Claire @letmeclaireify - Tumblr Blog

Apr 25

. . . of saying i love you /// college!mike wheeler x fem!reader wc: 13k

In the aftermath of the lake incident, Mike does his best to make it up to you. Luckily for him, you only have so much self-control when it comes to such a pretty boy.

read part one here!

warnings ! cursing, fluff, mentions of celebrating christmas, smut, submissive mike if you squint, mike and reader are virgins, pretend they used a condom i just didn't know how to write it in, p in v, fingering, teasing, grinding, mike calls reader 'baby,' deadass no prep because they're horny, big dick mike wheeler truther, not proofread yet because i got embarrassed.

a/n ! mike wheeler who can say i love you? this is unheard of. apologies for how long it took me to post, but as you can see from the word count, this was a lot of work. i will say, if anyone is uncomfortable with reading smut, it is possible to skip it and not miss much. thank you noah kahan for releasing the great divide at the most perfect time. and erm like i said i'll edit this when i get over the shame of writing smut for the first time (20 yrs old btw). enjoy!

****

It was only after driving thirteen hours from Hawkins to NYC, sitting in his car outside your house, that Mike Wheeler began to wonder if he was making the right decision.

He’d turned off the radio completely, unable to be soothed by the crooning voices spilling from his speakers. Other than the low rumble of his engine, Mike could only hear his heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

It was reassuring to feel blood pumping through his veins, because Mike felt like he was about to keel over at any moment. There was a shakiness in his limbs and a sour nausea curdling in his stomach. Granted, that could have been due to low blood sugar (he’d only managed a granola bar and a piece of toast before setting off), but it was more likely that he was just nervous. Nervous to see you after how you’d left things, nervous to confess the secret he’d been keeping (was it really a secret if he also didn’t realize it?), nervous at how you were going to react.

He took a deep breath and tipped his head back, dragging a hand down his face. This was stupid. Objectively, completely, undeniably stupid.

What was he thinking?

That was the problem - he hadn’t been thinking, and thirteen hours of mile markers blurring together hadn’t been enough to convince him to turn around. Those thirteen hours had given him plenty of time to rehearse what he might say, but never once had he stopped to consider whether this was a good idea. He should’ve had an actual meal and then slept off his idealism. And then, he should’ve gone the fuck home and pretended as if none of this had ever happened. Pretended that he wasn’t willing - no, he was more than willing, considering he’d actually done it - to drive half a day just to tell you he was sorry. God, he was so fucking sorry.

Yet, here he was, parked at the curb, closer to you than he’d been in weeks, and procrastinating. Faced with your front door, he was horrified at the idea that you wouldn’t let him in. That he’d finally work up the courage to knock, and you wouldn’t answer. Or worse, you’d see him and slam the door in his face.

Not that he’d blame you. He’d been nothing but awful to you ever since the day you met.

It tormented Mike to know that he hadn’t understood how much damage he’d caused. He’d grown up being so attuned to his friends’ emotions - Will’s especially - that he hadn’t stopped to consider that he’d gotten you all wrong.

No, not gotten you wrong. He’d just never known you in the first place. He’d built up this version of you in his head and taken it at face value, unable to separate the person he wanted you to be from the person that you were. He’d turned you into a fictional character in his mind, so caught up in his fantasy world where you paid attention to him and favored him that he’d completely ignored the real world where he made you cry.

And he hated that it had taken him over a year to realize this. His first instinct had been to blame you for not telling him, but he knew that it wasn’t right to place the responsibility of his failure on you. Besides, even if you had told him, would he have been receptive to it? Or would he have just ignored it until things exploded anyway?

So, was it fair for him to be here? Everything had been his fault, so did he even deserve the opportunity to apologize? Did he even deserve to l-

Mike stopped his own thoughts.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

The entire drive here, he’d been unable to admit the L word to himself. He’d replaced it with ‘like’ and ‘crush,’ immature and silly-sounding words that belonged on the playground rather than in the mind of a 21-year-old. How could he say it to you, if he couldn’t even say it to himself?

He looked at the flowers in his passenger’s seat. He hadn’t originally intended to gift you flowers or anything because he feared that you’d take it the wrong way, that you’d think it was too cliche, but halfway through his journey, he’d seen a roadside flower stand and found himself stopping to buy a bouquet of roses.

The stems were crushed, he realized, panicked. Had that been his doing? Could he still give you damaged flowers? Or would you think he just didn’t actually care? That he was just apologizing to absolve himself of guilt.

Mike was struck by a horrible thought. What if you thought this was just another mean-spirited joke?

Mike let his forehead fall forward until it thudded lightly against the steering wheel. Maybe if he did it hard enough, he could knock himself out. Maybe he would give himself amnesia and forget about you entirely. Would that really be easier than being vulnerable? Than admitting that he was wrong? To erase the ache that had settled in his chest from the day he’d met you.

In the span of a single, impulsive breath, Mike had turned off his car, yanked his keys out of the ignition, and unbuckled his seatbelt. In the span of a second, impulsive breath, Mike was out of his car and slamming the door behind him. In the span of that third, impulsive breath, Mike was walking to your front door, the flowers in one hand and his keychain clutched so tightly that it left indentations on the skin of his palm.

Mike chuckled sardonically to himself. There was no turning back now.

****

One Year Ago

Will texted him twice before you arrived.

clean up a little?

she’s coming over

Mike had been half-asleep, curled into a ball in the center of his bed, when he heard the lock turning. He pushed himself upright, blinked blearily, and ran a hand through his hair. He was foggy from the nap he hadn’t meant to take, and the late afternoon light leaking into his room made everything feel a bit surreal.

He reached for his phone and squinted at the bright screen. He’d just read the two texts when Will called his name.

“Mike?”

Mike swung his legs off the bed, immediately catching his foot on a pile of clothes, stumbling slightly before he regained his balance. He stepped out into the hallway. He hadn’t expected much of you, Will’s new photography major friend. Which, in retrospect, was a shitty thing to admit - even just to himself. But Will tended to describe people in the same way he described art: vague and idealized.

But when Mike saw you, he immediately wished he’d cleaned up the apartment. And maybe brushed his teeth.

You were standing slightly behind Will, just off his shoulder, tote bag slipping down your arm. Your eyes darted around the apartment like you were trying to take in everything at once. Mike was overcome with the strange, disoriented feeling that one gets when falling in a dream or accidentally missing a step. You knocked the breath out of him.

Mike wasn’t a poet, but he could have filled libraries just trying to find the right words to describe his first impression of you.

“Mike, this is-” Will started.

“The photography major,” Mike cut in. The words came out quicker than he meant them. He wanted to show you that he knew about you, that Will talked about you. That you were important enough to Will to maybe one day be important to Mike.

He stepped closer. You were shorter than he was, and the doe-eyed look you gave him made something warm bloom inside his chest.

You held out your hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Mike glanced down at it for half a second too long. Your hand was soft in his; that was the first thing he registered. Even touching you in such an innocuous way made his mouth feel dry. The second thing he noticed was that there was still ink smudged along the side of his hand. Shit. What if you thought he didn’t want his hands? He wanted to explain himself - I fell asleep while writing - but then what if you asked about what he was working on, and he had to admit he was in the middle of concocting a D&D campaign. Will had never mentioned that you were interested in D&D, and he didn’t want to come off as too nerdy.

Mike dropped your hand. “Will told me you’re a fan of classic literature,” he said. Yes, that was better. At least if he was a nerd, he was a well-read nerd.

You brightened just a bit. “Oh, yeah. I tried to give Will some recommendations, but he said you’d be more interested in all the ‘Dostoevsky nonsense.’ His words, not mine.”

The cogs of Mike’s brain began to turn. Okay, so you read Dostoevsky. How could he prove to you that he was intelligent enough to have an opinion on someone so revered? He’d taken a class during his first year at university about European literature in the 18th and 19th centuries, and the professor had repeatedly gotten on his soapbox about how Camus was infinitely better than Dostoevsky.

“Dostoevsky?” he repeated, crossing his arms loosely. Mike tried to look like he was concocting a new thought, knowing damn well he was about to recite what his professor had said years ago. “I don’t know. I’ve tried, but his prose feels too messy. He thinks he’s a philosopher when really, he’s not. If you want to read someone who actually understands existentialism, you should read Camus.”

He hoped he didn’t sound like an asshole.

“I thought Dostoevsky came first,” you argued. “I thought that Dostoevsky’s ideas inspired Camus.”

You were looking at him now - really looking at him - with an inquisitive tilt of your head. Shit, what had his professor said about that?

“He was,” Mike confirmed, “but Camus just executed it better.”

There was a brief pause. Mike hoped you weren’t going to ask him about which parts of Camus’s writing were actually better, because he honestly had no idea.

“Mike,” Will hissed. “You’re being an ass.”

Mike clenched his jaw. For once, he felt angry with Will. Angry that he was interrupting this natural banter. It made Mike feel defensive, almost like Will was choosing you over him. That you were choosing Will over him. That wasn’t fair.

“Whatever. I don’t know why I’m arguing with a photography major.”

Perfect. There was something you could use to fire back at him. Call him a pretentious English major. Tell him he was looking at Dostoevsky the wrong way - even though Mike actually really enjoyed Crime and Punishment, and The Idiot was probably one of his favorite books ever. Mike wondered what your favorite Dostoevsky was. Maybe you could borrow his copy of The Idiot.

You recoiled. “Oh, I’m sorry that I don’t have everything about Camus memorized down to his fucking shoe size. I’m just a photography major, after all.”

Mike blanched. Okay, that was a little more scathing than he’d anticipated.

“I didn’t mean-” he began, trying to rectify the situation. He had to pivot, try a different tactic to make sure you kept talking to him. Fuck, why didn’t he just ask you your favorite book?

You pretended to check an invisible watch. “Actually, I forgot I have to be somewhere. Right now. Nice to meet you, Mike.” You turned to Will. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

You were gone before Mike could even blink. He was certain he looked like a fool, standing there with his mouth hanging slightly open. The sound of the door slamming made him flinch.

“What’s your problem?” Will asked, his gaze burning holes into the side of Mike’s head.

“I-” Mike started, then stopped. His mouth felt wrong, like it wasn’t cooperating with the rest of him. “I wasn’t trying to-”

“Yeah, I know what you were trying to do,” Will snapped. “Jesus, is it so wrong that I have other friends? Maybe if you actually talked to people instead of coming home and moping around, you wouldn’t be so threatened by everyone else in my life.”

Will hadn’t spoken to him like that in a long time. It hurt more than your apparent rejection. Did Will really think he was threatened? Was he threatened by Will having other friends? Threatened by how personable Will was, how people seemed to flock to him, and no one even spared Mike a second glance.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” said Mike finally.

“I know you didn’t mean to,” Will replied, his voice dropping a bit. “That’s kinda the problem, Mike.”

Mike swallowed thickly. “I’ll fix it,” he muttered weakly.

“No, I’ll fix it,” Will said. And then, just as you had moments before, Will turned on his heel and stormed out the door, leaving Mike with an odd feeling of confusion coiling in his gut.

****

Now

Mike did not underestimate the importance of your allowing him into your room. There was an underlying trust in being privy to something as intimate as your bedroom, he thought. Mike had never seen your studio apartment - Will said you were ashamed of it - so for the first time, he was getting an inside look into new aspects of your personality.

The light that filtered in through your gauzy curtains cast a holy glow on your silhouette as you led him through the door. The faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the typical staleness of an attic that went unoccupied for so long. Mike took in all the details - the messiness of your bed, as if you’d tugged your duvet up in a hurry. Your favorite water bottle was on the bedside table, set atop a stack of books that ranged from cheesy thrillers to weighty tomes on photography. The walls were relatively bare, save for the few posters of your favorite bands and singers that you’d sporadically hung. There was a Heathers poster tacked right above your headboard, and Mike smiled to himself - he remembered Will telling him that you’d gotten El hooked on Christian Slater.

Mike knew you didn’t attribute such depth to inviting him into your room. You were just doing the most logical thing when your worst enemy showed up at your front door unannounced. He had to remind himself of that. . . you were just being kind. You didn’t know about the agony he’d put himself through over the last couple of weeks, sparring with his own thoughts, berating himself for how he’d treated you. Replaying every interaction the two of you had ever had, recontextualizing until the guilt was insurmountable. Until he was so congested with remorse that he could do nothing but stare at the wall, searching for answers.

“What are you doing here? How did you find me?” you demanded, suddenly whirling on him. Mike stopped his observations abruptly, not wanting to be caught analyzing your room so intently.

“I brought you these,” Mike blurted, thrusting the roses at you. He cringed at his own awkwardness - his mouth was never able to do what his brain was. The one thing he’d feared was that you’d see these roses as a way to trick you into forgiving him, and here he was, starting his confession with the roses.

You buried your nose in the bouquet, inhaling deeply with a content smile on your pretty face. “Thank you,” you said softly. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

Mike scratched the back of his neck. He didn’t want to throw Will under the bus, but he also didn’t want to admit that he’d grilled Will about your new address for hours. “Oh, er, Will told me. I came to apologize.”

“You already apologized,” you reminded, setting the roses on your desk. Mike swallowed nervously.

“Yeah, but not. . . very well,” he said, chewing on his bottom lip. “I think I messed up.”

You think, Michael? God, you fucking idiot.

“Yeah. You did,” you said matter-of-factly, crossing your arms across your chest.

“I know,” he whispered, unable to look you in the eyes. “I’ve just been thinking. A lot.”

“Congratulations. That’s new.”

His heart fluttered pathetically. Yes, that was what he’d been seeking this entire time. Those sarcastic digs. He’d just taken things too far. He always took things too far.

“I thought you liked it. The arguing. I thought it was. . . I don’t know. Our thing.”

“It wasn’t a thing. It was you being mean and me not knowing how to stand up for myself.”

Mike slumped, shrinking himself at least five inches. He felt microscopic, unbelievably pitiful. He had gone to literal hell and back, but merely standing in front of you and admitting his wrongdoings was sucking all the courage out of him. He’d spent thirteen hours building himself up, rehearsing every work, and yet. . . he didn’t know if he could do it. He didn’t know if he could put his heart on the line like that. “Yeah. Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“What, you’re not going to fight me on that? Insist I was the one in the wrong?”

“No. I don’t really think I get to argue with you right now,” Mike said. He was horrified that you thought he would do that. Had he done that before?

After a moment, you said, “So, you took a bus? Or did you manage to event teleportation just to ruin my day again?”

“I drove.”

You blinked. “You drove.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s twelve hours, Mike.”

“Thirteen. I hit traffic.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you said, shaking your head in disbelief.

“I know.”

Another pause. He wanted to step forward and comfort you with his touch (although he doubted you would find it very comforting), but he longed to feel the soft warmth of your skin beneath his fingers, to smell your shampoo, to see how you reacted. Those rare moments he’d touched you - that first handshake, brief brushes of arms while studying, the press of your thigh against his on the pier before you’d moved away - had lit a fire beneath him, a continued desire to be important to you. That was what it all came down to, that need for you to pay attention to him, to find him interesting. Why couldn’t he have focused on making you laugh instead? Why had he been so steadfast on the bickering?

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” Mike said quickly. “I really did.”

“Why?” You looked away this time.

“I didn’t like how we left things. And I didn’t like that you left because of. . . me.” Mike hoped he sounded as earnest as he felt. He wanted the guilt radiating off him to engulf you, undeniably.

You rolled your eyes slightly. “Not everything-”

He finished the sentence internally. Not everything is about you, Mike. “Just let me finish,” he interrupted. You pressed your lips together but nodded. “I didn’t realize how much I was hurting you. I mean, I knew we argued, obviously, but I thought it was equal, I guess. Like we were both just. . . doing it.”

“We were, for a while, I suppose,” you said quietly. He frowned. With all his careful consideration, he’d concluded that there had never been any sort of mutualness, but now you were saying. . . the opposite?

“Yeah, but not for the same reasons,” he assumed, shifting his weight. “I think I was doing it because it was the only way I knew how to talk to you. Life if I stopped, then we’d just. . . not talk at all.”

There. Part of the hard part was over with.

“I know. I know it doesn’t make any sense. It’s stupid. But every time we mocked each other or argued, it meant you were paying attention to me. And I-” Mike clenched his jaw. “I didn’t really think about what it felt like for you. And then you just stopped. Near the end. I thought you were just tired or something. I didn’t realize that you were sick of it. I didn’t like that you stopped engaging with me. I think I misunderstood from the beginning.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we first met, and we had that whole conversation about Dostoevsky-”

“You mean when you called my interpretation pretentious?”

“I didn’t call it-” he stopped. “Okay, yeah, I kind of did.”

Well, actually, his professor had called the interpretation pretentious, but that was probably a conversation for another time.

“I thought that was. . . I thought we were teasing each other. That that was just how we were going to talk.”

“And so you just kept going,” you said flatly.

Mike nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t realize I’d already crossed a line. Like I said, I didn’t think we would talk if there wasn’t that arguing.” He sighed, his pulse pounding so loud that he didn’t know if he’d be able to hear your response. “Will told me.”

“Told you what?”

Mike hesitated. “That I made you cry. I thought I was being clever. Or funny, or whatever. I’ve never been good at having friends either, I guess.”

That was another conclusion he’d come to. Despite being surrounded by the same people for almost his entire life, these friendships had blossomed in adolescence. He’d never had to make friends in adulthood. Will, Lucas, Dustin, Max, and even El had grown used to Mike’s flaws. They knew his cruelty but also knew his tenacity. They’d seen firsthand his unwavering loyalty but also his inability to adhere to set boundaries. You didn’t know him like that, and you would never know a prepubescent Mike Wheeler. You would only ever know him now.

He stepped forward, his feet moving faster than his brain.

“I miss you.”

You gasped slightly.

“I miss talking to you. Even if it was messed up. Even if it was like that.”

He knew this would lessen the weight of what he really meant, but he didn’t want to scare you off. He missed you, but he didn’t know yet how to say that with his chest.

“That’s a pretty low bar,” you scoffed, but your voice had gone softer.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But, there’s something else.”

“Okay?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve had a lot of time to think,” he said slowly. “Like. . . a lot. Driving here, especially. I don’t think I hated you.”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “That’s your big realization?”

“No,” he said quickly. “I mean. . . I definitely acted like I did. But that’s not what it was.”

He took a breath. This was it. This is what he’d been working up toward.

“I think I was in love with you. I think I am in love with you.”

“You’re lying,” were the words that immediately came out of your mouth.

Okay, not the reaction he’d wanted. Then again, had he ever thought about how the aftermath of his confession would play out? He’d only ever gotten this far in his mind.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you insisted.

“I’m not,” he repeated.

You shook your head, taking a small step back. “You don’t just show up at someone’s door and decide you’re in love with them.”

“I didn’t just decide. I think I have been for a while.”

“That’s not better.”

“It is for me. I mean, it doesn’t fix anything, obviously, but it’s not random.”

You began pacing in front of your window. “Mike,” you said, “you made me feel like I was stupid. You made me feel like every time I opened my mouth, you were just waiting to tear it apart. Why do you think I’d want this? Any of this?”

“I don’t,” Mike said frantically, although he didn’t really know what he thought you thought he wanted. He just wanted to get this off his chest, to fix everything. Did you think he wanted to date you? I guess he did, but he hadn’t expected that to be your first reaction. “I don’t think you want it. I just needed you to know that it wasn’t because I didn’t care about you.

“What do you want from me?” you asked meekly, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you here? Why did you drive thirteen hours to give me flowers and confess your love to me?”

“I just wanted to see you. I wanted to say all of this to your face instead of letting it just sit there and rot in my head.”

“And now?”

“Now. . . If you tell me to leave, I will.”

He braced himself, preparing for you to push him out the door, maybe even push him down the stairs. Breaking his neck would probably be easier than rejection, at this point.

“I don’t forgive you.”

“I know.”

“I’m still angry. So angry.”

“You should be.”

“And I don’t know if I believe you.”

“That’s fair.”

You exhaled shakily. “But. . . I don’t want you to leave. Not yet.”

“Okay.”

You gestured vaguely. “Just sit or something. You’re making it weird, standing there.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay.”

Carefully, Mike sat down on the edge of your bed. He was afraid to move too quickly, afraid he’d scare you off, and you’d change your mind. His brain was short-circuiting at this point. Nothing about this was happening in any way that he’d prepared for. Eventually, you crawled onto your bed next to him and lay down. He stared at you, stunned for a bit, unsure of what you wanted. He was trying to be more attuned to your needs, but also, he was so light-headed by your closeness that he was worried he would pass out.

“You can’t stay the night,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Right, sorry.”

“Stop saying that, too.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. Can you just. . .” you swallowed, “. . . can you just hold me? For a little?”

Mike froze.

“Even if you’re lying about everything,” you continued, “I want to know what it would feel like. If you meant it.”

Mike couldn’t think clearly. All he could do was nod and carefully move to lie down next to you. His joints feel stiff and swollen as you shuffle toward him, leaning into his side. Only then does he wrap his arms around you, comfortable in his assumptions. You settled into his grasp like you were meant to fit there, and he longed to trace every inch of your body available to him. He wanted to bury his face in your hair, inhale exactly like you breathed in the roses.

He adjusted his grip on you - one arm underneath you, the other resting across your back. His hold was both fragile and strong. He didn’t want to hurt you, but he also didn’t want to let you go. This is what he’d been thinking of for the last two weeks, explicitly, at least. He’d been subconsciously thinking of it for the last year, ever since he met you. Wondering what you’d feel like pressed up against his side, softly breathing against his throat.

“Can I say something?”

You hummed in approval.

“I think about this a lot. Holding you like this. That’s sort of what made me realize I was in love with you.”

Your fingers curled slightly in his shirt, the rise and fall of your chest slowing, your eyes closed.

“I’m really sorry,” he whispered. “I do love you.”

You were asleep before he said the words, but he was partly glad for that. He didn’t know how to voice everything he thought, how to put into words how much you really meant to him. How wholeheartedly he longed for your attention.

He would make it up to you the only way he knew how. He would fix everything.

****

Mike was gone when you woke up.

It was the first thing you noticed as consciousness crept back in, your thoughts still mushy and unfocused, your body heavy with a rare, restful night of sleep. You reached out, feeling for his presence, but could only find never-ending emptiness.

Your heart dropped. You’d told him that he couldn’t stay the night, yes, but was Mike’s absence really just him listening to you? Which was worse? The idea of it all being a dream, and Mike hadn’t been there at all, or the idea that he had been there and left. Maybe he’d changed his mind in the middle of the night, subtly retracting his confession without actually saying the words.

Rolling onto your back, you pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes until you saw stars. Your skin felt oily - you’d forgotten to wash your face last night before molding yourself into Mike’s embrace - and your mouth had the familiarly bitter taste of sleep. Sluggishly, you dragged yourself out of bed.

Your eye caught the bouquet of roses on your desk, a confirmation that Mike had, in fact, been standing in your room last night. You wavered, your head spinning from standing up too quickly. Should you put them in water or throw them out?

Instead, you left them untouched. If they wilted, that wasn’t your problem.

The water was scalding hot when you stepped into the shower, the bathroom already hazy with steam. The spray was delightfully painful, and in a way, refreshing. The burning little droplets on your skin forced you to wake up and gave you something to focus on other than Mike Wheeler. With wet hands, you scrubbed at your face, wiping the sleep and smudged mascara from your eyes.

For a long while, you just stood under the hot water, staring blankly at the showerhead, trying to think of anything but Mike. You tried to distract yourself with reminders of the new school year and the classes you’d chosen. You mentally mapped out the route you’d take around campus - you and Will would have to find your classes together, so you didn’t get lost on the first day. You thought about the absurd fact that you were entering your senior year of university, that you’d be a college graduate a year from now. You scared yourself with the possibility that you wouldn’t be able to find a job that you loved after graduation, instead spending the rest of your life doing some dead-end office job that made you want to blow your head off.

Nevertheless, your thoughts always returned to Mike.

The roses he’d bought just for you - had he bought them in Hawkins? Or stopped somewhere along the drive?

The drive that had been thirteen hours. Thirteen hours, because he hit traffic. Did he ever consider turning around? Had there ever been a point when he was slowly crawling down the freeway at which he changed his mind?

Changed his mind about telling you that he. . . that he loved-

The water turned shockingly cold, and you let out an involuntary yelp, jumping backwards and banging your hip on the corner. Shit. How long had you been in here? With a rapid-fire speed, you lathered up your body wash and rinsed off the bubbles with the freezing water.

Stepping out of the shower, you wrapped a towel around yourself, teeth chattering. Your hair was damp on the nape of your neck where you’d failed to avoid getting it wet. The suffocating humidity of the bathroom had dissipated, so you were able to clearly see your reflection in the mirror.

You stared your doppleganger down, observing the droplets of water that traced your collarbones and disappeared into your towel. You looked at the streaks of mascara at the corners of your eyes. You took in every inch of yourself, wondering what exactly Mike saw in you. Did he think you were beautiful? He hadn’t said that last night, so maybe he didn’t.

“Stop thinking about Mike,” you berated yourself, wetting your toothbrush and squeezing toothpaste onto it with more force than necessary.

Did you really believe him? That he loved you? Love was not a word that you’d personally ever thrown around lightly. Maybe Mike’s definition of love was different than yours. Maybe your impression of love was his description of a school-yard crush.

If he really did love you in that mind-altering, all-consuming way he’d led you to believe, then why wasn’t he here?

You spat into the sink, watching the foam swirl down the drain. With the hand that wasn’t holding up your towel, you gripped the counter edge. You wanted an explanation so badly, to know everything Mike had ever thought and understood about you, but you didn’t want to put yourself through the spiraling. This was Mike you were talking about, the same boy who had mocked your interests and habits, apparently under the impression that you enjoyed it. He thought he’d been flirting, but really, he’d just made you feel worthless. Unworthy of friends, unique hobbies, and a relatively mainstream music taste. Completely wrong in every opinion you’d ever had and too stupid to grasp intellectual meaning.

You pictured that half-smile he did after picking apart the things you liked. You’d thought he’d been waiting for you to admit you were wrong for liking them at all, but you realized now that - if he were telling the truth - he was waiting for your retaliation, for you to insult him on the same scale. The worst part was that he didn’t realize he was hurting you. If he didn’t know, then that meant that was just how he saw you.

You paused. So what did it mean that that version of you. . . the one he laughed at, corrected, the one he never quite took seriously. . . did that mean he loved her?

Unless he didn’t. Your chest tightened. You had to keep reminding yourself of that, that this could have just been another misunderstanding. Another one of Mike’s almost-right, not-quite-there attempts at something real. Maybe he thought love was this - grand gestures and long drives and revealing intense secrets out of nowhere, and then in the morning it all just faded.

There was a quiet creak from outside the bathroom, one that you recognized as your bedroom door opening. Then, the soft thud of something being set down. Your heart slammed against your ribs, sudden and violent.

No.

There was no way.

“Hey,” a muffled voice called from the other side of the door, familiar even through the wood. “It’s, uh-”

Of course it was.

“It’s me. Er, Mike, I mean.”

The quiet stretched awkwardly. You didn’t move at first; your hand tightened reflexively around the counter. Your heart was still racing.

He came back.

A hesitant knock at the bathroom door rang out. “Um, if you don’t. . . if you want me to leave, I can just-”

You turned, throwing the bathroom door open with a force that generated a breeze. Mike was standing there, shifting from one foot to the other, like he was debating whether to knock again. His hair was messy, pushed around like he’d been running his hands through it over and over again.

On your desk behind him, right next to the discarded bouquet, were two matching coffee cups and a crumpled paper bag. The room smelled chocolatey and warm.

The two of you stared at each other. You suddenly became aware of the fact that you were standing in front of him in nothing but a towel, which explained the startled way he was looking at you. You watched his throat bob, like he was fighting to keep his gaze on your face.

“Hi,” he said, a little breathless.

“You left,” you said, hating how upset you sounded.

Mike blinked, clearly thrown off by your response.

“Yeah, I went out, um, to get-” he motioned behind him, “-to get breakfast. And coffee.”

You pressed your lips together.

“I was gonna be back before you woke up. I just. . . there was this line, and it was, like, ridiculously long, and I thought about coming back, but then I’d already waited fifteen minutes, so it felt stupid to-”

He cut himself off, still staring intently at your face.

“I didn’t mean to disappear.”

“I thought you changed your mind,” you admitted quietly.

Mike’s expression shifted immediately. His fingers twitched, and he instinctively leaned closer, like he wanted to grab you by the shoulders and shake some sense into you. The nervous rambling dropped away, replaced by something more serious. “What? No! No, I didn’t. Why would you think that?”

You let out a small, dry laugh. “I don’t know, Mike. You told me you loved me and then you were gone when I woke up,” you shrugged. “I know I said you couldn’t stay the night, but, Jesus, I at least expected a note. Hey, I know I said I loved you, but you drool in your sleep, so I can’t do it anymore,” you finished off, mocking his intonation.

He shook his head frantically. “I woke up early. Well, actually, I just couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to move and wake you up. I didn’t wanna get you in trouble, either. You know, with your landlord. So, I thought if I showed up with coffee, then she’d think I left last night.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know, you always forget to eat breakfast. You say you get nauseous, but then you get really quiet and kinda mean around noon-”

“Wow, okay,” you interrupted dryly. “You’ve never said that to me before.”

“No, not - no, not mean - just-” he stumbled, flustered, “-you said your blood sugar gets low, and I thought if I came back with coffee and food, then you’d wake up and it’d just. . . be good.” Mike gestured vaguely between the two of you, and the building frustration in your chest faltered. “And I wanted to be back before you woke up,” he added. “I didn’t think the line would be that long. I should’ve known. It’s New York in the summer.”

You glanced at the drink on your desk.

He bought you flowers.

He drove thirteen hours.

He stood in line for who knows how long, just to get you breakfast.

For you.

“How do you know my coffee order?”

That made Mike scoff. “Please. Did you forget I’ve been tagging along with you and Will for almost an entire year? You always order the exact same thing.”

You didn’t know whether to be flattered by that. On one hand, he remembered your order. On the other hand, he was usually standing right behind you when you recited your drink to the barista behind the counter.

“I should’ve left a note,” Mike agreed. “I wasn’t thinking about it like that. I didn’t know you’d assume I changed my mind. I just wanted to show you proof that I actually care about you - that I’m trying to fix things. That I notice these kinds of things - you getting irritable after not eating all day.” He smiled a little bit. “I wouldn't drive thirteen hours and stand in line for an hour for anyone, okay? Only you.”

You let your eyes roam over his face, searching for any hint of insincerity. You observed the soft scrunch of his nose as he rambled, the expressiveness of his eyebrows, the pinkness of his lips, the red tips of his ears beneath the dark curl of his hair. And his eyes - the same eyes you’d been so struck by the first time you met - so wide and pleading, absolutely irresistible. Either he was a terrific actor, or he was being genuine.

You pointed at the door. “Okay, get out so I can put clothes on.”

Mike startled. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, right. Sorry.” Backtracking out the door, he banged his elbow on the doorframe. “Ow. Shit. Sorry. I’ll just. . . I’ll be out here. I won’t leave again, okay?”

The door clicked softly behind him.

Less than ten minutes later, you were dressed in a baggy t-shirt and old running shorts, your face washed, and your hair shaken out of its shower updo. You and Mike sat in the center of your bed - well, you sat in the center of your bed, legs crossed as you munched on the chocolate croissant Mike had brought. He was instead tentatively seated at the corner farthest from you, practically falling off the bed as he chewed thoughtfully at his breakfast sandwich.

“Can I have a bite?” you asked, trying to ease the tense silence. Sharing food was not unfamiliar for the two of you - you loved stealing bites of Mike and Will’s food, usually just to annoy them, but also because they usually ordered better food than you.

Mike hummed affirmatively, handing it over to you. As you took the wrapped sandwich from him, your fingers brushed briefly, and you shivered. Mike choked on his bite, devolving into a coughing fit.

“Scoot closer,” you ordered when Mike was finished coughing up a lung. “You’re going to fall off the bed.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” said Mike, but he obeyed, shifting himself so that the two of you sat directly across from each other, knees touching slightly. You handed back his sandwich and took a prolonged sip of your coffee.

“I would tell you if you were making me uncomfortable,” you reminded. “We cuddled last night. I think it’s okay for you to sit next to me.”

Mike grinned at you. “Yeah, I know you would.”

“Just so you know,” you added, taking another bite of your croissant, “this isn’t just immediately going to change everything. Just because you apologized doesn’t mean we’re, like, dating or anything. You don’t even know if I like you like that.”

If I love you like that.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” Mike assured, shaking his head once. He picked at an invisible piece of lint on his sweats. “I understand that you might still hate me. I was really shitty to you. But I really do want to fix things and show you that I’m serious about being. . . friends?”

His voice faltered on that last word, seemingly unsure if it was too much of a stretch to seek out a friendship. He went from picking at his sweatpants to picking absently at the wrapper of his sandwich - he always had to be doing something with his hands.

“Friends sounds like a good place to start,” you agreed, shifting slightly so that your knee pressed a little more firmly against his.

Mike exhaled, relieved .” Friends,” he repeated. “Do you want it to be the same way you and Will are friends? Because if you just want someone to study and watch movies with, I can do that. I can be anyone you want me to be.”

The chocolate croissant suddenly felt like concrete in the pit of your stomach. “I don’t want you to be someone else,” you said, internally cringing. You sounded like a walking Be Yourself! Poster. You shook your head. “God, I sound like a motivational speaker. What I meant was. . . whenever I got a glimpse of the ‘real Mike,’ I guess you could say, I always wondered if maybe we could get along. Believe it or not, I actually did like bickering with you sometimes. When you weren’t trying to get a reaction out of me.”

Mike’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Yes, Mike. Even though you’re annoying and always think you’re right, when you’re not trying to sound like the smartest person in the room or be as mean to me as possible just so I pay attention to you-” Mike grimaced “-you’re actually really funny.” A small smile tugged at your mouth. “I already told you at the lake that I thought you were really cute when I first met you, and then you started talking-”

“Okay, I get it,” Mike groaned, covering his face, and you burst into a fit of laughter. “Mike Wheeler should be seen and not heard.”

You nodded. “Sounds perfect to me,” you teased.

“You’re so mean,” he scoffed. “I can’t believe I’m in love with you.”

You tossed your crumpled croissant wrapper and his head, and he dodged it before lunging at you, knocking you backward into your pillows. You let out an embarrassed squeak as the two of you crashed down together, his hands planted on either side of your head, your legs bracketing his hips.

Without meaning to, your gaze drifted down to his lips. They were so pouty, parted slightly as he exhaled again. The thought slipped in before you could stop it. All you had to do was lean forward, close the already too-small distance. It would be nice, right? To be wanted like that. To have someone look at you the way Mike was. No one had ever really looked at you like that before.

You could feel it. The pull. The stupid hopeful part of you that wanted to give in, to believe him just because it would be easy to. Because it would mean that someone - he - chose you, despite everything. You could overlook all the complications of your past and start anew, let him lure you in with promises of flowers and coffee.

But that wasn’t a good enough reason. Mike had hurt you. Not on purpose, maybe, but he still had. And just because he was here now, soft and apologetic and only centimeters away, didn’t change anything.

“Sorry,” Mike whispered, though he didn’t move away. The formation of his words was almost enough to brush your lips together. “I didn’t mean-”

You swallowed painfully.

“Friends,” you reminded breathily, your words a finality, a concrete decision. “We’re just friends.”

****

When Will returned to New York, you and Mike had to pretend that nothing had changed. Yes, the arguing and insulting noticeably faded away, but whenever one of you caught the other’s eye from across the room, you both quickly looked away. Even the slightest of glances could reveal your secret.

It seemed that Will was completely oblivious to the newest developments. You decided that he was under the impression that Mike had driven from Hawkins to NYC just to apologize, and that was that. There’d been no cuddling, no love confessions, and definitely no almost-kisses.

Mike’s effort to ‘fix things,’ as he’d declared it, was not lost on you, however. From August to mid-November, Mike was intentionally more attentive. On the days that Will didn’t walk to class with you, Mike took it upon himself to make sure you got there safely. He carried your backpack, showed up at your door with coffee, and met you outside the lecture hall with lunch on the days you were up too early to pack yourself food.

And as the weather turned colder, he began offering you his jacket, but after pointing out that he was shaking like a leaf, he just gave you one of his sweatshirts to keep in your bag at all times. Secretly, you cherished it. It was thick and way too big on you, but it smelled like him and kept you warmer than any of your clothes did.

Slowly, all of Mike’s grand gestures became habits. On mornings when your alarm didn’t go off - or it did, and you just ignored it - Mike was barging into your room, loudly telling you to get up and carpe diem. Then, you’d throw a pillow at him, tell him to stop quoting Dead Poets Society, and kick him out so you could get ready.

If Will noticed, he didn’t say anything. He just kept being Will - floating in your orbit, sketchbook under one arm, laughing at Mike’s bad jokes, and occasionally eyeing the two of you suspiciously when you showed up to the library together.

No, scratch that. Will definitely knew.

Your assumptions were confirmed one day as November bled into December, winter break rapidly approaching. While Mike was busy taking a final exam, you and Will had bundled up on the couch, adorned with fleece blankets, and arguing about what movie to watch.

“It’s December 5th, Will. We have to watch a Christmas movie,” you whined, your mug of apple cider keeping your hands warm. The heat in Will and Mike’s apartment had broken at the most inconvenient time, and their landlord couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

Will shook his head stubbornly. “You can’t watch Christmas movies before winter officially starts.”

You gawked at him. “That’s not until the 21st! That’s only four days to watch, like, a trillion movies!”

He shrugged, readjusting the blanket over his lap. “I refuse to buy into capitalism.”

“Oh, my God. Shut the fuck up.” You rolled your eyes. “You took one class about Karl Marx, you pretentious ass. It’s Christmas! Capitalism doesn’t exist on Christmas!”

“It’s not Christmas yet, though. It’s December 5th.”

You huffed petulantly. “Okay. What if we watch Die Hard? That’s technically a Christmas movie, right?”

“Who in the world thinks Die Hard is a Christmas movie?”

“Mike does,” you said before you could stop yourself. A sly smile crept over Will’s face, and you suddenly wanted to disappear between the couch cushions.

“Mike does!” Will taunted. “Alright, out with it. What’s going on between the two your?”

“Nothing!” you cried.

“Even I didn’t know that Mike considered Die Hard a Christmas movie,” Will pointed out, “and I’ve known him since kindergarten.”

“Well, that movie wasn’t out when we were in kindergarten.”

“So? Come on, spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill,” you insisted through gritted teeth, your grip so tight around your mug you were afraid it would shatter.

He raised an eyebrow in that annoyingly calm way of his. “You just brought up Mike unprompted. While we were arguing about Christmas capitalism.”

“That’s because you’re wrong about Christmas capitalism!” you shot back. “And you know who else is always wrong about everything? Mike.”

Will tilted his head slightly, waiting. You took a sip of cider.

“Nothing is going on,” you repeated, slower this time.

Will hummed, unconvinced. “Okay.”

You stared. “What does that mean?”

“It means okay,” he said simply. “I just think it’s funny that Mike suddenly started acting like your personal assistant right after he drove to New York in a panic and apologized for something that neither of you will tell me about.”

You winced. Okay, so you hadn’t exactly told Will all the details about that day at the lake and what happened after you stormed off.

“You’re both really obvious. Like, really obvious. I don’t think either of you has an inconspicuous bone in your body.”

“We are not obvious,” you muttered.

“You and Mike? You’ve always been obvious. You just used to argue louder, so no one noticed how completely obsessed you were with each other. Now he just looks at you like a lovesick puppy, and you constantly ask if he’s going to be places.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. “Obsessed is a strong word.”

Will sighed. “Listen, I know we’ve only been friends for a little more than a year, but I’d like to think I know you pretty well. And I definitely know Mike. You two are the only people who can’t seem to see how totally in love you are.”

The apartment creaked faintly as the heater tried and failed again, sending a cold draft across your ankles. You tugged your blanket tighter, suddenly very interested in your mug. “You think he’s in love with me?” You tried to come off sounding uninterested, but Will saw right through you.

“I think,” he said slowly, each word chosen carefully to not scare you off, “he cares about you in a way that makes him kind of stupid. And yeah. . . I think it’s more than just friendship. It’s exhausting waiting for you two to try and out-stubborn each other.”

“And if he was in love?” you asked quietly. “Do you think I’d be stupid to love him back?”

“No,” Will responded immediately. “Mike is Mike. He’s stupid and impulsive and loyal to a fault, but that’s what makes him, him. To be loved by Mike Wheeler - romantically or platonically - is one of the greatest things in the world.”

Before you had the opportunity to spill your guts to Will about everything that had happened over the past few months, you heard the telltale sign of Mike arriving home. His key turning in the lock, his backpack clunking to the floor, him kicking his shoes at the wall, and then a soft, “Ow, fuck,” under his breath, because he always stubbed his toe in the same spot.

“How was your final?” Will called, though his eyes hadn’t left your face, eyebrows raised expectantly. Are you going to do something about it? He mouthed. Were you? Were you going to accept that Mike had truly been putting in effort, just as he said he would, and you were undeniably falling in love with him?

You didn’t have time to think about that right now. Not with Mike in the room, his cheeks and nose flushed from the cold, his hair windswept. He was in dire need of a haircut, but you also kind of liked how long his hair had grown recently, the way it curled at his collar.

Mike sighed and collapsed onto the couch between you and Will, immediately wriggling his long legs under your blanket. “Horrible,” he groaned. “It was pointless - didn’t even show off my skills.”

“You’re cold,” you complained. “Why can’t you steal Will’s blanket?”

“You’ll warm me up faster,” he said. Underneath the blanket, Mike’s frigid hands moved boldly, sliding underneath the legs of your sweatpants and pressing against your bare skin. He watched your every reaction, waiting to see if you would tell him to stop. You could see a smirk growing on Will’s face.

Wow. You and Mike really were obvious.

“Mike!” you hissed, sucking in a sharp breath. You tried to twist away from him, but he’d tangled his legs with yours, effectively trapping you in place.

“See?” he said, far too pleased with himself. “You’re warm.”

“You’re annoying,” you shot back, words failing you. You hadn’t felt his touch in months - at least not as direct as this. Occasionally, your arms brushed in the library or your fingers touched as you passed him your bag, but his hands were flat against your legs now, absorbing all the heat you had to offer.

Mike’s fingers twitched and flexed at your words, and you could see the exact moment he began to question his decision, wondering if he’d gone too far. He began to retract his hands, his cold palms sliding across your ankles.

“Wait, don’t,” you said.

Mike’s hands paused. “Don’t what?”

“You can keep them there,” you decided, reaching for his wrist. “I’ll warm you up. Keep your hands there.”

From the other side of the couch, Will made a small, deliberate sound - something between a cough and a laugh - and you snapped your head toward him. He was watching the two of you with a delighted sparkle in his eyes. “Don’t stop on my account,” he quipped. “I’ll give you two some privacy.”

“Wait,” you said quickly. Will paused, mid-rise.

“Oh, so you want an audience? Listen, I knew she was a freak, but you, Mike? I was under the impression you were as vanilla as they come.”

You groaned. Now that Will had confirmation about your feelings, he was definitely just trying to embarrass you. Mike hadn’t moved; his wrist still in your grip. “Shut up,” you muttered. “I told you that in confidence, Will.”

“Told him what?” Mike asked, bewildered.

“I’m sure you’ll find out,” Will grinned. “I’m going. Try not to make it weird. And if you’re going to have sex on the couch-”

You launched a pillow at his head, hitting him square on, as he backed down the hallway. Will let out a wicked laugh before closing the door to his room with an echoing click.

You became acutely aware of the fact that you were still holding onto Mike’s wrist - except, no, you weren’t. Somehow, in the midst of Will’s humiliation ritual, your hand had found its way into Mike’s.

You pulled your hand back as if you’d been burned. “Sorry,” you blurted out.

Mike seemed unfazed, as if he hadn’t even noticed the two of you had been holding hands. “Does he know?”

You nodded.

“You told him?”

“No,” you corrected. “I mean, not really. I didn’t tell him about the lake or. . . anything that happened this summer. Apparently, we’re really obvious, though.”

“Yeah?” Mike glanced down at where your legs were still entwined under the blanket. “I wonder why he thinks that.”

You nudged him lightly with your knee. “Fuck off. You started it.”

“I was just trying to stay warm,” Mike argued. “You’re the one who started holding my hand.”

So he had noticed. “Oh my god, shut up. I didn’t realize-”

“It’s okay,” Mike interrupted. “I liked it. It was nice. Even though you have tiny hands-”

“Not my fault that your fingers are bigger than my fucking forearm-”

“-it was kinda like your hand was meant to fit in mine,” he finished.

You stilled. The comeback you’d been about to fire off died somewhere in your throat. Mike’s expression faltered.

“That was sappy, sorry.”

“Give me your hand,” you ordered. Mike pulled his hand out from under the blanket. He’d resigned to letting it rest against his own thigh. Apprehensively, you took it in your own, interlocking your fingers again - his skin had finally warmed and was soft, like usual. There were ink stains on his fingertips, and his nails were bitten down. He must’ve bitten at them during his final exam - he had a habit of doing that when he was writing. Mike looked stunned and ran his tongue over his lips.

“I guess they do fit together quite nicely,” you whispered.

“Does this mean we can hold hands now?” Mike asked eagerly, his eyes jumping up to your face. “Like, on purpose?”

Your grip on his hand tightened. “Yeah,” you decided finally. “I think that would be okay.”

Mike blinked, processing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you repeated. “If you want to hold my hand when you’re walking me to class. . .I won’t object.” You shrugged lightly.

“And if I wanted to hold your hand while we were studying?”

“Only if you can figure out the logistics, considering we both write with the same hand.”

Mike frowned. “Oh, right.”

Slowly, almost absentmindedly, his thumb traced gentle circles over your knuckles. It was almost second-nature to him to soothe you in that way.

You shivered slightly, both from the lack of heat and from the sensation of his touch. You subconsciously pressed a little closer to him.

“You cold?” he asked immediately, already adjusting the blanket without letting go of your hand.

“A little.”

“Here. C’mere.”

Before you could overthink it, Mike eased you forward with an arm around your waist. He leaned backward until he was lying down, stretched out along the couch, and gently draped you over him. You ended up with your head on his shoulder, hands still locked, with his free arm settling carefully around you.

“Better,” he asked, rearranging the blanket.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Better.”

“Are you comfortable? I can move my arm, if you want.”

“No, please leave it,” you said. “You’re comfy.”

“Am I?” You nodded against his chest.

“Yeah, and you smell good.”

“I bought a new detergent,” he replied, his voice reverberating through his ribcage, low and heady. “And a new cologne. You said once that you liked the smell.”

“You’re so obsessed with me,” you smiled into his shirt.

“Just a little bit.”

For a moment, the two of you just stayed there, feeling drowsy. The rise and fall of his chest made it hard for you to stay fully alert, coupled with the tender way Mike was running his hand along your arm.

“I have another request,” he murmured.

You tilted your head up. His eyes were lidded, looking just as tired as you felt. You imagined he was exhausted after such a painstaking final exam.

“Can I say I love you?”

You stayed tucked against him, tracking the movement of his eyes over your face. He always looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time, so entranced by every detail. “You can say it,” you said. “Only if you mean it.”

There was a pause.

“I love you.”

Your breath caught. Even though you’d just permitted him, it still caught you off guard. You couldn’t deny his feelings now - between all the gifts and the quiet affection and moments like these - you really believed he could be in love with you.

You lay your head back against his chest.

“I think I love you, too,” you whispered.

There was no response on his end, and you looked up again, wanting to see his reaction to the words, but Mike was already asleep. His long lashes fluttered against his flushed cheeks. He looked divine in that state, so gentle and unmarred. You smiled.

To be loved by Mike Wheeler is one of the greatest things in the world.

With a calculated slowness, you untangled your hands to reach up and brush his hair off his brow. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t wake. His grip on you stayed just as tight. You ran a delicate finger over every inch of his face - the curve of his cheekbones, the scatter of fading freckles.

“Fuck you, Mike Wheeler,” you said, barely audible. “How’d you make me fall in love with you?”

You kissed him softly on the cheek, right at the corner of his mouth, and then grabbed his hand again and curled up against him - as close as you could get - allowing yourself to drift off.

****

Less than an hour before midnight on New Year’s Eve, you were sprawled on the couch, legs in Mike’s lap. Outside his apartment, New York pulsed with distant noise - car horns, laughter spilling in from the sidewalk, and the tangible anticipation of a new year. But inside the walls, it was just the two of you, content in each other’s presence, waiting patiently for the clock to strike 12.

Will was at a party thrown by a few of his art friends. He’d invited you and Mike as a formality, but it was mutually understood that you and Mike needed the apartment to yourselves.

Mike shifted slightly, careful not to move you too much. In the past few weeks, sitting together on the couch like this had become the new normal. You were rarely at your own place anymore, eager to come over and sink into Mike’s caress. He had a thick sci-fi book in one hand - Dune, it was called, and he insisted that you needed to read it after him - and a half-empty glass of wine in the other that he’d been nursing since 10. The glasses he wore to read were low on his nose, and he occasionally kept sneaking glances at the clock.

You also had a glass of wine, your second over four hours. Admittedly, you were feeling a bit anxious and wanted a bit of liquid courage in your system. There was an unspoken agreement about what was going to happen at midnight.

“So, how’s the book?” you asked.

Mike looked up. “Jealous that I’m not paying attention to you?” he teased, setting down his wine glass.

“Maybe a little bit.”

He looked at the clock. “Twenty more minutes and I’ll give you so much attention you’ll be sick of me.”

His words went straight between your legs, your body feeling hot. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was just all the built-up tension and desire, but you wanted Mike badly. He’d never looked more delicious than he did now, and it was taking every ounce of willpower to wait until midnight to kiss him and rip his clothes off.

Everything about him, cast in the glow of the candle on the coffee table, was angelic tonight. You needed every inch of him, and now that you were permitting yourself that desire, it was hitting you full force.

“Hey, what’re you thinking about?” he asked, squeezing your ankle.

“You, Wheeler,” you said.

“Yeah? What about me?” he asked, closing his book and setting it down on the arm of the couch. You grinned devilishly, crawling over to him, taking the opportunity to settle down into his lap, your thighs on either side of him.

Mike’s eyes went wide beneath his glasses, the tips of his ears turning red. “About kissing you,” you purred, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’ve been waiting for a long time.”

Mike scoffed, trying to come off as calm and collected. “You’ve been waiting?”

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Ever since the first day I met you, I’ve been thinking about how badly I’d like to shut you up with a kiss.”

He looked frantically at the clock and clenched his teeth when he saw the time. “Come on, it’s practically midnight,” he said, a little breathless.

“Practically isn’t midnight.”

“You’re already in my lap.”

“And you’re hard,” you taunted in his ear. Mike swallowed, his Adam’s apple jumping in his throat. Maybe it really was the wine making you bold, or maybe you’d just been waiting for the opportunity to make him tremble, but you untangled your hand from his hair and reached out to softly trace the line of his jugular with your index finger.

“Fuck,” he groaned, and you felt the vibration of it beneath your fingertip. He brought his hands down to grip your hips, squeezing lightly. “Come on, baby, just kiss me already. I can’t wait any longer.”

Fifteen minutes.

Arousal curled in your stomach at the name - Baby.

Experimentally, you ground your hips down into him, and Mike let out the most beautiful sound you’d ever heard, his hands digging deeper into the flesh of your hips. “Fuck,” he groaned again. “Fuck, please.”

Pretty, you thought to yourself.

“Be patient,” you urged. He was painfully hard beneath you, pressing obscenely against your inner thigh. “Just think about how good it’ll feel if you’re patient.”

Mike’s head tipped back against the couch cushions, his fingers repeatedly flexing and tightening. There was a flush spreading over the highest points of his cheekbones, and his eyes had begun to glaze over with desire. Oblivious, he bucked his own hips up to meet yours.

“I’ve literally never been this hard in my fucking life,” he said. You grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look back at you.

“Mike,” you cooed. “Tell me what you’re gonna do to me when that clock hits midnight.”

A renewed sense of purpose washed over Mike. The two of you kept lazily grinding against each other, both of you so fucking eager that you couldn’t help yourselves. His gaze hardened, and his tongue darted out to lick his lips.

His voice was gravelly when he finally spoke. “You’re not going to be so cocky, I’ll tell you that.”

“Yeah, you think you’re in charge?”

“I know I’m in charge, baby,” he challenged, hands slipping underneath your shirt. You weren’t wearing a bra, but he restrained himself, only letting his deft fingers trail across your ribs in a way that made you shiver. It was honestly impressive how both of you had managed to hold back.

Eight minutes.

“I’ve waited so long,” he continued, “but I’m not going to touch you until you beg for me.”

It delighted you to know that his desire to be needed was going to bleed into your sex life. However, you weren’t one to back down easily, so you scoffed. “As if I’d ever beg for you, Wheeler.”

He grinned boyishly. “We’ll see.”

You shook your head stubbornly. “You’re going to be begging for me. You’ve been waiting a year to fuck me, I don’t think you’ll be able to contain yourself.”

The crassness of the sentence made Mike’s hips jump again, and you had to bite down on your lip to stop yourself from making noise. You both looked at the clock.

Five minutes.

“Fuck it,” Mike said. “You’re right.

And he kissed you.

It was messy and depraved the way he kissed you, teeth clashing. His hands didn’t stop moving - they trailed across your stomach, down to your hips, squeezing at your thighs, before coming back up to cup your face and pull you in closer. You could barely even process it, only able to chase desperately after his mouth.

Your hands rooted themself on the back of his head, digging into his hair. You tugged at it and, just as you’d hoped, Mike let out a whimper into your mouth. It gave you the chance to slip your tongue in, licking and sucking at his bottom lip.

Mike’s kiss wasn’t tender like he’d been the last few months. He didn’t treat you like a fragile doll, afraid to get too close and press too hard. Instead, he was fervent in his desire, guiding your hips over at a maddening pace.

“Off, please,” he murmured against your lips, yanking pathetically at the hem of your shirt. You broke the kiss just long enough to pull your shirt off shamelessly before diving back in, addicted to the heat and taste of his mouth.

He began to kiss his way down your throat, nipping teasingly at your skin, urged on by your breathy moans and the tightening grip you had in his curls.

“Mm, pretty,” he said to himself.

“Mike,” you whimpered. “Please.”

He looked up at you, eyes lidded. “What did I say? Didn’t take you long, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up,” you muttered, pulling him back up to your lips. “I need you, now.”

That was enough for Mike to scoop you up in a surprising feat of strength. Your hardened nipples brushing against the material of his shirt made you shiver as you wrapped your legs around his waist. He was determined as he carried you down the hallway to his room, ceremoniously setting you down on his bed before stripping his own shirt off.

Before he crawled over you, you shimmied out of your pants and underwear, letting them drop to the floor. Mike’s eyes lit up at the sight of you presented to him so vulnerably. His hands traveled down between your legs, looking to you for approval.

“Can I?” he asked, all the confidence melting away until it was just Mike - your Mike - left hovering over you. You nodded, unable to speak.

Mike kneeled before you like you were an altar as he rubbed his large hands over the inside of your thighs. You longed to dig your hands in his hair again, unsure of what to do with them, so you planted your fingers in his bedsheets.

“Stop teasing,” you said through gritted teeth.

“I’m not teasing,” he huffed. “I want to take my time. Make you feel good.”

Mike’s index finger tapped at your clit with a barely-there delicacy that still made you gasp. He couldn’t take his eyes off your face, not even to stare at your dripping cunt. Slowly, Mike pressed his finger inside you, and you couldn’t help but arch slightly.

“Tight,” he muttered to himself, slowly working his finger in and out. With his other hand, he grabbed at the fat of your thigh, bringing your leg up enough so he could kiss a sloppy line from your ankle to his shin. The wetness of his kiss was enough to distract you as he slipped a second finger in.

“Mike,” you whined, hands still fisted in the bedsheets.

“Feel good?”

“Yes. So good.”

Mike curled his long fingers, and the sensation of it was overwhelming. You’d been dreaming of how his fingers would feel inside you for months, touching yourself at the thought of it in the privacy of your bedroom. They, of course, reached further than you ever could, and it was almost enough to bring you to an orgasm.

Almost as if he sensed that he was bringing you close to the edge, Mike pulled his fingers out, slick and shiny in the lamplight. You lifted your head just enough to watch him bring them to his mouth, sucking your arousal off them with a mischievous look on his face.

“Good?” he asked again.

“Take your pants off, Wheeler. Now.”

Mike laughed, easing a bit of the thick tension in the air. He stepped off the bed, pushing down his sweats and boxers, before climbing back over you. He leaned down to capture your lips in another bruising kiss, tongue licking lewdly at the inside of your mouth, the sound of it practically pornographic.

You reached up to grab his shoulders, nails digging into his pale skin.

“I can’t be patient anymore,” he revealed.

“I can’t either,” you said.

The feeling of him pushing into you was more overwhelming than the stretch of his fingers. He was long, longer than you’d expected, and each inch made you feel fuller and fuller, until you weren’t even sure if you could accommodate all of him.

“Almost there, baby. So good, you feel so good,” Mike muttered. He looked just as wrecked as you felt, a slight sheen of sweat across his face, his curls disheveled, and his lips pink and swollen. He looked so beautiful above you, the broad line of his shoulders and long arms caging you in, the trail of hair that disappeared toward his cock, which, as you’d mentioned, was huge. “Hey, look at me.”

It took a lot of effort to open your eyes and look at him.

“You okay?”

You could only nod frantically, knowing that any words out of your mouth would sound too much like a moan. He ran a soothing thumb across your cheek and kissed you chastely.

“Doing so well,” he repeated. “You feel so good. I don’t know how long I can last.”

Finally, he bottomed out, his hipbones pressing up against you. You gasped, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling. Holy shit.

“Come on, baby,” he cooed, rolling his hips lightly. “Where’s all that attitude?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” you chanted. “Move.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm, yes, yes!”

Mike pulled out a few inches before pressing back in, always so attentive to your reaction, even when chasing his own pleasure. When you just let out a little whimper, he did it again, thrusting back in a bit rougher this time.

“Shit,” he grunted. One of his hands was still holding up your knee, hooked over his arm, while the other had begun to squeeze lightly at your tits. He pulled out further this time, sliding back in with another rough thrust.

“Mike, c’mere,” you whimpered. He obeyed, dropping your leg to press his chest against yours. He kissed your jaw, the bridge of your nose, your cheeks as you sought out his curls, wanting to feel the softness of them between your fingers as he fucked into you.

As he began to speed up more and more, the feeling of fullness began to ease slightly, becoming much more pleasurable. You couldn’t stop the noises that escaped you, immensely grateful that you and Mike were alone. His thrusts got messier and messier as he buried his face in your neck, mumbling words of encouragement against your skin.

Each sound that he made was just as pretty as the moan he’d let out on the couch. Already, just during this first time, he fucked you so good. You’d never felt anything like it. Just the thought of how else he could throw you around had your toes curling.

“I love you,” he mumbled against your skin, hips beginning to stutter. “Fuck, I love you so much. I love you. I love you.”

“I love you, Mike,” you hiccuped. “I love you, too.”

Both of you came at the same time. It was so erotic the way he continued to rut into you, hands grasping greedily at any inch of you he could reach. You couldn’t do anything but let your head fall back, your eyes rolling back in your skull, and take whatever he had left to give you. It was so much better than any orgasm you’d ever given yourself, and you could’ve gotten high on the feeling.

Your limbs felt heavy when Mike collapsed over you, letting his full weight settle. Chest still heaving, you brushed back his hair and kissed him on the temple. For a moment, the two of you just existed in the post-sex haze, skin sticky and sweaty, and when he finally pulled out of you, you winced.

“Was that okay?” he asked after tossing the condom and wiping the two of you clean.

“Okay?” you repeated, incredulous. “Mike, I practically fucking blacked out.”

“So, you didn’t fake it?”

You smiled, stroking his cheek with your knuckle. “No, never.”

He smiled back. “Did you mean what you said? That you. . .”

Mike trailed off, apparently afraid to put words in your mouth, to undo all of the progress you’d made up until that point.

“That I love you?” you finished softly. He nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Of course. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”

He let out a quiet breath, almost like a laugh, but not quite. “You-” he started, then stopped again, shaking his head slightly. “You’re serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

Mike lurched forward and kissed you again. It was less erratic and needy, but still just as intense. “I love you, too,” he said when he pulled away. “God, I love you so fucking much.”

You giggled at that, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Happy New Year, Mike,” you said.

He rested his forehead against yours. “Happy New Year.”

“I love you,” you whispered again.

Outside, New York carried on, the last few fireworks exploding in the air enthusiastically, but inside the walls of Mike’s apartment, where it was just the two of you, you had never been happier.

To be loved by Mike Wheeler was the greatest thing in the world.

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Claire