The storm outside thrashes against the walls. The Wheeler house groans.
Mike flips on a lamp â weak, orange light.
âStill smells like dust and⌠whatever that old candle was Mom used to light in here.â
Will lingers in the doorway. Doesnât sit. Just watches Mike fidget with a drawer.
âHolly hated it. Said it smelled like âdead Barbie clothes.ââ
Mike snorts a soft laugh. It catches in his throat.
âShe drew this thing earlier. Dustin said it looked like the Mind Flayer, but⌠I think it was supposed to be me.â
He turns toward Will. âIt had my hair.â
Will finally steps inside. Eyes flicking around the room like itâs a crime scene.
âShe drew me with my mouth sewn shut once.â
That makes Will smile. Barely.
Thunder cracks. A deep, guttural sound. The whole room shivers with it.
Mike pulls open another drawer, crouching near the floor. Muttering to himself, rifling through old junk â tangled cords, torn notebook paper, a cracked cassette case.
âGod, what was I even looking for again?â
Mike chuckles. And then stops. Blinks at something under the bed.
Mike doesnât move fast enough.
Will steps forward â drawn in by something just visible beneath the bed.
A folded piece of paper. Edges worn. As if touched too many times.
He reaches down. Pulls it out.
Scrawled in Mikeâs handwriting. Sharp. Hesitant.
Mike straightens sharply. Blood draining from his face.
But Willâs already opening it.
His eyes scan the words. Once. Then again. Slower.
Each line like a blow to the chest.
He exhales â a sharp, pained sound.
The paper flutters to the ground between them.
Will doesnât look at Mike. Doesnât say a word.
He turns. Walks out of the room like heâs trying not to run.
ââââââââââââ
I donât know what Iâm doing.
I shouldnât be writing this.
Youâre not supposed to know.
But I miss you. And itâs worse when I see you. Itâs like everything Iâve tried to forget just gets louder.
I thought it would go away. It hasnât.
I donât even know what this is. I just needed to say something, even if itâs only here.
He just stands there, frozen. The air feels too thick. His lungs donât work right. The letter lies where it fellâopen, exposed, like a wound.
He hadnât meant for this. Not like this.
He moves on instinct. Out the door. Down the hall.
Will is there. In the doorway.
Backlit by the storm outside. Rain streaking the windows. His chest rises and falls in shallow burstsâlike breathing hurts.
Mikeâs voice is low. Rough. Like it scrapes its way out of him.
âYou⌠You werenât supposed toââ
Silence crashes in around them.
Theyâre staring at each other like strangers. Or like theyâve only just now started seeing clearly.
His voice is barely a thread. But Mike hears it.
âWhen you left. For⌠for California.â
Will looks down. Not at Mike. At the letter. Still lying there like a secret finally pulled into the light.
It lands between them. Not a question. Just a name. A memory.
Mike takes one step forward. Hesitant.
âYou werenât supposed to see it.â
Will doesnât flinch. Doesnât speak. His eyes stay locked on the letter.
âI was gonna get rid of it. I swear. IâI couldnâtâŚâ
(finishing, barely above a whisper)
âBut you couldnât.â
Thatâs when he looks up.
And their eyes meet againâthis time searching, scanning. Not for answers. For each other. For truth.
Mikeâs gaze is desperate. Like heâs waiting for a verdict. Like heâs already preparing to lose.
Mike steps forward hesitantly.
âIâm sorry,â he muttersâbarely louder than the storm still pounding against the windows. âI tried to kill it. I did. But when I saw you in California⌠it killed me first.â
His voice splinters there, like it costs something just to admit it.
Will doesnât say anything. Doesnât move. His breathing is sharp, shallow. But heâs still standing there. Still listening.
And MikeâMike is wrecked.
His hair is damp and curling, pressed against his forehead in messy, soaked strands. Thereâs a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and his clothes hang heavy from the rain. He looks like heâs been dragged through the end of the world and didnât stop running. But stillâheâs beautiful. Not in some perfect, polished way. But in the realness of him. Raw and aching and alive.
âI hated what it made me,â Mike says, quieter now. âWanting you. Needing you. I thought if I ignored it long enough, it would just stop.â
Willâs lip twitchesâbut itâs not quite a smile. Itâs something bitterer. Sharper. His gaze drops to the floor. The letter still lies there between them like a crack in the foundation.
âAnd it didnât,â Will says flatly.
Mike swallows. âNo. It didnât.â
The silence stretches again. But this one is different. Not cold. Just⌠full. Charged.
Mike shifts, just barely closer. And now heâs within armâs reach, and Willâs shoulders are tense like a bowstring.
The air is hot with something unspokenâfrustration, fear, desire all tangled together like a thread they canât stop pulling.
Mike looks at him, really looks. At the tight set of his jaw. The way his hands keep clenching and unclenching at his sides. The way his throat works when he swallows.
He takes another breath, chest trembling.
âI didnât want to ruin what we had,â he whispers. âBut I think I ruined it anyway.â
And Mike sees itâeverything in his face. The hurt. The longing. The rage. The hope. All at once.
âYou didnât,â Will breathes, and something catches in Mikeâs chest.
Their eyes lock. And suddenly the room is too small for whatever is burning between them.
Mike shifts forward again. Slower now. A tremor in his hand as he reaches up, tentative.
Heâs staring at Will like heâs afraid to blink.
His fingertips graze Willâs jaw, feather-light.
And then, softer than breath:
Will doesnât answer with words.
And then Mike surges forwardâand itâs everything.
Itâs teeth and heat and years of silence finally breaking. Itâs Mike grabbing Willâs face like he canât bear to lose it again, like heâs afraid this isnât real. Willâs hands bunch in the front of Mikeâs soaked shirt, dragging him impossibly closer.
The kiss is desperate. Messy. Earned.
Mike backs him upâstep by stepâuntil Willâs back hits the wall with a soft thud, and still, still, they canât stop.
Willâs breath hitches as Mike kisses down once, barely a break, their foreheads knocking together between gasps.
They hold each other like theyâre trying to make up for lost time. Like the world is ending outside this room and they donât care.
For nowâthis is it. This is everything.
And neither of them lets go.
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