Allie to erupt into fits of laughter.
Logan glared harshly at Tucker, “That’s not why I find her interesting.”
“Sure,” Dean drawls out.
“Dude, I’m serious,” Logan huffs, taking a fry and chucking it at the blonde’s head. Then, he leans back against his seat, crossing his arms over himself, “She’s good at her sport. It's fun to watch."
“I think he’s so intrigued because she has no idea who he is,” Hannah butts in with a grin, laughing as Garrett nods along, his arm resting firmly around her, his fingers rubbing against the fabric of her cardigan. “And that’s new for any Briar hockey boy.”
“Oh, definitely,” Garrett agrees.
Logan only stays quiet with a sharp roll of his eyes. But he doesn’t deny it. He can’t deny it, because it’s true.
Just hours ago, after your amazing win, you had been asked for a post-game interview by Briar’s sports media team. And you had said yes, because why would you not? It was better than having to deal with the glares and snarky comments from exiting Harvard fans.
Now, one thing about you was, you didn’t do hockey. Like, at all. You’ve never been to a game before. You didn’t understand how the stupid little ice game worked. Which, very fucking embarrassing for you, was discovered by the entire internet just hours prior.
It was discovered by John Logan hours prior.
The questions had been basic; they always were. Just repeats of the same things, such as certain plays, how you felt winning, yada, yada, yada. However, tonight, the last question had been different, directly tied to the man you had plowed down hours ago. The man who you didn’t know a fucking thing about, because you seriously didn’t do hockey.
“Alright,” the reporter, Sammy, had said, moving onto the next question. “Now, kinda venturing off… we actually wanted to talk about a specific save tonight.”
You smiled your practiced smile, the type that was sweet and polite and all the right ways, “Oh yeah?”
“John Logan. How are you feeling about that?” The reporter stated the question like you were supposed to know who the fuck that was. And maybe it was because your brain was practically mush from the brutal game, paired with the fact that you were running on pure adrenaline post game, but you couldn’t for the life of you connect that the guy you had run down was John Logan. Again, whoever the hell he was.
“Sorry, who?”
Yeah, you couldn’t have picked a worse fucking response.
But, in John Logan’s eyes, that was the perfect fucking response. When he watched the interview on the way to Malone’s after the game– because he was intrigued with volleyball, that was the only reason– he couldn’t help the amused but giddy smile that laced his face.
The reporter’s smile faltered, and she looked back to the camera that was videotaping the entire thing for the school’s media, before her gaze returned back to you like you guys were in an episode of The Office, “Uh… John Logan?”
“Yeah, um... I’m really sorry, I have no clue who that is.”
“The guy you ran into. When saving one of the passes.”
“Oh,” you respond. And because for some fucking reason you can’t help but embarrass yourself tonight, the situation finally clicks in your head, and you say the worst thing humanly possible: you smile, and say, “Hockey boy.”
Like a fucking idiot.
Or, in John Logan’s eyes, like a fucking angel.
“...Right. He plays right wing for Briar men’s hockey,” she explains. And then, she looks back at the camera as she asks, “You didn’t know the hockey team was behind you, watching tonight?”
And, of course, because for some reason your brain’s goal is to get you to make a complete fool out of yourself, you answer an even worse answer.
But, no, you weren’t a fool in Logan’s eyes. Not even close. You were the complete opposite and it had his heart going like a freight train was headed straight for him.
“I knew they were here. I just don’t have a clue who they are.”
“You don’t know Garrett Graham?”
“Uh… nope? I don’t think so.”
“Dean Di Laurentis?”
“Not ringing a bell, sorry.”
“John Tucker?”
“The guy I ran into?”
Logan had laughed at that, making up a quick excuse to Tucker, who had been sitting next to him in the car back when Logan had first seen the video.
“What? No– no, that was John Logan.”
“Right.” You shake your head and you laugh, “Too many John’s, am I right?”
The reporter was watching you like you had grown another head; she did not laugh. You felt a swell of embarrassment creep up in your chest, but you pushed it away, trying to finish the interview as quickly as possible. And you had.
Jesus Christ, Logan practically ate the thing up. He’d played it back, telling himself it was for educational volleyball purposes, when really it was to watch as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion when asked who he was.
And not caring when finding out who he was.
Which is how he ended up searching your name on Instagram, scrolling through your feed, post by post like some weird stalker, according to his friends. Who, presently, were watching him, because he had turned on his phone yet again, eyes flickering down to the screen, watching an old volleyball practice video you had posted.
“Just go talk to her, dude,” Garrett finally said after another thirty seconds of watching Logan silently yearn at your Instagram profile. “She’s two tables down.”
Logan followed Garrett’s gesture, his head turning a fraction, his eyes catching your form as you hovered over a laminated menu, talking pleasantly with the girl who sat beside you. You pointed at something on the menu, wiggled your eyebrows at the girl across from you, and then snorted at what you had said while your three friends gave you bored expressions.
God, he hadn’t even spoken to you and he was positive he was in love.
“No,” he finally says, twisting his head back to his friends.
“Okay, this is painful,” Dean finally said, throwing his hands up. “Give me that–”
Dean had reached forward, plucking Logan’s phone from his loose grip.
“What– dude, stop– give it back–”
But Dean had stood in the booth, holding Logan’s phone out of reach, and he scrolled all the way back up to the top of your Instagram. He wasted no time, clicking the follow button with a sigh of content before shutting off the device and tossing it back to Logan.
And, oh, if looks could kill.
“Are you fucking–”
“Shhhh, thank me later.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
“No way.”
“What?” Louisa had said, smiling at the waitress as she brought out the four Cokes that you guys had ordered. She took a long sip, staring at you from over the rim, “What’s up?”
You silently turn your phone, showing your three best friends your most recent notification.
John Logan has requested to follow you.
“Holy fuck,” Jade gapes. Then, she snatches your phone from your grip, and you reach forward, trying to snatch it back. However, she’s already leaning far away from you, “Oh, we are accepting this right now–”
“No! No, we are not,” you respond, voice stern as you stand to try and reach for your phone again. “He literally just followed me. If I accept now, he’ll think me plowing into him was intentional or something, so give–”
“And, accepted! Alrightly, follow back… and look at that, he already approved it!”
“I hate you,” you groan.
“Bro,” Liliana said, gesturing to your phone, “he was the one who followed you first. Which means that after you ran him down, he looked you up on Instagram. Which means he has been debating following you for four hours now. Which means he has the hots for you.”
“You guys are all delusional,” you respond, but not before quickly thanking your waitress, who brings over the four burgers and fries you guys had ordered just a bit ago. The food had come quickly, and you know it’s because Malone’s is relatively empty tonight. Only three tables are taken, including the one that you and your friends occupy.
“I don’t think you’re grasping the severity of this situation.”
“‘The severity of the situation’?” You repeat Jade’s words. “The hell does that mean?’
“That you have one of the hottest guys at Briar, a hockey player, following you almost immediately after you straddled him–”
You feel your face burn, “I did not straddle him.”
“Babe,” Louisa interjects, “you absolutely straddled him. Wanna see a video?”
You groan, “They already posted it?”
“Girl, they posted it three minutes after it happened,” Liliana said. She grabbed her phone, typing quickly, and then slid her phone across the table. You steadied it in front of you, leaning over to watch. And, yeah, you definitely straddled the guy. But not after you fucking launched yourself at him like a rabid squirrel, nearly flinging over his shoulder– you only hadn’t because he had held you against him.
“Oh,” Louisa says from beside you, pointing to the phone. “So that’s Garrett Graham,” she points to the guy who was on your right, the one who had vocalized his surprise when it had happened, “and that’s Dean Di Laurentis,” and then she points to the guy who had cackled. You watch as her finger points to the man next to Dean, “That’s John Tucker. The other John. They all live together. They throw the best parties, too, out of all the hockey boys.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Literally everyone does except you, apparently.”
“Okay, whatever.”
Jade groans loudly, “Can we return to the issue at hand here? John Logan thinks you’re hot.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Girl, look at his smile after you push your hand against his face.”
Jade leans over, using two fingers to zoom the video on the guy’s face, and sure enough, after you push off against his face, sprinting to save the volleyball once more, he watches you with what looks to be a dazed grin, his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth.
Fuck, it was kinda hot.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you choose to say instead.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Jade groans. “Look, whatever. Do you at least find him attractive?”
You shrug, lying, “I dunno. Didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Alright, Liliana, pull up the edit.”
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘the edit’?” You question, absolutely baffled. “This guy has edits made for him?”
“He’s a college hockey player, and he’s fucking amazing. And really fucking hot. So, yeah, he’s got edits– but this one is like, top tier. Really gets you going, if you know what I mean–”
“You guys are disgusting.”
“Here,” Liliana says, clicking a video in her liked posts. She shifts her phone towards you, turning up the volume with the pad of her thumb, and you watch as the song “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys sounds through her phone, an extremely well crafted edit of John Logan both on the ice and in interviews playing before you.
“Okay,” you say once the edit finishes, “he’s hot. I get it.”
“See!” Jade grins, “He’s hot, and he’s definitely interested in you after tonight, which means that–”
But you all pause. All four of you freeze, because two tables down, you hear the sound of your voice on full blast, coming from someone’s phone. It’s you answering a question after a relatively successful game, followed by a song. Meaning that somewhere in this fucking diner, someone was watching edits of you.
“Shit! Dean, turn it down–”
It was too late, though.
You and your friends’ heads snapped in the direction of the noise, only to be met with the eyes of six others– five who seemed absolutely thrilled that you had noticed, while the sixth definitely looked like a deer in headlights.
The sixth being John Logan.
You can’t even react accordingly, because Louisa is grinning like a madman, shaking your shoulder and pointing very obviously at the group that’s only two tables away, “Holy shit, he’s right there, oh my God–”
“I can see that, Louisa,” you hiss, pushing her hands off you. Then, you turn back to John Logan, watching as he whispers heated words to his friends before standing. And holy fuck, he’s making his way over to you. Before he even reaches the table, Liliana, Louisa, and Jade are standing, gathering their things and food, and your eyes widen with an alarmed expression, and you hurriedly whisper, “Where the fuck are you guys going?”
“To a different table so we don’t block his cock.”
“Oh my–”
You can’t even finish your words, because your friends are gone. And John Logan is standing right in front of you, a small, gentle smile on his face as he watches your friends scurry over to the table he had just come from. They shove themselves into the booth next to Logan’s friends, acting as if they knew the people they now sat with, which they did not.
Logan’s friends didn’t seem to care, though. They looked just as eager, making room so your three obnoxious teammates could sit comfortably.
You fight the urge to audibly sigh, looking back at the man in front of you. You match his smile, and you really don’t know what’s with your fucking head today, but the first words that leave your mouth aren’t something sweet. They aren't cute. They make you look like a dipshit.
“My victim.”
You immediately want to get up and leave, because genuinely what the fuck were you on today?
But you don’t leave, not when John’s smile widens, and you can see his pretty teeth. He looks thoroughly amused, excited even, and he nods along with your words as he responds, “My attacker.”
“I wouldn’t call it an attack–”
“What would you call it?” He asks with his gentle grin, and he pulls out the chair where Jade had just been, sitting directly across from you.
“A collision on the playing field,” you offer with a hint of playfulness, which he catches onto instantly. “I’m sure you’re used to those. With hockey and everything.”
“So you know who I am now?” He asks, his eyes sparkling with something exciting.
“Hard not to when our video is already making its way through social media. Have you seen it?”
“Absolutely,” he says with a nod, and his tone is serious in a joking way. He’s got his arms now on the table, leaning forward as he speaks to you. He’s still grinning, and you conclude now that this guy is insanely good at keeping eye contact. It's really hot. “You tackling me, me catching you–”
“Straight out of a sports romcom,” you conclude. Then, you shake your solemnly, “What a waste, am I right? If we had some good dialogue, we would’ve gotten a ticket straight to the Oscars!”
“Oh, I know,” he says, and he throws his hands up dramatically. “We’ve been snubbed.”
Fuck, he was fun to banter with.
All the nerves you felt when you first realized he was walking over had vanished into thin air, because you guys got along good. You clicked instantaneously, falling into an easy back and forth that had you leaning forward as you spoke to him, words playful as he nodded along, eyes wide in a way that showed he was having just as much fun as you were.
You guys had been so invested in your many conversations about literally whatever the fuck came up that you didn’t even realize when your friends left. Or when his friends left. Or when you two were the only people left in Malone’s, except for the staff.
And, through the long, witty, playful conversations you were having with John, you two somehow ended up staying at Malone’s until close. It was late out, just past 2 a.m., and John offered to walk you home, which you refused at first, worried about keeping him out too late. But the man pouts dramatically, a playful expression as he told you there's nothing else he'd rather do, and you can’t help but agree.
Which is where you found yourself now.
Pushed up against the front door of your apartment, lips pressed against his, hands threaded through his hair while his fingers held your waist, thumbs rubbing over your hipbones with the type of gentleness that made your heart ache.
He presses more kisses to your lips. They’re firmer, eager, and it’s now that you know you have to break the news to him.
“Wanna know another thing about me, John?” You grin, tilting your head back as he presses kisses down your neck.
He hums against your skin, sucking gently at your pulse point before smoothing it over with his tongue, pressing once final kiss to the skin. He moves his way back up your neck and jaw with soft kisses, pressing one final kiss to the softness of your lips, “What?”
“I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”
You expect him to falter, to pull back with a face of disappointment. You figured that’s what would happen, but you didn’t necessarily care. Sure, it was going to suck, having to end this short-lived thing with the hottest guy you ever met, but you weren’t going to change your rules for a guy you had just met.
But, no, Logan doesn’t react how you were expecting at all.
No frown, no hint of irritation. He does something else, something that catches you off guard in the best way possible.
Summary: A Thanksgiving dinner was the last thing Y/n and Garret wanted to share with their father. Knowing that she and her brother wouldn't be able to handle it alone, Logan is there to help them through it.
Words: 8.6K+
Warnings: Relationship established, Logan is Y/n's boyfriend, she and Garrett are portrayed as twins, Phil is always a scoundrel, based on the Thanksgiving episode, anguish, sadness, mentions of bruises and fights, panic attacks, mentions of the twins' past, mentions of their mother, no mentions of Hannah here, (because I wanted to stay focused on the couple and the twins' storyline), Garret and Logan are overprotective of Y/n, Logan is the boyfriend of their dreams, a comforting ending.
Author: English is not my first language, so I apologize for any typos, grammar, spelling, and slang errors that may appear in the story. I watch Off Campus and I can't get it out of my head.😭 (My order is open for orders!) 🇧🇷🩷
MASTERLIST
Phil Graham never called without a reason. And, in the twins' experience, it was rarely a good reason.
He emerged from under the sink without wasting any time, dropping the tool somewhere on the countertop before turning his full, worried attention back to it.
To be completely honest, it was never a good reason.
When their father's name appeared on the illuminated screen of their cell phone, both Y/n and Garret knew it immediately. It didn't matter where they were or what they were doing at that exact moment; that simple call was enough to make their stomachs clench in a tense knot.
The offer, at least to anyone looking from the outside, seemed completely harmless. An invitation to Thanksgiving dinner.
That's exactly how any outsider would see the situation, but Y/n and Garret knew their father perfectly well and were very aware of the suffocating feeling of returning home after seeing him, needing entire days just to emotionally recover from all the tension.
During the following days, they tried to think of every possible excuse.
Non-existent commitments. Last-minute invented trips. Urgent work. A rare disease that didn't even exist in medicine. Anything that would justify an acceptable absence. But in the end, reality remained exactly the same.
Logan was on the kitchen floor of the house he shared with Garret and the boys. Y/n entered the room without knocking, her hands deep in her trouser pockets, her shoulders visibly tense, and her face bearing an expression that made it clear something was very wrong.
She closed the door behind her and walked slowly through the house, noticing that no one was there except Logan. Hearing some noises coming from the kitchen, Y/n headed in that direction.
Logan was completely focused on the task, humming softly some random song they had heard earlier in the car. She approached the counter silently and rested her forearms on the cold marble, observing his every move. And even without seeing her directly, Logan sensed her presence almost immediately, and a smile appeared on his lips.
"Hey, honey! Are you going to keep staring at me, or can I get a little kiss?"
Y/n let out a weak giggle.
"Hi, darling." The reply came with an awkward smile, and that was enough for Logan to realize that something was amiss.
"I know you probably already have plans for the holidays. And I know you always spend Thanksgiving with Jules. And I know Garrett will be there with me. And I know I'm a perfectly functioning adult who should be able to survive a dinner party without panicking, but..." The words continued to flow without pause. "And I also know it's not fair to ask you to spend hours sitting at that table listening to my dad talk about himself and hockey and—"
"Are you okay, love?"
Y/n looked away, her fingers beginning to pick at bits of nail polish, as if she needed to keep her hands occupied to stop all her emotions from escaping at once.
"This isn't good at all..." Her voice faltered, and Y/n looked up at him, clearly trying to hold back tears.
Logan's expression changed instantly; he quickly wiped his hands on his pants and hurried closer.
"Hey, hey, I'm here..." His hands landed carefully on her shoulders.
Y/n tilted her head until it rested against him, finally finding a safe place where she could relax.
"Do you want to tell me? But only if you feel comfortable."
"My father called." That simple sentence was enough for Logan to understand part of the problem.
"He invited Garrett and me to Thanksgiving dinner so he could introduce his fiancée. And I don't want to go."
"I know..." Logan smiled gently, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.
"I can't remember a single time he invited us to something and it didn't end up being awful." Her eyes filled with tears. "Garret and I left there feeling terrible and then spent days pretending nothing happened, because it's easier than admitting how much it hurts."
"Love..."
"I know it sounds dramatic. I... I'm just tired."
Logan nodded slowly, still smiling gently at her. "I know."
Y/n stared at her own hands for a few seconds before biting her lip. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything, my love!"
"You're not bothering me."
"No."
Y/n continued.
"And I know you have absolutely no obligation to deal with my family because it's enough that I have to deal with—"
"Hey! Breathe, my dear!" Logan laughed and Y/n blinked a few times.
She exhaled slowly. "Sorry... I'm almost freaking out."
"I perceived."
Y/n let her head fall forward. "This is awful."
"So let's tackle one thing at a time. First, you sit down and take a deep breath." Logan pulled up a stool.
Y/n sat near the counter, her body still stiff. Logan filled a glass with ice water and handed it to her, pulling up a nearby stool and sitting down beside her.
"Would you... go with me to my father's problematic dinner party?"
"Yes!" John said quickly.
Y/n blinked. "Yes?"
"Yeah."
"You didn't even think."
"Because I didn't need to think."
She stared at her boyfriend, as if she were expecting a more complicated answer.
"Logan..."
"Honey, did you really think I'd let you face this alone?"
"But what about Jules?"
"I talk to her and she's very understanding. She'll understand."
Y/n shook her head. "I don't want to bother you."
Garret watched the two for a few more seconds, and then his shoulders finally relaxed from all the accumulated tension. The weight he had carried since the call seemed to lessen a little. He nodded in silent thanks, smiled slightly, and turned to go to his room.
"He is sure?"
"Absolutely." John smiled and extended his little finger for her to intertwine. Y/n laughed and intertwined their fingers.
"Thanks."
"No need to thank me, I'll do anything, you know."
Logan opened his arms without saying anything, and she didn't hesitate. She put her glass down on the table and immediately leaned into his warm embrace, feeling his arms wrap around her waist as she buried her face in his neck and closed her eyes.
It was at that exact moment that the sound of the front door opening echoed.
Garret arrived and as soon as he appeared in the kitchen doorway, he found his sister completely hidden in Logan's protective arms. The scene was more than enough for him to understand everything that was happening there.
Then he made an expressive face, as if to say to Logan something like: Our father called.
And Logan clearly understood the message, because he replied with a calm smile that said exactly what was happening and assured her that everything would be alright.
●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●●
Logan knew exactly how fragile and anxious his girlfriend became on the day she had to go to her father's house, so the day before, he made sure to play the role of the dream boyfriend: he gathered his last two savings and bought flowers, chocolates, and their favorite snack from the local Italian restaurant. With everything planned, he went to her apartment on campus to pick her up, ensuring she would spend that night at his place.
The day of the dinner had finally arrived.
Y/n felt her eyes burning with tears. "Or I don't know, I wish my mother were here because...because everything is too much sometimes."
At the moment, Logan was waiting for Y/n outside the house, leaning against the side of the truck with his hands in his pants pockets. As soon as he saw his girlfriend appear in the front doorway carefully holding the freshly baked pie they had made together, he smiled and approached, extending a hand to help her down the steps.
"Where's Garrett?" Y/n asked, looking around.
"He said he would stop by Hannah's apartment before leaving."
Y/n frowned. "I thought he was going with us."
Logan shook his head and then opened the passenger side door.
"He told me he was going alone. We know what Garrett is like, don't we?"
Y/n settled into the seat, fastening her seatbelt and holding the pie firmly on her lap, while Logan got into the driver's side and began to enter her father's address into the GPS.
She remained completely silent for a few seconds. He then noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that she seemed very thoughtful.
"Hey. You're thinking so hard I can hear it from here."
Y/n let out a weak giggle. "Sorry."
Logan frowned immediately. "Why are you apologizing, love?"
Y/n looked at her own hands. "Because I'm only now officially introducing you as my boyfriend." Logan blinked, clearly confused. "We've been together for a year and I didn't want it to be under these circumstances, you know?"
"I don't understand, my dear." John raised his eyebrows.
She exhaled slowly.
"It's Phil Graham, you know..." The name was more than enough for Logan to understand exactly where this conversation was going. "The hockey player and all that. People like meeting him, they get excited, they tell their friends... It's just that..." Y/n made a vague gesture with her hand in the air. "I wanted him to be...normal?" She tried to force a sad smile.
"I understand, my dear." John gently stroked her cheek. "And that's okay, because I'm with you for who you are, not for the last name you carry."
Y/n and Garret had already confided in him countless stories from the past about the man, harrowing accounts that made John's stomach churn with pure, silent rage, because he blindly believed every word the twins said.
John immediately pulled her into a tight hug.
"You have me and Garrett. And we're not going anywhere!" He kissed her cheek tenderly, and Y/n smiled through her silent tears. "And what about your father? I know Phil from the games, and about what you're telling me, it's all right, I'm with you... And I'm not even a HUGE fan of his!" He shrugged casually, and Y/n let out a genuine, open laugh, which made Logan smile.
"Silly!" John simply winked charmingly, and Y/n smiled softly.
"Thank you for everything."
His expression softened completely at those words. Then, with all the gentleness in the world, Logan cupped her chin with his fingers and pulled her in for a quick, incredibly delicate and affectionate kiss.
"Ready."
"Ready what?" She smiled slightly, curious.
"You are now officially forbidden from being sad for the next forty minutes."
"That doesn't even make sense." Y/n laughed genuinely.
"Of course it does." He started the car engine and placed his cell phone in the dashboard holder. "Now choose a song. But nothing too sad or dramatic."
Y/n laughed loudly and nudged his ribs with her elbow. "Shut up!"
From the beginning of college, Phil used to attend the most important games, campus sporting events, team dinners, and celebrations related to the hockey team. Logan was an active part of that world. They had already talked on a few casual occasions, because Phil usually showed up in the locker room after games, greeted the players closest to him, briefly praised a specific play, and moved on with his imposing posture.
Sometimes he would even congratulate Logan on his excellent performance on the ice, but almost always the interaction ended in exactly the same predictable way: Phil would find Garrett and immediately begin a series of comments about the tactical errors his son had made in the game.
For that exact reason, Logan never pressured Y/n to rush an official introduction to the family. Because he knew very well how Phil Graham operated outside the spotlight on the ice.
"If you want, we can go back." He brought one of his warm hands to her face, caressing her skin with his thumb and brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
The car ride along the highway went surprisingly smoothly. And Y/n actually managed to completely forget exactly where they were going.
Then a familiar car suddenly appeared in the rearview mirror and, a few seconds later, overtook the pickup truck at a daring speed, soon followed by the shrill sound of a horn. Then another quick honk. Then one more, in a joking tone.
Y/n immediately recognized the shiny black jeep, and before it completely disappeared around the bend in the road ahead, a familiar hand emerged from the driver's window, making a series of exaggerated and completely meaningless gestures in the air.
The scene was so genuinely ridiculous that she immediately started laughing, the kind of laugh that made her shoulders tremble all over.
When they finally arrived at their final destination, Logan maneuvered and parked right behind Garret's car. But he immediately noticed a crucial detail: his brother-in-law's silhouette was still clearly visible inside the jeep. Motionless in the driver's seat. As if gathering every last drop of courage before opening the door.
Beside her, Y/n continued to grip the pie tin with excessive force, pressing her fingers against the edges while her eyes were completely fixed and locked on the main entrance of the house.
And Logan realized that instantly, because he knew each of those expressions of panic in detail.
Y/n chuckled without any humor. "I really wanted to."
"We can do this, the choice is yours."
And then her gaze fell heavily on Garret's parked car ahead. Just as her brother finally opened the jeep door, his jaw visibly clenched and that familiar frown on his forehead.
"But I'm here for him too." She discreetly pointed with her chin in the direction of her twin.
Logan observed Garret's rigid posture for a brief moment, then turned his full attention to her.
"And I'm here for you, never forget that."
Y/n ended up letting a faint smile appear, feeling more secure.
However, when he looked outside again, he found Garret leaning against the side of his own vehicle. Even at that average distance, it was perfectly clear that he had neither the desire nor the energy to cross that garden and enter the house.
And then Y/n's attentive eyes went straight down to his hands; her brother's fingers were repeatedly opening and closing into clenched fists.
Garrett only did that when he was extremely nervous or under an unbearable level of stress.
Then she turned her head quickly and saw that Logan was still there, with one of his strong arms resting behind her seat and his body leaning slightly towards her.
"Do you want to go back home?" The question came gently and without any pressure.
Y/n turned completely around in her upholstered seat to face her boyfriend. "Can I tell you something before we go inside?"
"Of course, my dear." He gently poked the tip of her nose with his finger.
"But... promise me you won't act strangely when you find out?"
"Honey, what happened that was so serious?"
"Promise me first?" she insisted, her eyes fixed on his.
Logan straightened up a little more in the driver's seat, assuming a protective posture. "I promise. You know you can tell me anything."
Y/n took a deep breath, pulling all the air she could into her lungs, and then began to talk about an old childhood memory.
Because that particular story carried a dark and hidden side of Phil Graham that no one in the public or on the hockey team saw, a real side that existed in their daily lives long before the big games started being televised.
And when it was finally over, the car was completely silent.
Logan didn't say anything at all, not immediately. Because he knew there were no right words, so he did the only thing that truly seemed important at that moment; he opened his arms and pulled Y/n close to him.
The gesture was as if to say that everything was alright now, that she didn't need to carry that entire burden alone, that she believed in herself above all else.
Outside, Garret looked up just as he saw the comforting embrace through the glass and knew immediately what was happening inside, because he knew perfectly well that vulnerable look in his sister's eyes.
His jaw visibly clenched for a moment, a wave of tension coursing through his body, and then his eyes fell heavily to the floor.
When they finally got out of the truck, Logan closed the door firmly and gave Garret a subtle, gentle smile. Y/n just watched her brother with a neutral expression, trying to compose herself.
As they walked together towards the steps of the house, Garret decided to do what he did best to break the ice: openly tease the young couple.
"Then..."
Y/n closed her eyes immediately, anticipating what was to come. "No."
"I saw the little kiss."
"Garret!" Y/n let out an audible groan of embarrassment.
"That was disgusting." Garret made a theatrical grimace.
"It was just a peck!" Y/n argued in her defense.
"It was disgusting."
"You're ridiculous."
She laughed, and the three of them calmly climbed the porch stairs, with Garret going ahead and knocking on the wooden door. Logan took advantage of the moment and comfortably put an arm around Y/n's shoulders.
And then, they heard firm footsteps echoing toward the door. The first to appear and open the door was a middle-aged woman with an immensely kind smile on her face. Her eyes curiously scanned the three young people standing on the porch, and her whole face lit up with satisfaction at welcoming them.
"Garret and Y/n! It's so good to finally meet you." She smiled warmly before turning her full attention to Logan. "And you could only be John? Y/n's boyfriend?"
Logan smiled politely, showing friendliness. "It's me. It's a pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine." She opened the doorway wider, letting them in. "I was really looking forward to this dinner."
Y/n returned the smile with all the politeness she could muster. "John and I brought a pie."
"Oh, how sweet! They didn't need to worry about that."
Garret discreetly lifted the dessert wrapper he was carrying. "And I was responsible for the other one."
Cindy laughed kindly. "So nobody goes hungry in this house today."
The initial atmosphere seemed surprisingly light. Almost truly welcoming. Almost.
Because it only took a few more heavy footsteps echoing down the main hallway for everything to change drastically, and for Phil to appear imposingly in the living room entrance.
As soon as Logan's eyes met his, his polite smile faded almost automatically. Y/n's words, spoken inside the truck, were still completely fresh in his memory.
The two brothers exchanged a quick glance before walking over to the man. The hugs they shared were short and completely awkward.
"Look who decided to show up. My sons!" Then, his analytical eyes met Logan's. "John Logan! Finally meeting you officially." He extended his firm hand. "We've seen each other so many times in the arena that I was starting to think you were avoiding me as a son-in-law."
Logan accepted the necessary handshake and smiled politely. "No, sir. I think all that was missing was the ideal occasion."
Phil chuckled, lightly patting him on the shoulder. "I hope Garrett didn't teach you his bad habits."
Garret discreetly rolled his eyes at the comment, and Y/n looked away at her brother. Cindy, who remained completely oblivious to all that underlying tension, flashed an even wider and more radiant smile at the group.
"I was really curious to meet you. Phil keeps saying that Y/n is very happy in this relationship."
Y/n felt her heart skip a beat in her chest and slowly turned her head toward her father, completely surprised.
Happy.
He had specifically used that word, and she could barely remember the last time her own father had stopped to ask how she was feeling inside.
"By the way..." Garret discreetly raised the dessert in his hands to change the subject. "Where can we put all this before I drop something on the floor?"
Cindy smiled. "In the kitchen, please. You can leave everything on the main counter."
"Perfect!"
As Garret hurried toward the kitchen, carrying the purchased dessert and the pie his sister had made, Logan remained firmly by Y/n's side. He kept his hands gently resting on her shoulders in a clear form of physical and emotional protection, almost a silent reminder that she wasn't alone.
However, Phil once again focused his full attention on Logan.
"So... how's the season going? I've been following your games. You've been improving a lot on the ice."
"Dad..." Y/n ended up interrupting him on purpose, wanting to get her boyfriend out of that situation. "Do you mind if I show Logan around the house before we sit down in the living room?"
Phil smiled. "Of course, go ahead! After all, this house is yours too."
The sentence sounded strange, empty, and completely out of place in their reality, but she only nodded slightly to avoid confrontation.
"Thanks."
Without saying another word, Y/n gently took Logan's hand and began to guide him up the stairs.
The walls of the long hallway were completely covered with old picture frames and photographs from childhood, records of past birthdays, Christmas mornings, and especially old sporting competitions of the twins.
Logan slowed his pace whenever he saw a different image of his girlfriend, smiling discreetly at all her phases.
Until she stopped completely in front of a specific, incredibly cute photograph hanging near the end of the hallway.
In it, a Y/n girl of approximately six years old appeared holding a large spoon as if it were a shiny trophy, completely covered in white flour from head to toe. Next to her, Garret seemed to be in an even worse and more chaotic state. The two smiled broadly at the camera while their mother laughed in the background behind the children.
Logan began to chuckle softly as he contemplated the details of that pure scene.
Y/n turned her face to him. "What's wrong, love?"
He pointed to the photograph on the wall. "Your brother looks like he fought with a sack of flour... and lost badly."
She stared at the photo and began to laugh as well, the old memory warming her chest for a moment.
"It was all my fault."
"He was?"
"I wanted to make a surprise birthday cake for my mom, but we started fighting in the kitchen, throwing flour at each other, and she ended up discovering the whole surprise ahead of time."
Logan laughed loudly, finding the story adorable, while Y/n stared at the photo with eyes filled with a deep and clear longing.
"Mom wasn't sure whether to laugh at the mess or scold us. But in the end, the three of us made the cake together."
Logan watched intently the subtle change in her facial expression; the slight smile was still there, but now it carried a heavy nostalgia. A great longing indeed.
"You look incredibly like her!" Logan smiled sweetly, gazing deeply into his girlfriend's eyes.
Y/n turned her head quickly toward him, flashing a wide, truly radiant smile. "Do you really think so?"
Logan immediately realized how genuinely happy that realization made her. "In every little detail!"
Y/n smiled shyly, lowering her gaze for a brief moment, her heart warmed.
She continued showing him each room and hallway, which seemed to hold a fond and comforting memory of her and her brother from when their mother still lived there with them.
She pointed out the balcony and fondly remembered the nights she, Garret, and her mother spent lying there watching a meteor shower. She indicated the green area of the garden and recounted the sunny afternoons when the two of them patiently tried to teach the family's old dog to fetch sticks.
She talked nonstop. She smiled slightly. She laughed openly at certain moments of nostalgia. But, deep down, Logan perfectly understood that she wasn't just showing him the physical rooms of the house; Y/n was, in fact, desperately searching for her mother's presence and trace in every corner of that empty place.
The rest of the afternoon dragged on slowly and deliberately, because whenever a conversation seemed to be heading towards any other topic, Phil found a way to steer the conversation back to hockey.
He kept talking about the possibility of Logan pursuing a professional career, questioned tactical strategies, and debated the latest college championships. Meanwhile, he never asked Y/n how her routine was going at college.
He never asked how she was doing away from home. He never asked if she was genuinely happy. Similarly, he also never asked Garrett anything that wasn't strictly related to his performance on the ice.
Logan answered each question with as much politeness as he could muster. But inside, his chest harbored an extremely dangerous mixture of fire and gasoline.
When night finally fell, the dining table was already completely set and decorated in the dining room.
Phil and Cindy sat side by side, and right in front of them were Logan and Y/n. Garret, for his part, preferred to strategically position himself at the end of the table, right next to his twin sister.
"Not to brag... but you're going to love Cindy's mashed potatoes."
Garret chuckled softly at the insistence. "He's been talking about that mashed potato all afternoon."
"Because it's worth the hype," Phil replied, amused, gesturing with his cutlery.
Cindy shook her head, visibly embarrassed by the compliments. "Modesty aside... this mashed potato is delicious. My mother taught me how to make it when I was a teenager."
Y/n smiled at the woman with genuine affection. "I'm sure it's wonderful."
"And..." Phil continued, staring intently at his children. "I also asked Cindy to make macaroni and cheese—"
Y/n's eyes immediately met Garret's in a flash of memory.
"With breadcrumbs on top." They said it exactly at the same time, in perfect sync, and the whole table burst into laughter at their identical reaction.
"It was a tradition." Y/n finished in a soft tone, and Cindy smiled contentedly before turning her attention back to Logan.
"And you, Logan? Do you have any Thanksgiving traditions in the kitchen?"
The brothers' smiles vanished almost instantly. Logan blinked a few times in quick succession, trying to find a happy answer in his mind that he simply didn't have to give.
Noticing her boyfriend's discomfort, Y/n discreetly reached for Logan's hand under the table and gently wrapped her fingers around his.
Logan fixed his gaze on her and simply smiled slightly to show that everything was alright.
"Yeah... sure!" He let out a shy chuckle to fill the silence. "We had a kind of silly tradition with marshmallows."
Cindy immediately flashed a warm smile. "Oh, that sounds lovely!"
"It was fun..." Logan smiled weakly, but the glimmer of joy quickly faded from his features, and Y/n seized the perfect moment to subtly change the subject.
"Thank you so much for dinner." She returned Cindy's polite smile. "And thank you for making the pasta."
"Of course, darling." Cindy smiled with genuine sweetness.
Phil suggested that everyone say a brief prayer of thanks before beginning to eat the served dishes. When the short prayer ended, Cindy smiled at everyone around her and gently gestured for the main courses to be served.
"So... what are your plans after you finish university?" Phil looked directly at Logan, and Y/n sighed deeply, realizing the sports interrogation was about to begin again.
"I'm still calmly evaluating some possibilities."
"Do you plan to enter this year's draft?"
"If a good opportunity arises, yes."
Phil nodded slowly, considering the answer. "And which league do you think best suits your playing style?"
"I think I still have a lot to develop physically before I can really think about that."
Garret watched the whole scene in absolute silence, and Y/n did exactly the same beside her boyfriend. Phil seemed solely interested in getting to know the promising athlete on the team and not the sweet, caring, and protective man Y/n was completely in love with.
Y/n placed some macaroni and cheese on her own plate and smiled discreetly at Cindy in thanks. "Could you pass me the bottle of wine, please?"
"Of course, darling!" Cindy reached for the bottle on the table without hesitation.
As she stretched her arm across the table, the sleeve of Cindy's sweater rode up a few inches, just enough to reveal a large, distinct purplish mark spread across her pale skin. For an overwhelming instant, time seemed to slow down completely for Y/n.
The polite smile instantly vanished from her face, and the strength in her fingers gradually weakened as she held the bottle of wine that was handed to her. Around the dinner table, Cindy laughed at some silly remark Phil made, completely distracted by the moment. Garret served himself some more food on his plate, and Logan calmly answered a question about his university routine.
For a full second, Y/n stopped seeing the dining room, and everything around her was abruptly replaced by old, suffocating memories.
It ranged from memories of dark days when the whole house was immersed in heated arguments, to terrible days when Garret would physically step in front of her to protect her when their father came home completely frustrated and stressed with life.
And as if her own mind wanted to betray her even more in that tense environment, her troubled thoughts returned forcefully to a few hours earlier, to the exact moment when she had confided in Logan a crucial and painful part of her childhood.
"He arrived early that day..." Y/n's voice was almost a whisper. "I got a B on an important test, and I always got A+s in that specific subject... But Mom had died recently, and I was still completely devastated inside..." Her fingers clenched tightly, and Logan remained in absolute silence, running his hand down her arm in a comforting caress. "In my childish mind... I was going to show him the test and just say that I would improve my grade next time. But as soon as he saw it, he simply didn't listen to me anymore... Garret was at practice. And... that day... there was absolutely no one to step in front of me to defend me from him..."
Her voice completely trailed off for a second, and her teary eyes went toward her brother outside the vehicle. Logan, heartbroken, reached out and wiped a lone tear from her face.
"My father beat me so badly that I had to miss three days of school in a row so that no one would see my bruises... And when Garret found out what had happened... he was infinitely angrier with himself than with our father." Y/n quickly wiped her face with her sleeve. "After that, he was always the one who bandaged me. Because he had more opportunities when Garret wasn't home and my father simply had no one else to take out all his pent-up anger on..."
Logan stood completely still and stunned by the revelation. While an overwhelming fury gripped his chest and he felt the urge to take justice into his own hands, Logan also wanted only to embrace her with all his might and never let her go from that safe haven.
Y/n's dazed mind abruptly returned to the reality of the dining room, and then the fingers of her hand completely lost their strength.
The wine bottle slipped from her fingers and the glass hit her with a sharp, deafening crash, bringing all conversation to an immediate halt. Y/n pushed her chair back with such haste and desperation that she almost fell to the side.
Cindy's friendly smile vanished completely from her lips, and Phil frowned in clear irritation at the mess. Garret turned his face toward his sister so quickly he almost dropped his plate of food, and Logan stood up from his chair without a second thought.
"Hey, love... Are you hurt?" Logan asked, his voice filled with genuine concern, gently holding her arm and examining every inch of it. "Are there any shards of glass in you?"
But Y/n couldn't even hear him, her eyes remaining completely fixed on that purple mark hidden under the sleeve of Cindy's sweater.
Garret was already in a state of complete tension, because he was looking in the exact same direction as his twin sister, who was staring in panic. His fingers gripped the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned completely white.
Phil, on the other hand, let out a small, nasal laugh, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere that had settled in.
"Relax, guys." He gave a characteristic wry smile, dismissing the situation. "In hockey, we learn that a fall like that doesn't even count as a real accident. It's just a common welcome card for those who interact with players daily."
Cindy chuckled, Logan remained completely serious, and Garret closed his eyes for a full second, controlling the immense anger rising in his chest.
But Y/n was already completely consumed by an uncontrollable wave of anger and indignation.
"Do you think that's funny?" The entire room fell into a deathly, piercing silence.
Phil raised an eyebrow, surprised by his daughter's audacious tone. "What?"
"You and your ridiculous hockey jokes."
"Y/n, daughter, what is this?"
"NO!" She raised one hand firmly before he could continue with his false speech.
Phil took a deep breath, trying to maintain his composure, and laughed again disdainfully. "You're making an unnecessary fuss over a simple broken bottle of wine. We have plenty more in the cellar, I can ask Cindy to go get another one—"
"Is that really what you think happened here?" Y/n snapped her fingers in a clear sign of pure nervousness, and Logan quickly placed one of his hands on her back. "You think everything in life is that simple, don't you?"
"Then explain your point to me," Phil said, his expression hardening and his voice becoming a little more serious because of his daughter's confrontational tone.
"You spend your whole life pretending to the rest of the world that you're the perfect, exemplary father. In front of everyone, you're extremely friendly, polite, you make silly jokes, you ask about other people's future careers... But a real father asks how his children are feeling inside, asks real questions about his daughter's boyfriend, and doesn't just focus on his sports career. A real father is present and cares about his children's lives!"
"What you're saying isn't true. I always—"
Y/n let out a sharp, completely humorless laugh. "Do you know exactly what semester of college Garrett and I are in right now? Or do you happen to know what major I'm studying with so much effort?"
"You're exaggerating and going too far," Phil said in a sharp tone, trying to regain authority.
"You never wanted to know anything about my life. And when you found out about something that was out of your control and you didn't like it, you simply took it all out on us with slaps and bruises!" Y/n spelled out each syllable with a cutting clarity, leaving Cindy with wide eyes in shock and Phil visibly furious. "You've always been a cowardly and aggressive man."
Y/n added firmly, unleashing all the pain she had held for years, and that was the absolute last straw that made Phil truly furious.
In one swift, brusque movement, Phil's chair scraped against the dining room floor with a thud, falling backward and pointing a stiff, accusing finger directly at his own daughter.
That reaction was enough to make everyone's heart race in a frantic, frightened beat. And that single movement was all it took for Logan and Garrett to react at exactly the same time.
Logan swiftly stepped in front of Y/n, placing a protective arm directly in front of his girlfriend. At the same time, Garret stopped beside them, leaning slightly forward in a visibly defensive stance.
The two stared at Phil with the same unwavering firmness in their gaze, driven by the same protective instinct and sharing the same ultimate goal: to protect Y/n from anything.
Phil immediately noticed the roadblock, and his eyebrows slowly rose as he saw the two athletes completely blocking his path to his daughter.
Over Logan and Garret's broad shoulders, the man met Y/n's striking eyes again. Her expression was entirely tense, hard, and filled with legitimate anger, but with warm tears still falling discreetly and continuously down her pale face.
"This is over!" Garret says definitively, stepping back from the table and placing both hands firmly on his twin sister's shoulders to pull her away.
"Hey, hey, everything alright!" Cindy says in a desperate voice, hurriedly getting up from the table.
"No, everything is not alright!" Logan says in an extremely serious tone, looking Phil in the eyes one last time with deep contempt.
Logan and Garret quickly led Y/n out of that suffocating dining room. Garret walked ahead of the group, clearing a path down the hallway, while Logan remained right behind his girlfriend, keeping both hands gently resting on her shoulders in constant physical contact.
As they crossed the large living room, Logan paused only to pick up the two coats they had left scattered on the sofa earlier, immediately returning to her side as soon as they reached the front door.
Garret had already opened the door and made enough space for the two of them to get outside, but as soon as he heard Phil's heavy footsteps coming in the same direction down the hallway, Garret blocked the door with his own body.
"Take her." Garret glanced quickly over his shoulder at Logan, who was already on the outside balcony.
"Are you going to be okay?" Logan's question came out low and full of complicity.
"Yes, I will." Garret glanced briefly at his sister. "Take care of her, please..."
"You didn't even need to ask." Logan gave a small, understanding, sad smile. Garret returned the gesture with an almost smile of pure relief.
Garret stood completely still and rigid in the doorway, absolutely preventing Phil from crossing the porch to go after his daughter. And while this human barrier remained at the entrance, Logan guided Y/n to the truck, waited patiently until she got in, and only then went around and got in on the driver's side.
The metal keys turned rapidly, but before he could actually engage the gear, he felt Y/n's cold, trembling hand land firmly on his.
"Wait..." Y/n pleaded, her voice choked with emotion. "We're not leaving without Garret." Her eyes, which had previously overflowed with anger, were now completely filled with the genuine despair of a sister. "I... I'm afraid of what might happen if he's left alone with our father."
The genuine concern in her voice tightened painfully in Logan's chest.
"Of course, we'll wait for him, my dear!" Logan squeezed her hand back to reassure her and gently stroked Y/n's cheek. "I promise!"
"Even if it takes a long time?"
"Even if it takes a long time!"
She breathed a little easier. "Thank you."
Logan left the truck's engine running in neutral, opened the driver's side door again, and remained standing, leaning firmly against the side. He kept his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes fully alert and fixed on every movement on the porch of the house, positioning himself ready to physically intervene the moment it was necessary.
Besides, if he wanted to break some bones, all he had to do was throw John Logan up in the air.
Garret continued speaking firmly to Phil, who remained detained on the other side of the entrance gate. And it was precisely at this moment of high tension that the older man realized he was also being watched; as soon as Phil looked up, he found Y/n sitting safely inside the truck, and soon after, his piercing gaze met Logan's.
The young player maintained an extremely cold facial expression, making no effort whatsoever to hide the profound contempt he felt.
At that exact moment, Phil Graham finally understood that Logan knew every detail of the twins' past and that he knew perfectly well the monster he had been within the privacy of that house. And, by the firm and menacing way the young athlete stared back at him from the sidewalk, it was also implicitly clear that Logan would never allow any kind of violence to happen to Y/n again.
"Listen carefully to what I'm about to tell you." Garret took a deep breath, controlling his own voice to avoid shouting. "Never show up in another one of my games."
Phil immediately opened his mouth to respond and retort to the insult, but Garret raised his open hand sharply in the air.
"I'm not finished speaking yet." He then pointed clearly with his index finger toward the parked truck where Y/n was waiting. "And never again come looking for her with cheap apologies! Because she spent her entire childhood and adolescence waiting for you to act like a real father. But now she doesn't need you for absolutely anything. She has me and Logan! So do us all this huge favor. Leave us alone once and for all!" Without waiting for any kind of response, he turned his back and went down the steps.
As soon as Garret got into the jeep, Logan finally moved away from the side of the truck and returned to the driver's seat.
The rain started pouring down on the road, and the only audible sound inside the car was the rhythmic, continuous movement of the windshield wipers.
Nobody said anything at all, but Logan kept one hand firmly on the steering wheel while, from time to time, his worried eyes drifted to Y/n sitting next to him, and then his eyes automatically searched the rearview mirror.
Garrett's Jeep remained close behind them, keeping a safe distance in the storm.
It was then that a low, broken sob broke the silence, and Logan discreetly turned his face toward her.
Tears streamed down Y/n's face again, but this time it wasn't from anger; it was from sheer exhaustion and a deep, accumulated sadness. When she brought both hands to her face, the crushing weight of that night finally collapsed upon her. Her shoulders began to tremble uncontrollably, and her crying turned into painful sobs that seemed to trap the air in her chest.
Without taking his eyes off the road completely, Logan reached for her trembling hand and held it firmly, gently stroking her skin with his thumb to offer as much support as possible.
But then, suddenly, the sound of crying stopped completely.
The silence was so sudden and abrupt that it made Logan frown immediately, and as soon as he turned his face to the side, his heart plummeted in his chest.
Y/n was completely still on the bench, her eyes wide with panic, her hand pressed tightly against her chest as she desperately tried to draw air back into her lungs.
"Honey, breathe!" Logan's voice came out, heavy with a nervous and urgent tone.
She tried to do what he asked, but the tears kept falling while her breathing became increasingly rapid. Logan immediately lowered both windows of the truck, and at that same moment, the cold wind and heavy raindrops flooded the interior of the vehicle.
But the effort wasn't working.
Without thinking twice, Logan turned on his turn signal, slowed down, and pulled his truck over to the side of the road. Right behind him, Garret noticed the emergency maneuver and also turned on his hazard lights, stopping alongside and quickly lowering his window to assess the situation.
And while this was happening, Logan had already removed his own seatbelt and leaned completely towards Y/n in the passenger seat.
Garret hurriedly opened the Jeep door, jumping out into the heavy rain and quickly stopping at the driver's side window of Logan's car.
"What happened?" The concern in his voice was evident as he tried to see his sister.
"Panic attack." Logan replied without taking his eyes off her for a single second. With awkward but careful movements, he pushed Y/n's hair back, brushing away the strands that insisted on sticking to her face. "Do you have any water?"
Garrett immediately turned to his own car and seconds later found a new, full plastic bottle.
"Here!"
Logan quickly opened it, handed her the object, and brought one of his hands directly to Y/n's face. With his thumb, he gently wiped away the tears that were still streaming down her cheeks.
"Just take a little sip," he said softly, modulating his tone of voice to convey calm. "Take a deep breath and then take a little more."
Gradually, Y/n's stiff shoulders began to visibly relax. Her uneven breaths became less rapid, and she slowly closed her eyes, finally allowing the cold, damp wind of the rain to touch her face and the breeze to fill her lungs without encountering the same suffocating difficulty as before.
Once they realized she was actually better and that another immediate panic attack wouldn't occur, they resumed driving until they finally arrived at the boys' house.
Logan had a comforting, firm hand on her back or shoulders the whole time, carefully guiding her as he led her to the bedroom and picked out some of his own clothes for her to wear after her shower. He only truly left her side when Y/n closed the bathroom door and turned on the shower.
Logan slowly descended the stairs of the house, running both hands over his face. As soon as he reached the kitchen to get something for Y/n to eat, he saw Garret leaning against the cabinets.
His clothes were still considerably damp from the earlier rain, and his wet hair dripped discreetly onto his expressive forehead. On the marble countertop, a bowl contained some untouched fruit.
"I... wanted to apologize to you."
Logan frowned slightly. "Apologies?"
"Because of everything you witnessed today. You shouldn't have been exposed to this dark side in this way."
Logan let out a quiet sigh, moving closer. "Garret..."
Y/n's brother looked away, his gaze fixed on the floor for a moment.
"She shouldn't have had to go through all that again. I should have protected her better."
"You protected." Logan leaned against the counter.
Garret shook his head immediately, refusing the consolation.
"Not enough. Because I keep wondering if that day... you know, she told you, right?"
Garret looked at Logan, and his sister's boyfriend immediately understood what he was talking about and nodded silently. "I keep thinking I should have skipped practice... Or left her at Grandma's house... Or..." The sentence died before he could finish the painful thought.
"Garret." Logan waited patiently until he raised his head again. "You were just a kid trying to protect another kid. It was never your fault."
"But I still feel like it."
Logan nodded slowly, understanding his pain. "I know."
They remained silent for several long seconds, and then Logan let a small, knowing smile appear on his lips to ease the tension.
"You know what? If that dinner had been at my family's house..." He let out an awkward chuckle. "...it probably wouldn't have been exactly a perfect margarine commercial."
Garret chuckled briefly through his nose, understanding the irony. "Yeah... None of our families won the 'Most Functional of the Year' award."
The two chuckled softly together, not because the family situation was genuinely funny, but because, for a few brief seconds of complicity, they had finally managed to breathe amidst the storm.
Garret lowered his head again, watching the water slowly trickle down the hem of his jacket onto the kitchen floor. Meanwhile, Logan walked to the refrigerator, grabbing a bottle of fresh water, and before he could actually look for something for his girlfriend to eat, Garret called him softly.
"Logan. Here." He pushed the glass bowl with the cut fruit. "I set it aside for her."
Logan smiled back, grateful for his brother-in-law's gesture. "Thank you."
Carefully picking up the fruit bowl in one hand and balancing the water bottle in the other, Logan left the kitchen. But as soon as he set foot on the first step of the stairs, he turned back towards Garret.
"Can I ask you something?"
Garret frowned slightly, curious. "Hm... maybe."
"Could you give me the recipe for that macaroni and cheese? The one your mom used to make..." Garret blinked a few times, taken aback. "I... wanted to make it for Y/n."
Silence filled the kitchen again, but this time, it was a completely different kind of silence than before.
Garret felt a thick lump instantly rise in his throat, and at that exact moment, he truly understood how immense and genuine Logan's love for his sister was. Because Logan wasn't just thinking about superficially comforting Y/n on that difficult night; he wanted to bring back good memories from her past to gradually replace the old, bad ones that hurt her.
"Of course." Garret replied, his voice visibly choked with emotion. "She'll like it."
"Thank you." Then he climbed the stairs.
When he reached the quiet upstairs hallway, he noticed that the sound of the shower had completely stopped. When he carefully opened the bedroom door so as not to make a sound, he saw that Y/n was already lying on his bed, wearing his baggy sweatshirt and comfortable pants.
She was completely curled up under the covers, as if she had finally found a safe place where her body could truly rest, and she was breathing deeply, having fallen asleep from extreme exhaustion.
Logan closed the bedroom door, placed the water bottle and the bowl of fruit on the study table, and turned off the main light. Then he slowly walked to the side of the bed, carefully crouching beside her; he brushed away a few strands of hair that stubbornly covered her face with his fingertips, and then placed a long, tender kiss on her forehead.
"I'll always be here for you." His voice was just a whisper directed into the silence of the room. "I love you."
summary: The monsters are gone, and for the first time in years, Hawkins is quiet—except for the deafening noise of Mike Wheeler’s heart. But as the town heals, a new kind of frustration takes root. She won't notice the fire he’s been carrying for her, he might just have to let her get burned by the truth.
wc: 13,1 k
post contains: fem reader, spin the bottle, hurt/comfort, cupid in action, mike almost fumbles, gentle mike, fluff, no mileven, she mistaken his gestures for kindness, reader has a fear of water/swimming.
author’s note: ehehehhAhahahhaHAHAHHA i live for this im so normal anw enjoy :] not proofread :/ criticism and feedbacks are appreciated!
The air in the Wheeler basement smelled like stale popcorn and Eddie Munson’s cheap cigarettes—a scent that, a year ago, would have been a luxury. Now, it was just the backdrop to Mike Wheeler’s slow-motion descent into madness.
Mike sat on the edge of the couch, his knees inches away from Y/N’s. He wasn't looking at the Dungeons & Dragons map spread out on the table; he was looking at her. He’d been looking at her since the third grade, but lately, the look had changed. It was sharper. Focused. It was the look of a person who had survived an apocalypse only to find themselves trapped in a different kind of hell: the friendzone.
“I’m just saying,” Y/N said, leaning over the table to move her miniature, her hair brushing against Mike’s shoulder. “If we’re going by the rules, Mike is being way too nice to my character. Are you feeling okay, Wheeler? You haven't tried to kill me once this session.”
Across the table, Dustin let out a sound that was half-choke, half-sob. Lucas buried his face in his hands, while Max slowly banged her head against the wood of the table. Even El, usually minded her own business, was staring at the ceiling as if asking for a sign.
“I'm not being nice,” Mike said, his voice dropping an octave, his tone firm. He didn't pull away when her hair tickled his neck. If anything, he leaned in closer, his dark eyes fixed on hers. “I'm being strategic. There’s a difference.”
“Right, 'strategic,'” Eddie chimed in from the head of the table, tossing a d20 into the air and catching it with a theatrical flourish. “The kind of strategy where the Paladin gives his only healing potion to the Rogue for a scratch on her finger. Very tactical, Wheeler. Very... selfless.”
Y/N laughed, a bright, clear sound that made Mike’s jaw tighten. She punched Mike lightly on the arm. “See? Even Eddie thinks you’re being a softie. You’re such a good friend, Mike. Seriously, what would I do without you?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Mike didn't laugh. He didn't punch her back. He just stared at her, his lips pressed into a thin line, his patience finally snapping like a dry twig. He reached out, his hand closing around her wrist—not roughly, but with a sudden, grounding firmness that stopped her laughter in its tracks.
“Stop calling me that,” Mike said, his voice quiet but echoing in the cramped basement.
Mike’s hand lingered on her wrist for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The air in the basement felt suddenly thin.
Then, Y/N’s eyes softened, but not with romantic realization. She reached her free hand up and pressed her palm to Mike’s forehead.
“Oh, man,” she muttered, her face full of genuine concern. “You're getting that 'leader stress' again, aren't you? You get so moody when you've been DMing for too long. You’re right, I’ll stop teasing. You’re not just a good friend, Mike. You’re the most reliable person I know.”
She patted his cheek—two light, platonic taps—and turned back to the map. “Anyway, I move my Rogue to the hidden corridor.”
Dustin let out a long, wheezing hiss of air. Max leaned over and whispered to Lucas, “I owe you five dollars. She’s actually hopeless.”
Mike sat there, his hand still hovering in mid-air where her wrist had been. He felt like he’d just run a marathon only to find out the finish line had been moved to another state. He took a slow, steadying breath, trying to regain his composure. He was a “mature teenager” now. He could handle this.
“Right,” Mike said, his voice a bit strained. “Reliable. Thanks.”
As the game continued, the “slow burn” intensified. It was in the way Y/N naturally gravitated toward him. When Eddie described a particularly gruesome monster, she didn't shrink away; she unconsciously leaned her weight against Mike’s side.
Mike went rigid. He could feel the heat radiating from her through his thin t-shirt. He knew he should probably move, or at least say something, but he found himself subtly shifting his arm so she could lean more comfortably.
He looked down at her. She was chewing the end of her pencil, completely focused on Eddie’s narration. She had no idea that her proximity was making Mike’s heart beat like a trapped bird.
“Wheeler,” Eddie’s voice cut through the fog. Mike looked up to see Eddie smirking at him from behind the DM screen. Eddie tapped his own temple and mouthed, ‘Patience, Grasshopper.’
Mike shot him a look that could have killed a Mind Flayer.
The air in the Wheeler basement was heavy with the scent of stale popcorn and the rhythmic thump-thump of Will’s nervous leg. It had been a year since the gates of the Upside Down were sealed for good, and life in Hawkins had returned to a dull, peaceful roar. But for Mike Wheeler, peace was a myth.
He sat on the edge of the worn-out sofa, his posture straighter than it used to be, his shoulders broader. He was a “mature teenager” now, as Nancy liked to mockingly put it, but sitting next to Y/N Hopper made him feel like he was constantly walking a tightrope.
“I’m just saying,” Y/N said, her voice bright as she leaned over the Dungeons & Dragons map. She didn't notice the way Mike’s breath hitched when her elbow brushed his. “If we’re going to survive the cave, Mike needs to stop being so overprotective of my Rogue. I can handle a few goblins, Wheeler.”
Mike didn't look at the map. He looked at her profile—the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating, a habit she’d had since they were ten. “It’s called a formation, Y/N,” he said, his voice dropping into that lower, firmer register he’d developed lately. “I’m the Paladin. It’s my job to make sure you don't get hit.”
“But you’ve literally blocked every attack aimed at me for the last three hours,” she laughed, turning to face him. Her eyes were inches from his. “You’re such a good friend, Mike. Seriously. Best protector ever.”
Behind them, the sound of a plastic die hitting the floor was followed by Will’s muffled groan.
“I can't do this anymore,” Dustin whispered, loud enough for everyone but Y/N to hear. El reached over and patted Dustin’s arm, her eyes fixed on the ceiling in silent prayer.
Mike didn't flinch, even though the ‘friend’ comment felt like a physical weight in his chest. He just held her gaze, his dark eyes intense. He wanted to tell her that he didn't care about the formation. He wanted to tell her that he’d block every hit for her for the rest of his life if she’d just look at him differently.
“I'm just doing what needs to be done,” Mike said, his tone steady and strangely commanding.
“See?” Y/N chirped, turning back to the group, completely missing the heat in his stare. “So reliable. Right, El?”
Jane, sitting on the floor, looked from her sister to Mike. She saw the way Mike’s knuckles were white as he gripped his character sheet. She saw the way Y/N was already reaching for a bowl of pretzels, totally unaffected. El sighed, a long, weary sound. “Yes. Very... reliable.”
Eddie, leaning back in his "throne" at the head of the table, watched the exchange with a mixture of pity and amusement. He’d seen Mike development at school, seen him get firmer, seen him try to navigate the minefield of being Jim Hopper’s favorite target—but watching him get friendzoned by the girl he’d clearly die for was the greatest tragedy Eddie had ever witnessed.
“Alright, alright,” Eddie intervened, sensing the atmospheric pressure in the room was reaching a breaking point. “Before our Paladin here bursts a blood vessel being 'reliable,' let’s take a ten-minute break. I need a smoke, and Wheeler looks like he needs to put his head in a bucket of ice.”
Y/N stood up, stretching her arms over her head. “Good idea. Mike, you want to help me find those extra sodas your mom hidden in the garage? I bet I can find them faster than you.”
Mike stood up, his height now towering over her just enough to be noticeable. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable but definitely not “platonic.”
“You're on,” he said, his voice firm.
As they headed for the stairs, Eddie leaned over to Dustin and Lucas. “Five bucks says she thinks he’s helping her with the soda just because he’s 'helpful' and not because he wants five minutes alone with her.”
“No, thanks,” Lucas muttered. "I like my money."
Eddie threw his head back against his chair with a groan that sounded like he was in physical pain. “I can’t do it,” he announced to the ceiling. “I am a man of great resolve, but I cannot witness another 'you’re such a good friend' comment without actually losing my mind. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion for three years straight.”
Max took off her headphones, rubbing her temples. “She’s not even doing it on purpose. That’s the worst part. She genuinely thinks he’s just being 'reliable.' He caught her from falling earlier and I’m pretty sure she thought he was just practicing his 'Paladin' moves.”
“It is... painful,” El added softly. She loved her sister, but even she was starting to feel the secondary embarrassment. “Mike’s heart is very loud. Y/N is very deaf.”
“We have to do something,” Dustin said, slamming his hand on the table, making the miniatures rattle. “Mike is becoming a shell of a man. Did you see his face when she patted his cheek? He looked like he wanted to walk back into the Upside Down and stay there.”
Lucas leaned forward, lowering his voice. “We can’t just tell her. Mike would kill us. He wants her to 'realize it on her own' because he’s a romantic idiot.”
“He's trying to be 'firm' now,” Max noted with a smirk. “Have you noticed? The deeper voice, the staring, the whole 'I'm a mature teenager' act. It’s actually working on everyone except the person it’s intended for. Hopper looks like he wants to reload his shotgun every time Mike breathes in Y/N’s direction, so clearly he gets it.”
“Exactly!” Dustin pointed at Max. “Even the Chief sees it! If we don't intervene, Mike is going to try some 'firm' move, Y/N is going to mistake it for a sibling argument, and Mike is going to move to Alaska out of shame.”
Eddie leaned in, a devious glint in his eyes. “What if we create a situation? Something she can't interpret as platonic. A little pressure. A little... atmosphere.”
“No,” El said firmly. “They need to talk. Mike needs to use his words.”
“Mike’s 'words' currently consist of staring at her like a kicked puppy,” Lucas pointed out.
The garage was cool and dim, smelling of motor oil and the lingering scent of autumn air pushing through the cracks in the door. It was a sharp contrast to the chaotic energy of the basement, and for Mike, the silence was almost worse. It made every rustle of Y/N’s jacket sound like a landslide.
Y/N was already humming to herself, scanning the shelves with a flashlight. “I’m telling you, Mike, Karen definitely hid the root beer behind the Christmas decorations. It’s her classic move.”
Mike didn't answer. He stood by the workbench, watching the way the flashlight beam danced across her face. He was trying to practice “the look”—the one Eddie told him made him look like a “leading man” and not a “scrawny squire.” He kept his posture relaxed but firm, leaning back against the wood, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Found them!” she exclaimed, hoisting a heavy plastic-wrapped flat of soda. She turned around, beaming, and immediately tripped over a stray garden rake.
Before she could even gasp, Mike was there. He moved with a coordination he definitely hadn't possessed at twelve. He caught her by the waist, his large hands steadying her instantly. The soda flat stayed balanced against his chest as he pulled her upright, keeping her flushed against him to ensure she had her footing.
The air in the garage suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.
“Careful,” Mike murmured. His voice was low, vibrating right near her ear. He didn't let go immediately. In fact, his grip tightened just a fraction, his thumbs brushing against the fabric of her shirt. He was being firm, grounding her, waiting for the “lightbulb” moment to finally flicker on in her eyes.
Y/N looked up at him, her breath hitching. Her hands were resting on his forearms, feeling the lean muscle there. For a second, she just stared, her eyes wide.
This is it, Mike thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. She has to feel this. She has to.
“Whoa,” Y/N breathed. A small smile broke across her face. “Your reflexes are getting insane, Mike! Is that from all the basketball you've been playing with Lucas? Or is it like... a nerd thing?”
Mike’s soul practically left his body. He slowly closed his eyes, letting out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a growl.
“It’s not a nerd thing, Y/N,” he said, his voice strained. He finally released her, though he took the heavy soda flat from her arms with one hand as if it weighed nothing.
“Well, whatever it is, keep it up,” she said, completely oblivious to the internal crisis he was having. She reached up and playfully ruffled his hair—the ultimate "best friend" move. “You’re like a human safety net. I’m lucky to have a best friend who’s so fast.”
She grabbed a few loose cans and headed back toward the basement door, leaving Mike standing in the shadows of the garage.
“Best friend,” Mike repeated to the empty room, his voice flat. He looked down at his hands, which were still tingling from the feeling of holding her waist. “Reliable. A safety net.”
By the time the basement door creaked open and Mike stepped through, holding a flat of soda with an expression of grim determination, the group was perfectly, suspiciously silent.
From the top of the stairs, he heard the basement door open and Dustin’s muffled voice ask, “Did anyone die in the garage? Is there a body?”
Mike straightened his shirt, set his jaw, and began the long walk back down to the “miserable” audience waiting for him.
Mike stopped at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing them all. “Why are you all staring at me like I just grew a second head?”
“We aren't!” Lucas squeaked, his voice two octaves too high. “We were just... discussing the... political climate of the Underdark. Right, Max?”
“So political,” Max agreed, nodding aggressively.
Y/N hopped down the last few steps, clutching two cold cans. “You guys are weird. Mike, give them the drinks before they start vibrating out of their seats.”
As Mike handed out the sodas, he caught Eddie’s eye. Eddie gave him a slow, pitying thumbs-up. Mike just sighed, feeling the weight of the “friendship” harder than the crate of soda.
When the session finally ended, Y/N stood up and stretched, her shirt riding up just a fraction. Mike immediately looked at the floor, his ears turning a bright, traitorous red.
“Hey, Mike?” Y/N asked, grabbing her jacket. “My dad’s picking me and El up in ten, but I forgot my bike at the library earlier. Can I hitch a ride on your handlebars to the end of the block so I can meet him there? It’ll save him the U-turn.”
“Yeah,”Mike said, grabbing his keys with a bit more force than necessary. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”
“Come on, El!”
As they headed for the stairs, Dustin leaned over to the rest of the group. “Place your bets now. Does he try to hold her hand on the bike, or does he just suffer in silence for another three years?”
The Palace Arcade was a neon-soaked fever dream of synthesized music and the frantic clicking of joysticks. It was the perfect place for a “setup”—or so the group thought.
Eddie had cornered everyone earlier that day with a plan he called “Operation: Space Out.” The goal was simple: isolate Mike and Y/N in a cramped space and wait for the proximity to do the work.
“The Dragon’s Lair cabinet is in the back corner,” Eddie had whispered. “The screen is glitchy, the lighting is dim, and there’s barely enough room for one person, let alone two. It’s a pressure cooker, boys. A pressure cooker.”
There’s progress.
“It’s definitely the wiring,” Y/N said, squinting at the flickering screen of the Dragon's Lair machine. “If I just jiggle the joystick while you hold the cabinet steady, I bet we can get the colors to stop bleeding.”
Mike didn't need to be told twice. He stepped into the narrow gap between the machine and the wall, effectively boxing Y/N in. He leaned his weight against the side of the cabinet, his arm extending over her head to grip the top.
From the safety of the Dig Dug machine across the room, Dustin and Lucas were “playing,” but their eyes were glued to the back corner.
“Look at the height difference,” Dustin whispered, frantically moving the joystick on his game, yet the game still displayed the same screen. “He’s doing the 'wall-lean.' That’s a classic move. He’s basically hovering over her.”
“And it’s not even a part of our plan. It’s just the way they are—well, the way Mike is,” Max muttered, not looking up from her own game.
Back in the corner, Mike was trying to stay focused. But with the arcade's crowded Saturday night rush, people kept pushing past, forcing him to step even closer to Y/N. Their shoulders were pinned together. He could smell the strawberry lip gloss she’d applied earlier and the faint scent of the laundry detergent she used.
“Mike, look!” Y/N pointed at the screen, her hand accidentally brushing his chest. “The colors stabilized! Quick, put a quarter in.”
Mike didn't reach for his pocket. He just looked down at her, his expression uncharacteristically stern. He was tired of being the “reliable friend” who fixed her games. He wanted to be the guy who made her breath catch.
“I’m out of quarters,” Mike lied, his voice low and steady. He didn't move an inch, keeping her trapped in the small space he’d created.
“Oh, I have one!” Y/N started to dig into her pocket, but because the space was so tight, her hand got stuck against his hip. She laughed, looking up at him with that wide, innocent grin. “Oops. Little cramped in here, huh?”
“Yeah,” Mike said, his gaze dropping to her lips for a second before snapping back to her eyes. He didn't pull back to give her room. Instead, he leaned in a fraction more, his voice dropping to a firm, quiet command. “Stay still. You’re going to trip again.”
Y/N froze, her hand still resting near his pocket. For the first time, her smile wavered. She noticed the way his jaw was set, the way he wasn't looking at the game at all, but at her—with an intensity that made her stomach do a weird, fluttering flip she usually only felt on a roller coaster.
“Mike?” she whispered, her voice losing its playful edge. “You okay? You’re acting kind of... intense tonight.”
“I'm fine,” Mike said, his heart hammering so hard he was sure she could feel it through his shirt. “I'm just tired of playing games, Y/N.”
Max, Lucas, and Dustin,across the arcade, losing their minds and slapped each other’s hand excitedly.
The moment was shattered as Eddie swung by, draped in his leather jacket, eyeing the two of them with a grin. “Everything alright in the 'Tension Nook'? Or should I bring you two some oxygen?”
Y/N blinked, the spell breaking as she stepped out from under Mike’s arm, laughing nervously. “Mike’s just being a grump because we’re out of quarters. Come on, Wheeler, let’s go see if El won that giant stuffed bear at the crane machine.”
She grabbed Mike’s hand—not a romantic lace of fingers, but a quick, “come on” tug—and pulled him toward the exit.
Mike followed, his shoulders sagging as he walked past the group. Max had her mouth open, in disbelief, while the other two silently cursed Eddie from across the room.
The “flutter” in the arcade didn't go away. It stayed with Y/N all the way to the walk home, sitting in her chest like a stray spark from a fire. But because she was a Hopper, her first instinct wasn't “romance”—it was “medical emergency.”
“Maybe I’m getting a cold,” she muttered to herself as she sat on her bed later that night, El watching her from the desk.
“You are not sick,” El said, tilting her head. “Your heart is just... loud. Like Mike’s.”
Y/N laughed it off, but the next Friday, the group decided to turn up the heat. Eddie had “acquired” a key to the community pool for a late-night, after-hours swim. “No monsters, no gates, just vibes,” he had promised.
The Hawkins public pool was closed to the community, but Steve had the keys, and the “Party” had the snacks. The neon blue of the underwater lights hummed, casting dancing reflections against the concrete. It was supposed to be the perfect summer night. But for Y/N, the pool wasn't a playground; it was a vast, shimmering void waiting to swallow her.
Max and Lucas were splashing each other near the shallow end, while Eddie was busy trying to convince Dustin that he could do a backflip off the diving board without dying.
Mike was already in the water, his damp hair pushed back, revealing the sharp lines of his face. His white, damp shirt sticking to his body, highlighting every curse of his body. He looked... different in the moonlight. Leaner. More solid.
The pool was a shimmering expanse of deep, shadowed blue, illuminated only by the underwater lights. To the rest of the group, it was a playground. To Y/N, it was a void.
She sat on the concrete edge, her toes curled tightly over the water. She could hear Eddie’s laughter and the splash of Dustin hitting the water, but it all sounded like it was happening behind a thick pane of glass. Her breathing was becoming shallow, her heart racing—not with a “flutter” this time, but with cold, sharp anxiety.
“Hey.”
The voice was low and grounding. Mike was already in the water, but he wasn't splashing around with the others. He was right there, positioned at the edge of the pool directly in front of her.
Y/N sat on the edge, shivering slightly in the night air. “Is it freezing?”
“Only if you're a wimp,” Mike challenged. He swam over to the edge where she sat, looking up at her. The water beaded on his shoulders, reflecting the blue light. “Jump in. I'll catch you.”
“I can swim, Mike,” she lied, her heart did that annoying flutter again.
“I know you can,” Mike said, his voice dropping into that firm, no-nonsense tone. He reached up, his large hands gripping the edge of the pool on either side of her thighs, effectively anchoring her there. “But I said I’d catch you.”
She looked pale, her confidence replaced by a rigid, silent tremor.
Mike was already in the water, chest-deep. He wasn't splashing or playing. He was standing perfectly still, his eyes locked on her. He reached out his hands, palms up.
“I'm not jumping, Mike,” she whispered, her voice trembling just enough for him to hear. “I can't. I told you, I don't like not being able to feel the ground.”
Mike’s expression shifted instantly. The teasing smirk vanished, replaced by a look of intense, focused care. He swam even closer, reaching up to rest his large hands on the concrete on either side of her thighs again. He didn't look at the pool; he looked only at her.
“Look at me, Y/N,” he commanded. It wasn't a suggestion. It was that firm, “leader” voice, the one that made her feel safe even when the world was ending.
She forced her eyes down to meet his.
“I’m right here,” Mike said, his voice dropping to a soothing, steady register. “I’m six-foot-something. My feet are on the floor. The water is only at my chest. If you step in, you aren't going under. You’re coming straight to me.”
“It’s too much, Mike,” she whispered, her breath coming in shallow hitches. “It feels like... like there’s nothing underneath.”
“There's me,” Mike countered firmly. “I’m right here. I’m not going to let your head go under. Not even for a second. Trust my hands. Trust me. I’ve got you.“
Y/N took a shaky breath. Slowly, she reached down and took his hands. Slowly, painfully, she sat on the edge and slid in.
The moment the cool water hit her waist, she gasped, her fingers digging into Mike’s shoulders so hard her knuckles turned white. He didn't flinch.
Immediately, Mike’s hands moved from her fingers to her waist. He stepped forward, closing the distance until there wasn't an inch of space between them. He pulled her flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around her like a vice.
He just stepped closer, his arms wrapping fully around her waist, pulling her flush against him so she could feel his heartbeat.
His grip was warm and incredibly solid. She eased herself off the edge, and the moment the cool water hit her waist, she let out a small, panicked gasp.
“See? You're okay,” he murmured. “You're okay. I'm the anchor, remember?”
Y/N buried her face in the crook of his neck, her fingers clutching the damp fabric of his shirt. She was shaking, but the solidity of him—the way his heartbeat was steady against her own—began to pull her back from the ledge of panic, her legs instinctively brushing against his as they treading water.
“See?” Mike murmured, his face inches from hers. “Not cold.”
“Yeah,” Y/N whispered, her hands resting on his shoulders to stay afloat. “Not cold at all.”
For a long moment, the rest of the world disappeared. The splashing from the others felt miles away. Mike’s grip on her waist was firm, steady, and entirely un-platonic. He didn't move away. He waited, his eyes searching hers, practically begging her to finally put the pieces together.
“You're standing?” she whispered into his skin.
“Firm on the ground,” Mike promised. He shifted his grip, one hand staying on her waist while the other moved to the back of her head, shielding her, holding her close. “You’re safe. I’m not letting go.”
Across the pool, the splashing had stopped. Dustin, Lucas, and Max were staring in stunned silence. Even Eddie had gone quiet. They were seeing a young man who looked like he would burn the whole world down before he let a single drop of water frighten her.
“He's literally holding her like she’s the only thing keeping him afloat,” Max whispered, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
Y/N didn’t even register the weight of Mike’s words, but before she could process the intensity behind it, a small wave from Eddie splashing nearby sent a spray of water toward her face.
The sensation of water over her nose and eyes triggered a primal panic. Her breathing hitched into a sob, and she started to scramble, her hands splashing wildly as she tried to climb him, her eyes blown wide with terror.
She let out a tiny, startled sound and squeezed her eyes shut, burying her face back into Mike’s chest. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn't a breath of air between them.
“Hey, hey,” Mike whispered, his voice softening instantly. He turned his back to the rest of the pool, using his body as a literal shield to block any more splashes. “It was just a little water, Y/N. I’ve still got you. I’m not moving.”
“You are breathing,” he assured, his tone incredibly calm, steady, and unyielding. “Your face is dry. You’re standing on the bottom. Feel the floor. Put your feet down.”
“I... I can't,” she whimpered, her body still shaking.
“Yes, you can. I’m holding you. I’m not letting go.” He shifted his grip, one hand on the back of her head, the other pressing into the small of her back, holding her together. He leaned in until their foreheads touched. “Close your eyes. Just listen to me.”
He stayed true to his word. While the others eventually went back to their chaos—Dustin trying to prove he could hold his breath for three minutes while Lucas timed him—Mike remained an island of stillness in the shallow end.
Slowly, Y/N’s grip relaxed from a panicked squeeze to something softer, though she didn’t pull away. She felt the cool water swaying around her waist and the contrasting heat of Mike’s skin. She realized, in a hazy, distant way, that Mike was incredibly warm. And solid. And he smelled like chlorine and the peppermint gum he always chewed.
“You did it,” he said, a small, proud smile finally breaking through his serious expression. “You went in. That’s a win.”
Y/N let out a long, shaky breath, her "bratty" edge returning just a tiny bit as the terror faded. “I hated every second of it. I’m never doing that again. You're a jerk for making me go that deep.”
Mike let out a huff of a laugh, reaching up to wipe a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb. “There she is. I was wondering when you'd start complaining again.” He had shifted his hands so they were resting firmly on her hips, keeping her steady as the water bobbed around them.
“Better?” Mike asked after a few minutes.
Y/N finally peeked up at him. She was still close enough to see the individual droplets of water clinging to his hair to his forehead. “Yeah. Sorry. I know I’m being a brat about the water. I’m probably ruining the hangout for you.”
Mike’s expression went uncharacteristically soft, a small, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned down just a fraction, his gaze flicking over her face with a gentleness that would have made the rest of the group fall over in shock.
“You aren't ruining anything,” he said firmly. He reached up with one hand, his thumb catching a stray drop of water on her cheek and brushing it away with agonizing slowness. “I’d stand here all night if it meant you weren't scared.”
Y/N felt that flutter again, but she pushed it down, chalking it up to the adrenaline of the pool. “You’re too nice to me, Wheeler. Seriously. If I were you, I would’ve pushed me in the deep end by now.”
Mike let out a short, huffed laugh, his fingers lingering on her jaw for a second too long before he dropped his hand back to her waist. “Yeah, well. You aren't me.”
“True,” she teased, starting to feel a bit more like herself. She gave his shoulders a playful little squeeze. “I’m much shorter. And I have better hair.”
“Debatable,” Mike countered, his dark eyes sparkling with a mix of frustration and genuine affection.
The moment was pure, sugary fluff—the two of them swaying slightly in the blue-lit water, Mike being the perfect, protective anchor while Y/N slowly found her courage again. She didn't notice the way Lucas and Max were watching them from the steps, whispering to each other about how “disgustingly domestic” they looked
“Okay,” Y/N said, taking a deep breath. “I think I can try to stand on my own now. But don't go far.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mike said, his voice back to that low, firm tone. He slowly loosened his grip, but kept his hands hovering just inches from her sides, ready to catch her the second she wavered.
As she tested her footing, she beamed at him, a bright, triumphant smile. “See? Teamwork!”
Mike just sighed, a fond, tired sound. “Yeah. Teamwork.”
Y/N went back to his arms slowly, her eyes searching Mike’s. The fear was receding, replaced by that confusing, warm heat. She noticed the way he was looking at her—not with the “reliable” look of a best friend, but with a raw, desperate tenderness that felt... heavy.
“You really are a good friend, Mike,” she whispered, her voice hitching. “You always save me.”
Mike’s jaw tightened. For a second, his eyes darkened, and he looked like he was finally going to say it. He leaned in, his forehead almost touching hers.
“Y/N?” he said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet air.
“Yeah?”
“Are you still going to tell me tomorrow that we're just 'good friends'?”
The question was direct. It was the firmest he’d ever been. Y/N opened her mouth to give her usual cheerful response, but the words died in her throat. She looked at the way his wet lashes framed his eyes, the way his jaw was set with a desperate kind of courage.
Before she could answer, a loud SMACK echoed across the pool.
“MY BACK! EDDIE, I THINK I BROKE MY ENTIRE BACK!” Dustin yelled from the diving board area.
The spell broke. Y/N blinked, the “oblivious”mask sliding back into place, though it looked a little shakier than before. “Oh my god, Dustin!”She paddled back, slipping out of Mike’s arms. “Mike, go help him! You're strong!”
Mike stood in the chest-deep water, his hands empty and his head tilted back toward the stars. He let out a long, frustrated groan that was lost in the chaos of Dustin’s “injury.”
Across the pool, Max looked at Lucas and shook her head. “We’re going to be sixty years old and she’s still going to be calling him 'strong' and 'reliable' while he carries her groceries.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Eddie muttered, helping a groaning Dustin out of the water. “Next Friday. The Byers’ flat. We’re playing Spin the Bottle. I don't care if it’s cliché. We are ending this.”
While the neon lights of the pool were miles away, the Hopper cabin was silent, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
Jim Hopper sat at the kitchen table, a lukewarm cup of coffee in front of him. He was trying to be “the cool dad.” He was trying to respect Y/N’s “post-Vecna freedom.” But he was also a cop, a father, and a man who had seen Mike Wheeler’s face every time Y/N walked into a room for the last seven years. He didn't trust it.
“El?” Hopper called out, glancing toward the living room.
Jand was sitting on the floor, the static of the TV acting as a soft white noise. She had the blindfold on, her head tilted back. She was “observing.”
“Is she okay?” Hopper asked, his voice a mix of genuine concern and protective suspicion. “She’s not... crying? No monsters?”
In the void of her mind, she saw them. She saw the blue water of the pool. She saw her sister, Y/N, clinging to Mike like he was the only solid thing in a liquid world. She saw the way Mike’s hands were clamped onto Y/N’s hips—not as a friend, but as someone who never wanted to let go. She saw the way Mike was looking at her sister, his expression so raw and full of pining that it made El’s heart ache.
She saw Mike lean in. She saw the firm way he held her. She saw the sheer, unadulterated romance of the moment.
A single bead of blood trickled from her nose. She pulled the blindfold off, blinking back into the dimly lit cabin.
Hopper was standing over her now, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed. “Well? Is she safe? What’s the Wheeler kid doing?”
She wiped the blood with her sleeve. She looked at him—who was currently vibrating with 'protective-dad' energy—and then she thought of Mike’s desperate face in the pool. If she told the truth, Mike would be banned from the house until the year 2099.
“She is safe,” El said, her voice steady. “They are... playing.”
“Playing?” Hopper repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Playing what? Marco Polo? Grab-the-Wheeler’s-Neck?”
“They are swimming,” she lied, picking her words carefully. “Y/N is afraid of the water. Mike is helping her stand. Like a... coach. Very professional.”
Hopper exhaled a long breath, his shoulders dropping about an inch. “A coach. Right. Useful. Good. As long as he’s keeping his distance.”
“Yes,” El said, her eyes flickering toward the TV static. “Much distance. They are like... two poles. Far apart.”
“Good,” Hopper grunted, heading back to the kitchen. “If I find out he’s being a 'brat' or getting too close, I'm gonna start making him do push-ups every time he rings the doorbell.”
El waited until he was gone before she let out a long, heavy sigh. She looked at the blank TV screen. She felt bad for lying, but she felt worse for Mike. Her sister was protected by a wall of obliviousness that even a psychic couldn't break through, and Mike was currently fighting a war on two fronts: Y/N’s heart and Hopper’s shotgun.
“Mike,” El whispered to the empty room, “you are in trouble.”
A BBQ at the Byers’ house was the closest thing to a “peace treaty” Hawkins could offer. The air was thick with the smell of charbroiled burgers, Joyce’s famous potato salad, and the sweet, heavy scent of summer grass.
It was supposed to be relaxing, but for the “Miserable Group,” it was just another chance to watch the Mike-and-Y/N tragedy unfold in real-time.
Mike was stationed at the grill with Jonathan, trying to look busy so he wouldn't have to endure more of Eddie’s “romantic advice.” He looked good—tshirt sleeves rolled up, a bit of soot on his cheek, and that firm, focused expression he wore whenever he was trying to prove he was useful.
“Hey, Wheeler,” Jonathan murmured, flipping a patty. “You’ve been staring at that one burger for five minutes. I think it’s dead.”
Mike snapped out of it, his eyes darting to the picnic table where Y/N was laughing at something Max had said. “I'm just... making sure it's medium-well. That’s how she likes it.”
Jonathan chuckled. “Of course. God forbid the girl gets a burger that isn't perfect.”
Across the yard, Y/N was holding court. She was wearing one of Mike's old flannels over a tank top—a fact she’d brushed off as “just grabbing the first thing I saw”—and she looked perfectly at home.
“You're wearing his clothes again,” Max whispered, leaning in close to Y/N.
“It was cold! And Mike doesn't mind,” Y/N said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s like a brother, Max. A very tall, very grumpy, very warm brother.”
Max made a sound like she was choking on a grape. “A brother. Right. Because brothers look at their sisters the way Mike is looking at you right now.”
Y/N turned her head. At the grill, Mike had stopped talking to Jonathan. He was standing there, tongs in hand, his gaze fixed on Y/N with an intensity that could have cooked the burgers without the charcoal. When their eyes met, he didn't look away. He didn't do the shy wave. He just gave her a slow, firm nod, his eyes trailing over the flannel she was wearing—his flannel.
Y/N’s face heated up. She turned back to the table, her heart doing that weird, frantic skip again. “He’s probably just making sure I don't spill mustard on it. He’s very protective of his stuff.”
“He’s protective of you, you idiot,” Max muttered, but Y/N was already distracted by Hopper walking over.
Hopper was the human equivalent of a thundercloud. He walked up to the grill, eyeing the way Mike was handling the meat. “Wheeler. You're overcooking that. Give it here.”
“I've got it, Chief,” Mike said, his voice surprisingly steady. He didn't back down. He stood his ground, maintaining eye contact with the man who could legally end him. “Y/N likes them this way. I’m handling it.”
The table went silent. Dustin stopped mid-bite. Lucas held his breath.
Hopper squinted, his mustache twitching. He looked at Mike, then at his daughter, then back at Mike. “Handling it, huh?”
“Yes,” Mike said firmly.
Hopper grunted, a sound that could have meant anything from ‘I respect your initiative’ to ‘I'm burying you in the woods later.’ He stomped away toward Joyce, leaving Mike standing there, slightly breathless but victorious.
“Whoa,” Dustin whispered as Mike walked over to the table a few minutes later, placing the perfect burger in front of Y/N. “The Paladin just stood up to the Final Boss.”
“Here,” Mike said to Y/N, ignoring Dustin. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear—a gesture so natural and yet so intimate that Max actually had to look away to keep from smiling. “Eat before it gets cold.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Y/N said, her voice a little softer than usual. She looked up at him, and for a fleeting second, the platonic label felt incredibly wrong. She felt like a brat for how much she enjoyed him taking charge like that. “You're... really good at this.”
“I know,” Mike said, his voice a low, confident rumble. He sat down right next to her—not across, not at the end, but so close their shoulders were pressed together.
The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the Indiana sky in bruised purples and burnt oranges. The fire pit was crackling now, the sharp scent of woodsmoke replacing the smell of charred meat. This was the “found family” at its best—a circle of survivors who had traded trauma for toasted marshmallows.
But even in the peace, the Mike-and-Y/N magnet was pulling harder than ever.
As the evening chill set in, the group migrated toward the fire. Eddie had produced an acoustic guitar from the trunk of his car and was strumming something low and melodic, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like a slowed-down version of a Metallica song.
Y/N was huddled on a log, still wearing Mike’s flannel, which she had now buttoned all the way up to her chin. She looked small against the backdrop of the flickering flames, her eyes bright and reflective.
Mike didn't even ask. He simply moved a stray cooler out of the way and sat down on the log next to her. Because the log was uneven, they were forced to sit flush against one another. Mike draped a heavy arm across the back of her shoulders—not quite touching her yet, but creating a barrier between her and the rest of the world.
“You’re shivering,” Mike noted. It wasn't a question; it was an observation made with that new, protective firmness.
“I’m fine, Mike. It’s just the wind,” she insisted, though a traitorous chill shook her shoulders right as she said it.
Without a word, Mike shifted. He didn't just put his arm around her; he pulled her firmly into his side, tucking her head under his chin. His hand came down to rest on her upper arm, rubbing circles through the thick flannel to warm her up.
Across the fire, Joyce Byers leaned her head on Hopper’s shoulder, watching the two teenagers with a knowing, maternal smile. Hopper, on the other hand, was staring into the fire, his jaw working as he gripped his beer can a little too tight.
“Hop,” Joyce whispered, nudging him. “Look at them. They’re happy.”
“He’s too close,” Hopper grunted, though there was less bite in it than usual. “He's within the six-inch radius. He knows the rules.”
“He's keeping her warm,” Jane added from Hopper's other side, her voice calm and factual. “She is cold. He is a heater. It is logical.”
Hopper sighed, a long, defeated sound. He didn't get up to separate them. He just took another sip of his drink and looked away.
Back on the log, Y/N felt like her brain was melting. Usually, she’d make a joke about Mike being a “human space heater,” but she couldn't find the words. The way his chest rose and fell against her temple was rhythmic and grounding.
“Mike?” she whispered, so low only he could hear.
“Yeah?”
“Everyone is looking at us.”
Mike didn't pull away. If anything, he tightened his grip, his fingers digging slightly into her shoulder in a way that felt possessive and certain. “Let them look. Are you warm?”
“…Yeah,” she breathed. “I'm warm.”
“Good. Then stay put.”
Dustin leaned over to Lucas, his face illuminated by the fire like a conspiratorial goblin. “Look at Wheeler’s face. He looks like he just won the lottery. He’s actually doing it. He’s being... bold.”
“He can’t let go of her for one second,” Max whispered, a smirk playing on her lips. “She tries to act like it’s nothing, and he just leans in harder. It’s hilarious. She has no idea what to do when she can't laugh it off.”
As Eddie started playing a softer, more recognizable ballad, the chatter died down. For a moment, the “miserable group” wasn't miserable. They were just kids who had survived the dark, watching their two best friends finally—finally—occupying the same space without a monster between them.
Y/N closed her eyes, letting the heat of the fire and the heat of Mike Wheeler lull her into a sense of perfect safety. She still told herself it was “just Mike.” But as he rested his cheek against the top of her head, she found herself hoping the fire would never go out.
The transition from the backyard to the living room was seamless. As the fire died down, the air got just chilly enough that the lure of the Byers’ cramped, warm living room became irresistible.
They settled into a circle on the floor, the yellow light of the lamps casting long, flickering shadows. Hopper and Joyce had retreated to the porch with a bottle of wine, their muffled laughter a distant safety net.
“We’ve spent the last three years fighting monsters, literal and metaphorical. I think we’ve earned a night of complete, childish, idiotic fun. No world-ending stakes. Just a game.”
Y/N leaned back against the sofa, her legs stretched out near Mike’s. “What kind of game, Munson? If you say Truth or Dare, I’m going to bed.”
“Better,” Eddie smirked, reaching behind a stack of records and pulling out an empty glass bottle. “Spin the bottle. Old school. But with a twist—the 'Heaven' closet is the hall one. Seven minutes.”
A chorus of groans and nervous laughs went around. Mike sat perfectly still. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips. He glanced at Dustin, who gave him a thumbs-up so frantic it looked like he was having a spasm.
He produced an empty glass Coke bottle with the flourish of a magician. “The rules are simple. Spin the bottle. Whoever it lands on, you and the spinner get seven minutes in the hall closet. No talking about D&D, no talking about the Upside Down. Just... seven minutes of heaven.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, leaning back on her elbows. She was still wearing Mike’s flannel, looking comfortable and entirely unaware that she was the target of a high-level tactical operation. “Eddie, this is so cliché. We aren't twelve.”
“Cliché is a classic for a reason, Hopper!” Dustin chimed in, far too quickly.
Mike sat directly across from Y/N, his face a mask of practiced calm, though his pulse was visible in his neck. He caught Lucas’s eye, who gave him a sharp, subtle nod.
“I'll go first,” Max said, giving the bottle a casual flick. It landed on Lucas. They both shrugged and disappeared into the hallway. They retreated to the closet with a chorus of “Get a room!” from Dustin.
When they returned seven minutes later—Max looking smug and Lucas looking a little dazed—the air in the room had shifted. It was Y/N’s turn.
“Your go, Rogue,” Eddie said, his grin widening.
Y/N reached out and gave the bottle a healthy shove. It hissed against the hardwood floor, spinning in a blur of green glass. As it started to slow, it was pointed directly at Dustin.
Dustin’s eyes went wide with horror. He looked at Jane.
Jane sat perfectly still, her gaze fixed on the bottle. She didn't move a muscle, but her brow furrowed in concentration. Just as the bottle was about to click to a stop in front of Dustin, it suddenly—and impossibly—shuddered. It jerked a full forty-five degrees to the right, sliding against the friction of the floor until the neck was pointing straight at Mike Wheeler.
A single, tiny drop of blood escaped her nose. She wiped it away by pretending to stretch.
“Oh!” Dustin shouted, sounding way too relieved. “Would you look at that! Mike! What are the odds?”
“The bottle has spoken,” Eddie declared, standing up and sweeping a hand toward the hallway. “Seven minutes. Don’t have too much fun.”
Y/N stared at the bottle, then at Mike. Her heart gave a violent, panicked thud. “That... that didn't look like it was going to land on him.”
“Physics is a mystery,” Lucas said solemnly.
“Statistically improbable,” Will added, hiding a smile behind his hand.
“Gravity is weird in this house,” Eddie said with a wink, standing up to open the closet door. “The bottle doesn't lie, Rogue. Wheeler, take her away.”
Mike stood up first. He didn't wait for her to make a joke or a protest. He stepped toward her and offered his hand, his fingers steady. “Rules are rules, Y/N. Unless you're scared?”
That did it. Y/N’s pride flared up. She took his hand—finding it much sticky with sweat, and more solid than she expected—and stood up. “I'm not scared of a closet, Wheeler.”
“Good,” Mike said, his voice dropping into that low, firm register. “Because it's a small closet.”
The group watched in breathless silence as Mike led her down the hall. The door clicked shut, the sound echoing in the quiet house.
“Go,” Dustin whispered the second they were out of sight. "Everyone, to the door. Quietly!"
Y/N took his hand, her fingers trembling slightly, and let him lead her into the cramped, dark closet.
The door clicked shut, plunging them into darkness.
The closet was small, filled with the scent of Joyce’s winter coats and cedar. It was so tight that Y/N had to step between Mike’s feet just to fit. She could feel his warmth radiating off him, more intense than the bonfire.
The darkness in the closet was so thick it felt like a physical weight. Every sound was magnified: the muffled laughter of the group in the other room, the ticking of a clock somewhere in the hall, and, most prominently, the sound of Mike’s breathing.
“Mike?” Y/N whispered. She shifted her feet, her sneakers squeaking against the hardwood. “Can you move your arm? You’re kind of... squishing a parka into my head.”
She heard a faint, huffed sound—the ghost of a laugh. “Sorry,” he murmured.
She felt him shift, but he didn't move away. Instead, he moved his arm higher, his hand resting on the top shelf of the closet. The movement brought his body even closer, the front of his shirt now brushing against the flannel she was wearing. His flannel.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yeah. Better.”
The silence returned, but it wasn't the comfortable silence they usually shared while watching movies or biking to the quarry. It was charged. It felt like the static electricity that builds up before a lightning strike.
Y/N’s hand was still resting on his chest, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. She realized she should probably move it, but her arm felt heavy, and the steady, rapid thump-thump of his heart under her palm was strangely grounding.
“It’s really dark in here,” she said, her voice barely a breath. It was a stupid thing to say—obviously it was dark—but she needed to break the tension before she did something impulsive, like lean into him.
“I don't mind the dark,” Mike said. His voice was low, vibrating through his chest and into her hand. “Do you?”
“No. It’s just... quiet.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Mike asked. He moved his other hand, the one that had been at his side. Slowly, as if giving her every chance to pull away, he reached out. His fingers found her chin, his touch light but firm, tilting her face up just a fraction.
Y/N’s breath hitched. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel him looking at her. The retort she had prepared—something about him being a ‘bossy coach’—died in her throat.
“You're usually so loud,” Mike noted, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Always talking. Always making jokes. You're never this quiet.”
“Well, you're usually not this... close,” she countered, her voice trembling slightly.
“Maybe I should be,” Mike murmured.
He didn't lean in for a kiss. He just stood there, holding her face in the dark, his thumb brushing slowly against the line of her jaw. It was a terrifyingly intimate gesture, one that didn't fit into the “best friend” box she had kept him in for years.
“Mike,” she whispered, her heart doing a frantic somersault. “What are we doing?”
“I don’t know about you, but I'm waiting,” Mike said, his tone shifting into that firm, certain register.
“Waiting for what?”
“For you to stop pretending,” he said quietly. “For you to realize that I didn't land on this spot because of the bottle. I've been standing in this spot for years, Y/N. Just waiting for you to notice.”
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the sound of their shallow breathing. Y/N felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff. Part of her wanted to crack a joke, to call him a “drama queen” and laugh it off so they could go back to the way things were—safe, easy, and platonic.
But the way his thumb was tracing her jawline made it impossible to laugh. It was too deliberate. Too firm.
“I'm not... I'm not pretending,” Y/N whispered, though even to her own ears, the words sounded weak. “We're just... we're Mike and Y/N. We’re the duo. You’re the one who keeps me from doing stupid things, and I’m the one who makes sure you don't take everything so seriously.”
“Maybe I want to be serious,” Mike countered. He leaned in just an inch more, his forehead almost touching hers. “Did you ever think about that? That maybe I’m tired of being the ‘duo’ if it means I have to pretend I don't feel like my lungs are failing every time you smile at me?”
Y/N’s fingers tightened on his shirt, bunching the fabric. “Mike...”
“You’re a brat, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, affectionate growl that sent a shiver straight down her spine. “You’re stubborn, and you’re oblivious, and you treat me like a piece of furniture you can just lean on whenever you’re tired. And the worst part is? I let you. I let you because I’d rather be something to you than nothing at all.”
He let out a shaky breath, his resolve wavering for just a second before it hardened again. “But I'm done being a ‘good friend’ today. Just for seven minutes. I want to know if you actually don't see it... or if you're just scared.”
Y/N felt a lump in her throat. For the first time, she couldn't hide behind her obliviousness. He had stripped it away, leaving her exposed in the dark. “I'm not scared,” she lied, her voice cracking.
“Liar,” Mike whispered.
He didn't kiss her. Instead, he tilted his head down, resting his forehead against hers. It was a grounding, heavy pressure. In the pitch black of the closet, with only the scent of cedar and Mike surrounding her, Y/N finally let herself feel it—the way her heart hammered when he was near, the way she constantly sought him out in a crowded room, the way his flannel felt more like home than her own clothes.
Suddenly, a muffled thud came from the other side of the door, followed by a frantic “Shhh!” and the sound of someone’s sneakers scuffing the floor.
“Dustin, you're on my foot!” Will’s hissed whisper was unmistakable through the wood.
“I can't hear anything! Are they even talking?” Max’s voice was a low thread of frustration.
The spell didn't break, but it shifted. Mike didn't jump back. He didn't even flinch. He just stayed there, his forehead against hers, his hand still firm on her jaw. He was waiting for her move.
“They're going to open the door in about sixty seconds,” Mike murmured, his breath warm against her lips. “Seven minutes is almost up.”
Y/N looked up, even though she could only see the faint outline of his eyes. “And then what?”
“And then,” Mike said, his voice regaining that steady, protective firmness, “you have to decide if you're going to walk out that door as my best friend... or if you're finally going to let me be honest with you and accept it.”
The air in the closet was vibrating. Y/N’s heart was drumming against her ribs, and Mike was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. She opened her mouth, her pulse thundering in her ears—maybe to say his name, maybe to finally close the gap—but the choice was stolen from her.
CRASH.
The closet door didn't just open; it groaned under the weight of three teenagers who had been leaning far too hard against the wood. Dustin tumbled in first, landing on his hands and knees, followed by Lucas, who narrowly avoided stepping on him. Max managed to stay upright, but she was clutching the doorframe, her face flushed with a mix of excitement and “caught-red-handed” guilt.
“Uh... hi!” Dustin squeaked, looking up from the floor at Mike’s shoes. “The seven minutes... it felt like ten? Time is a flat circle, right?”
The yellow light from the hallway flooded in, blinding and harsh.
Mike didn't move immediately. He stood there, his hand slowly dropping from Y/N’s jaw, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. The look on his face wasn't embarrassed; it was devastating. He looked like a man who had just watched his entire world crumble inches before the finish line.
Y/N felt the sudden light like a slap. The realization of where she was, who was watching, and what Mike had just said hit her all at once. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her chest.
“Y/N?” Mike whispered, his voice low and searching, ignoring the trio on the floor.
She couldn't look at him. If she looked at him, she’d cry, or scream, or kiss him—and with her friends staring and her dad just through those walls, she couldn't do any of it. Her confidence had completely evaporated, replaced by a raw, suffocating fear.
“I... I can't,” she murmured, her voice barely a thread. She didn't look up, her eyes fixed on the hem of his shirt. “I’m sorry, Mike. I’m sorry.”
Before he could reach for her, before he could say another word, she stepped over the group, her foot almost catching on Dustin’s as she practically sprinted down the hallway.
“Wait, Y/N!” Lucas called out, but she didn't stop.
She burst into the porch, her eyes darting the familiar, towering silhouette of Jim Hopper by the door, talking to Joyce. He looked up, his protective instincts flaring instantly at the sight of his daughter’s pale face and wide eyes.
“Hey, kid? What’s wrong?” Hopper asked, his voice dropping into that low, rumble of concern. He stepped toward her, his eyes already flicking toward the hallway to see if Mike was behind her.
“Dad,” Y/N said, her voice trembling. She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, her fingers shaking. “I'm tired. I... I want to go home. Please. Can we just go home?”
Hopper’s gaze sharpened. He saw the way she was vibrating with tension, the way she refused to look back at the “miserable” group now standing awkwardly in the hallway. He looked over her head and caught Mike’s eye.
Mike was standing at the end of the hall, half-hidden in the shadows, looking like he’d been struck by lightning.
“Yeah,” Hopper said, his voice unusually soft as he put a heavy, protective arm around Y/N’s shoulders. He shot Mike one last, warning glance—not one of anger, but of deep, suspicious curiosity. “Yeah, let's get out of here. El! Get your shoes. We're leaving.”
Y/N didn't say goodbye to anyone. She didn't look back as the front door clicked shut behind them, leaving the “miserable group” standing in a silence that felt heavier than any monster they had ever fought.
The car ride back to the cabin was suffocating. The only sound was the low rumble of the Blazer’s engine and the occasional click of Hopper’s turn signal. Hopper kept glancing in the rearview mirror, his eyes shifting between Y/N’s ghost-pale face and El, who was staring out the window with a look of deep, quiet guilt.
Hopper knew better than to push right then—he could feel the ozone in the air, the kind that preceded a total meltdown.
The moment they crossed the threshold of the cabin, Y/N didn't even take off her shoes. She bolted for the bedroom she shared with El, the door closed shut with a finality that made Hopper pause in the hallway, hand hovering over the wood before he ultimately sighed and let it go.
Inside, the room was dim. Y/N collapsed onto her bed, still wrapped in that oversized flannel—Mike’s flannel—and pulled her knees to her chest. A moment later, the door creaked open. El slipped in, moving like a shadow, and sat on the edge of the mattress.
“Y/N,” El said softly. She reached out, her hand hovering before resting on Y/N’s trembling shoulder. “Are you... hurt?”
“I'm fine,” Y/N choked out, but her voice betrayed her. She sat up abruptly, her hair a mess, her eyes red-rimmed. “No, I'm not fine. I'm a mess, El. Everything is a mess.”
El tilted her head, her dark eyes filled with a wisdom that far outstripped her years. “The bottle... it was not an accident. I moved it. I am sorry.”
Y/N froze, her breath hitching. “You... you did that? Why?”
“Because Mike's heart is so loud,” El explained simply, her voice dropping. “And because I thought you knew. I thought you were just... waiting.”
“I wasn't waiting! I was breathing!” Y/N suddenly stood up, pacing the small square of floor. “In that closet... it was so small, El. And he was so close. He wasn't being 'good old Mike.' He was being... firm. He was so sure of his words, and it was so much. It was too much.”
She stopped, leaning her forehead against her knees. “He told me he was tired of being my friend. He told me I was a brat for not noticing. And the worst part is, I wanted to say something back. I wanted to tell him that I think I’ve been scared of this for years because if I lose him as a friend, I have nothing. But then the door opened, and everyone was staring, and I just... I couldn't breathe. I felt so pressured to have the 'perfect' answer, and all I had was panic.”
She turned back to El, her voice dropping to a broken whisper. “I said I was sorry and I ran away. I left him standing there in the dark, El. He looked like I’d just kicked him in the chest. How am I supposed to ever look at him again?”
El stood up and walked over, pulling her sister into a steady, grounding hug. “Mike is the Paladin,” she murmured. “He is stubborn. He will wait. But you must be honest. Not with him... with yourself.”
Y/N clung to her sister, the weight of the night finally crashing down. The obliviousness was gone, replaced by a terrifying, beautiful clarity that she wasn't ready for.
The next few days were a masterclass in avoidance. Y/N had mastered the art of the “Hopper Exit”—slipping out of the back of the arcade the moment she saw a lanky silhouette at the front door, or suddenly having “too much homework” the second a walkie-talkie crackled with Mike’s voice.
But Mike wasn't the only one feeling the heat. The “Miserable Group” was currently operating under a cloud of intense, collective guilt.
“We are the worst friends in the history of Hawkins,” Dustin lamented, slumped over a booth at Benny’s Burgers. “Actually, scratch that. We are the worst friends in the history of the Tri-State area.”
“I told you the door was unstable,” Lucas muttered, staring miserably at his fries. “But no, you had to lean in for the ‘prime acoustic’ position.”
Max didn't even argue. She just stared at the entrance, waiting. When Mike finally walked in, he looked like he hadn't slept since the 1980s began. His eyes were shadowed, his jaw was tight, and he moved with a grim, focused energy. He didn't even look at them as he slid into the booth.
“She's still not answering the walkie,” Mike said, his voice flat. He didn't ask for a burger. He didn't ask how they were. “I went to the cabin. Hopper told me if I stepped on the porch again, he’d make sure I spent the rest of my life in a cast.”
“Mike, look,” Dustin started, his voice cracking with sincerity. “We blew it. We know we blew it. We owe you. Big time.”
Mike finally looked up, his dark eyes flashing with a spark of that new, firm intensity. “You don't owe me an apology. You owe me a chance to talk to her without three idiots falling through a door.”
“Consider it done,” Eddie said, sliding into the booth next to Mike with a determined look. “The Party has reached a consensus. We’ve been ‘observing’ her habits. She’s avoiding the arcade, the basement, and your house. But she still goes to the library on Tuesdays to return her sister’s books.”
“The library,” Mike repeated, his mind already working. “There’s only one exit.”
“And we,” Lucas said, pulling out a set of walkies, “will be the perimeter. No one gets in or out of that aisle until you’ve said what you need to say. Not even the librarian.”
The Hawkins Library was a tomb of hushed whispers and the smell of old paper. Y/N moved through the stacks like a ghost, her hood pulled up, eyes darting around. She felt like a fugitive. Every time someone cleared their throat, she expected it to be Mike.
She reached the back of the “Science Fiction” section—the quietest corner of the building—and let out a shaky breath. She just needed to drop off the books and get back to the safety of the Blazer.
Click.
The sound of a door locking echoed from the end of the aisle. Y/N spun around, her heart jumping into her throat.
There, standing at the end of the narrow row of bookshelves, was Mike. He wasn't leaning. He wasn't hiding. He was standing dead center, his arms crossed, his expression incredibly firm. Behind him, she could just see the top of Dustin’s curly hair through the glass of the door, holding a “Section Closed for Maintenance” sign.
“You've been fast, Y/N,” Mike said, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet. He started walking toward her, his boots thudding softly on the carpet. “But I can handle your pace.”
“Mike, please,” Y/N whispered, backing away until her heels hit the base of the bookshelf. “I told you... I’m sorry. I can't do this right now.”
“You've been saying ‘I can’t’for three days,” Mike said. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of her, so close she had to tilt her head back to see his face.
“I'm not letting you run away this time,” he said, his voice a low, steady command. “The group is guarding the door. Your dad is at the station. It's just us. No pressure, no audience. Just tell me why you're running.”
Y/N looked up at him, her eyes welling with frustrated, panicked tears. “Because I don't know the answer, Mike! Because everything was fine, and now I can't even breathe without thinking about what you said in that closet! You’re my best friend, and I’m terrified that if I say the wrong thing, I’ll lose the only person who actually handles me.”
“Hate me, shoot me, hit me,” Mike murmured, his gaze softening but his stance remaining unyielding. He leaned in, his nose inches from hers. “But don’t avoid me. You’re never going to lose me. Do you really think I'd walk away after seven years just because you're scared?”
He reachef out one hand, his fingers gently catching her chin to keep her from looking away. “Be honest with me, Y/N. For once. Forget the group, forget your dad. When I held you in the water... when I held you in the closet... did you really feel nothing?”
The silence of the library felt heavy, but for the first time, it didn't feel like it was suffocating her. It felt like a shield.
Y/N looked at Mike—really looked at him—and saw the way his eyes were searched hers, full of a terrifying amount of hope and that stubborn, firm resolve. She let out a shaky, frustrated breath, her shoulders finally dropping.
“You're so annoying,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You know that? You're bossy, and you're intense, and you've spent the last week making me feel like my heart is going to explode.”
Mike didn't flinch. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Is that a yes or a no?”
“It's a 'shut up,'” she muttered. She reached up, grabbing the collar of his jacket and pulling him down that last inch.
The kiss wasn't like a movie. It was slightly clumsy, smelling of old library books and Mike’s peppermint gum, but it was certain. It was the answer to seven years of pining, and the moment their lips met, the panic that had been living in Y/N’s chest for days finally vanished.
Mike’s hand moved from her chin to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair as he held her there, deepening the kiss with a possessive, firm hunger that made her knees feel like they were made of jelly.
From behind the glass door of the science fiction section, a muffled, high-pitched “YES!” erupted, followed by the sound of Dustin, Eddie, and Lucas being aggressively shushed by Will, Jane, and Max.
Y/N pulled back just a fraction, resting her forehead against Mike's, both of them breathing hard. She couldn't help it—the spark in her came right back to the surface the moment she felt safe again.
“Okay, okay,” she breathed, patting his chest playfully. “Don't get ahead of yourself, Wheeler.”
Mike blinked, looking slightly dazed but blissfully happy. “What?”
“I mean, that was... fine,” she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “But you can't just corner me in a library and expect to be my boyfriend with zero effort. No flowers? No dinner? You haven't even taken me on a real date yet, and you're already acting like the Paladin who rescued the Rogue.”
Mike let out a genuine, loud laugh—the first one in days. He didn't pull away, though. He kept his arms looped loosely around her waist, keeping her in his space.
“A date?” he repeated, his voice dropping back into that low, confident tone. “Fine. Friday night. I'll pick you up. I’ll even wear a tie if it makes you happy.”
“And you have to ask my dad,” she added, her grin widening. “Formally. In person.”
Mike’s face went slightly pale at the mention of Hopper, but he didn't back down. He stood tall, his grip on her waist tightening just enough to show he wasn't going anywhere.
“I can handle the Chief,” Mike said firmly. “As long as I get to take you home after.”
“We'll see,” Y/N chirped, finally slipping out from his arms and heading toward the door. She stopped, looking back over her shoulder with a wink. “Better start practicing those push-ups, Mike. I think you're gonna need 'em.”
As she pushed past the cheering group, Mike stood in the aisle for a moment, a goofy, triumphant grin plastered on his face. He had her. She was his. And for Mike Wheeler, that was the greatest high score he’d ever achieved.
Friday night arrived with the kind of atmospheric tension usually reserved for a gate opening.
In the Wheeler driveway, Mike stood frozen next to Steve’s BMW that he borrowed, staring at his reflection in the chrome of the mirror. He was wearing a crisp button-down tucked into dark slacks.
“Confidence, Wheeler,” Steve’s voice echoed in his head. “And for the love of God, don't mention the words 'sub-level' or 'dungeon.' It’s a restaurant. With forks.”
The Hopper cabin sat at the end of the long, dark driveway like a final boss arena. Mike climbed the porch steps, his loafers clicking unnervingly loud. He stopped at the door, taking a deep breath and mentally scrolling through Nancy’s frantic checklist:
Eye contact. Firm handshake (but don't squeeze, he'll think you're challenging him). Compliment the house? No, that’s weird. Compliment the food. Be home by 10:00 PM. Not 10:01. 10:00.
He knocked. Three firm raps.
The door didn't just open; it swung wide to reveal Jim Hopper in all his flannel-clad, broad-shouldered glory. He was holding a glass of juice, but he held it like it was a weapon. He looked Mike up and down—slowly—focusing on the Steve-inspired hair.
“Wheeler,” Hopper grunted.
“Chief,” Mike said. His voice cracked slightly, but he cleared his throat and stood his ground, chin up. He extended a hand. “I’m here to take Y/N to dinner. Sir.”
Hopper stared at the hand for three very long seconds before giving it a single, bone-crushing squeeze. “You look like you're going to a funeral. Or a job interview.”
“It's a date,” Mike corrected, his voice regaining that low, firm edge. “I will treat her right.”
Hopper’s eyes narrowed. He stepped back, allowing Mike into the living room. “El! Get out here and tell your sister the suit is here!”
Jane emerged from the hallway, wearing a small, secretive smile. She looked at Mike, nodded once in approval of the outfit, and then looked at her dad. “He is nervous. His heart is fast.”
“I can hear it from here,” Hopper muttered. He turned back to Mike, leaning his weight against the kitchen counter. “Listen to me. She’s had a rough year. We’ve all had a rough year. If she comes back even a second late, or if she looks like she’s been crying, I won't need a warrant to find where you live.”
“She’ll be home at ten,” Mike promised, his gaze unwavering. “And she’ll be happy. I'll make sure of it.”
Before Hopper could offer another threat, the hallway door opened. Y/N stepped out, and Mike actually forgot how to breathe for a second. She wasn't wearing his flannel. She was in a dress that made her look older, her hair styled just enough to show she’d tried, but she still had that smirk on her face the moment she saw Mike’s polished look.
“Whoa,” Y/N teased, walking over and smoothing out a wrinkle on his lapel. “Who are you and what have you done with my scrawny best friend?”
“He's in here somewhere,” Mike murmured, his hand instinctively finding the small of her back—firmly, but gently.
“You look nice, Mike,” she whispered, her eyes softening in a way that made Hopper clear his throat loudly.
“Alright, alright,” Hopper interrupted, stepping between them to hand Y/N a ten-dollar bill 'just in case.' “Go. Eat. Ten o'clock. Wheeler, I'm counting the minutes.”
“Goodnight, Dad! Love you, El!” Y/N called out, grabbing Mike’s hand and pulling him toward the door before Hopper could change his mind.
As they stepped out into the cool night air, the porch light illuminating them, Mike felt the tension finally break. He led her toward the car he’d borrowed from Steve, opening the passenger door for her with a flourish that was half-sincere, half-teasing.
“So,” Y/N said as he got into the driver's seat. “Steve helped with the hair and car, and Nancy helped with the clothes... did Dustin help with the conversation starters?”
Mike laughed, reaching across the center console to take her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “No. I think I can handle the talking on my own from here.”
“Yeah?” she asked, leaning in.
“Yeah,” Mike said, his voice low and certain as he started the engine. “I’ve had seven years to practice.”
Mike froze as her hand reached up, his eyes widening. He’d spent forty-five minutes and half a can of Nancy’s strongest hairspray trying to achieve the “Harrington Sweep,” but as her fingers dove into the locks, he didn't pull away.
With a few playful tugs and a vigorous tousle, Y/N dismantled Steve’s hard work, leaving Mike’s hair falling back into its usual, messy dark mop over his forehead.
“There,” she said, leaning back with a satisfied grin, her eyes bright and fond. “Much better. You look like Mike again. I like you that way.”
Mike looked at himself in the rearview mirror, then back at her. The rigid, nervous “leading man” posture he’d been holding since he stepped onto the porch finally dissolved. He let out a long, relieved sigh, a genuine smile breaking across his face.
“Steve is going to be devastated,” Mike teased, though his voice was thick with affection. He reached out, catching her hand before she could pull it away and bringing it to his lips for a soft, lingering kiss on her knuckles. “But if you like it... I guess I can live with it.”
“Good,” she chirped, settling into the seat. “Now, let’s go. I’m starving, and we have exactly two hours and forty-two minutes before my dad starts pacing the driveway with a flashlight.”
Mike shifted the car into gear, feeling lighter than he had in years. He didn't need the suit, the hair, or the script. He just needed to be the guy who held her in the pool—the one who was never going to let go.
levi ackerman isn't just happiness. he is a lifestyle. he is the reason why i get up in the morning. he is the air that i breathe, the water that i drink. he is my purpose in life. he is what brings me happiness in this cruel world.
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