His Secret 5 - vampire Miles Fairchild x fem Reader
part five: miles finally bites reader <3
The evening air is cooler outside. The grounds feel different at this hour, quieter. Miles walks beside you along the narrow path. Just near enough that you can feel his presence beside you. “You like this time of day,” you say after a moment.
He glances at you.“Yes.”
“Because it’s darker?”
A faint smile touches his lips. “That helps.”
You look up at the sky where the last pale light still lingers behind the trees. “It’s peaceful,” you say quietly. He nods slightly. “I hear less.”
You glance at him. “What do you mean?”
“At night the world slows down,” he explains. “Fewer heartbeats. Fewer voices. Fewer things demanding attention.”
The way he says it makes you realize again how different his world must feel. “That sounds exhausting,” you say softly.
“Sometimes it is.”
You walk a few steps in silence. Then you reach a small stone wall and stop, leaning against it while the wind moves gently through the grass around you. Miles stands beside you, hands resting loosely at his sides.
“You know,” you say, glancing sideways at him, “for someone who claims the sun bothers him, you spend a lot of time outside with me.” His eyes shift to yours. “That’s because of you.”
Your pulse flutters. “You make it sound like a burden.”
“It’s not.” He hesitates slightly before continuing. “It’s more like… gravity.”
“Gravity?”
“Yes.” His voice is quiet now. “The closer I get to you, the harder it becomes to stay away.”
You try to ignore the warmth spreading through your chest.“That sounds dangerous.”
“It probably is.”
The sky grows darker above you.
After a moment you push away from the wall and start walking again and this time he falls into step beside you more closely than before. Your hands brush once, twice. Then his fingers gently catch yours.
You glance at him, surprised. He looks almost uncertain now. “You can let go if you want,” he says softly. You tighten your grip slightly instead. “I don’t want to.” Something soft flickers in his expression.
You continue walking like that, hand in hand beneath the fading light. The house glows faintly ahead of you now. For a moment everything feels strangely simple. “I didn’t think I’d want this again,” he says quietly after a while.
“What?”
“Closeness.”
You glance at him. “And now?”
His gaze meets yours. “Now I don’t want to let go.”
By the time you step inside, the warmth of the house wraps around you immediately, but it does nothing to quiet the tension that followed you in from outside.
The door closes softly behind you. Neither of you moves away. You’re standing in front of each other now, closer than before, the dim light of the hallway casting soft shadows across his face as his eyes find yours again.
The silence stretches, it’s full of everything neither of you has said yet. The walk, the way his hand felt in yours. It’s all still there, between you.
You feel it again, that pull, stronger now, undeniable, like something tightening slowly in your chest, drawing you toward him. He feels it too. You can see it in the way his breathing shifts, in the way his gaze flickers briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes, as if he’s trying to hold onto control for just one second longer. “You feel that,” he murmurs quietly.
“Yes.” The word barely leaves you before he steps closer. This time, neither of you hesitates. Your hands find him at the same moment his hands find you, yours at his shoulders, his at your waist and then he’s kissing you.
The kiss deepens almost instantly, his lips moving against yours with a quiet urgency that isn’t wild, but isn’t controlled in the same distant way either. Your fingers tighten slightly in his shirt as your heartbeat rises fast, loud, impossible to ignore. He reacts to it immediately.
You feel the shift.
When he pulls back, it’s only enough to breathe, his forehead brushing yours as his eyes darken, not with cruelty, not with loss of control but with something strained. Something held back. “I shouldn’t-” he starts, then stops himself, swallowing hard.
Your breath is uneven. “Then don’t,” you whisper. His hands tighten faintly at your waist. “That’s not what I want.” The honesty in his voice sends a shiver through you.
His lips find yours again, but this time they don’t stay there long, they move, trailing along your jaw, slower now, as if he’s forcing himself to feel every second instead of rushing through it. Your pulse reacts instantly. He exhales softly against your skin. “You make this impossible,” he murmurs.
“Then stop trying to make it easy.” That almost breaks him. His mouth lingers at your neck, just beneath your ear, his breath cool against your skin as his hands hold you steady. He pauses. You feel the hesitation, the control tightening again.
“Can I…” he starts quietly, his voice lower now, rougher, as if the words themselves cost him something. “Can I please… just have a little taste?”
Your heart pounds. But there’s no fear in it. Only trust. "Okay.." you whisper. "I trust you."
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Like that matters more than anything else. Then his lips brush your neck, soft, not biting..yet.
Just a slow, deliberate kiss against your pulse, as if he’s reminding himself what restraint feels like. Your breath catches. His fangs descend slowly and you feel the faintest graze against your skin. He lingers there. You tilt your head slightly, a quiet permission and that’s all it takes.
He bites. The first sensation is sharp enough to pull a soft gasp from you, your fingers tightening instinctively against him. But he doesn’t lose control. He doesn’t take more than he said he would. He drinks carefully, measured, his hands steady at your waist, holding you upright, holding himself back with every second.
A low, restrained sound escapes him, something almost reverent, like he’s aware of every moment he’s choosing not to cross the line. Warmth spreads beneath your skin, your pulse echoing louder and louder as the world seems to narrow around you.
And then he stops. He pulls back sooner than he wants to. You can see it in his face, feel it in the way his hands loosen slightly, even as he stays close. "That’s enough..." he says quietly, more to himself than to you.
Your breath is still uneven, your hand drifting to your neck where the faint sting lingers beneath a strange warmth. He watches you carefully. You meet his gaze. “You stopped,” you whisper.
His jaw tightens. “I told you I would.”
He steps closer again, more carefully now, his thumb brushing lightly beneath your jaw as his expression softens, the tension easing just slightly. “I will never take more than you give,” he says quietly.
“Are you alright?” he asks quietly. You nod softly, your fingers still curled lightly in his shirt. “Yes.”
He studies your face for a moment longer, listening, not to hunger now, but to you, to the rhythm of your breathing, the steadiness of your pulse. “You’d tell me if you weren’t?” he murmurs.
“I would.”
Something eases in his expression. His thumb traces lightly beneath your cheekbone, slow and absentminded. “You didn’t pull away,” he says quietly.
“You didn’t take more.” A faint, almost relieved exhale leaves him at that. His forehead lowers gently against yours, the coolness of his skin calming now instead of startling. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “I’ll always stop.”
“I know.”
The silence that follows isn’t tense anymore. You can still feel your heartbeat, still a little faster than normal, but it no longer feels overwhelming. His hand shifts slightly at your waist, not pulling you closer, just holding you there. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m something you have to endure,” he says softly.
“I don’t.”
“You shouldn’t ever feel like I’m taking from you.”
“I don’t,” you repeat, quieter this time. You tilt your head slightly, meeting his gaze fully. “It felt…” you hesitate, searching for the right word. "Close."
That makes something soften in him again. “Good,” he murmurs. His fingers move gently to your neck, careful around the marks, brushing your skin with tenderness. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss just beside the bite, not near the wound, just close enough to feel.
You exhale slowly. “I’m still here,” you whisper. “I know,” he says. But he doesn’t sound like he takes that for granted. His hand finds yours again, fingers slipping between yours like before, steadier. "Lets get you to bed, love.."
Do you not really write anymore? I recognised the Finnverse community kinda died recently and I was wondering if u were one of those who left with it 💔
I do... but Finn is kind of in the back of my head at the moment 😅 But I will still write for him in the future 💗
The apartment was quiet except for the faint hum of Boris’s computer and the distant rumble of traffic below the cracked window.
Boris leaned back in his chair, a half-burnt joint resting between his fingers. His eyes were red, from exhaustion, from stress, from wanting too much with too little to give.
You lay on your stomach across the bed, scrolling through pictures on your phone. Designer handbags, shoes that cost more than three months of rent. “I just want something nice,” you muttered. “Just once.”
Boris watched you carefully, not annoyed, or angry. Just worried. He took a slow drag, the tip glowing, calming him. “I know, kochanie,” (darling) he murmured, smoke slipping past his lips. “You deserve nice things.”
You looked at him, eyes sharp but tired. “We’re always broke, Boris. Always counting coins like old people.”
He flinched slightly. Not because you were wrong, but because he hated that you were right. He stubbed the joint out in an old mug and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ll fix it,” he said quietly. You sighed. “You always say that.” His jaw tightened.“I mean it.”
Silence stretched between you. Then he stood, crossing the room in a few quick steps, kneeling in front of you so suddenly it made your breath catch. “I’d do anything for you,” he said, voice rough. “You think I care about rules? I break them every day.”
His hands slid over yours, gripping tight like you were the only solid thing in his life. “I’d hack every bank in this stupid country. I’d break into houses if I have to. I’d steal from rich pigs who don’t even notice money missing.”
His breathing was uneven now. “I just—” he swallowed hard, eyes searching yours, scared and intense all at once, “—I just can’t lose you.”
Your expression softened. You brushed your thumb under his eye, gentle. “Boris…”
“I’m serious,” he whispered. “You’re everything. If you walk away, I got nothing.”
You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his.“You’re stupid,” you murmured softly. “I don’t want money, if it means losing you.” A pause. "...But I do want nice things.”
He let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “I know, baby” He pulled you into his chest, holding you tight.
Boris would fight dirty, risk prison, blood, broken bones, the whole brutal cost of love, if it meant staying by your side.
Your bedroom was cozy. Soft pink walls, plushies piled neatly on the bed, music played softly from your little speaker while you sat at your vanity, surrounded by makeup.
Richie sat cross-legged on your bed, watching you like you were performing some kind of magic. He didn’t even try to hide it. His chin resting in his palm, completely mesmerized. "So… what’s that one?" he asked, pointing at a small pastel tube in your hand. You smiled at his reflection in the mirror. "Primer."
"Primer," he repeated seriously, nodding. "Important. Tactical. Like preparing a battlefield." You giggled. "Something like that."
He leaned forward a little. "And the sparkly one?"
"Highlighter."
"Of course it is," Richie said. "Because you weren’t glowing enough already."
You paused, turned slightly in your chair. He wasn’t joking. He was looking at you with the softest expression, eyes warm behind his glasses, lips curved in a small, sincere smile. "You’re so beautiful," he said quietly. Your heart melted instantly. "Richie…" He shrugged shyly, looking down for a second. "Just stating facts."
You loved how he watched you like every little thing you did mattered and how gentle he was with you. How he always made you feel safe, admired and cared for. "You always treat me so sweet," you said softly.
Richie blinked. "Well… yeah. You deserve that." Like it was obvious. Like being kind to you wasn’t effort, it was instinct.
You turned back to the mirror, trying to hide your smile while brushing soft red pigment onto your cheeks. "Okay, now what’s that?" Richie asked.
"Blush."
He tilted his head slightly, studying you with that soft, thoughtful expression. "But you’re already blushing." You laughed quietly. "That’s because of you."
Richie froze."I— oh— wow— okay—" You spun your chair toward him, standing and walking over. "Do you really like watching me do makeup?"
"Yeah," he said immediately. "It’s cool. And you look happy when you do it."
The tiny spark in your eyes when you talked about colors. The way you smiled to yourself when something turned out pretty. The soft concentration on your face when you leaned closer to the mirror. He noticed you. Not just how you looked."You’re kinda adorable when you’re focused," he added.
You stepped between his knees where he sat on the bed. His hands hovered awkwardly before resting lightly at your waist. "Yeah?" you asked softly.
"Yeah." He looked up at you like you’d hung the stars yourself. You felt warm all over. Lucky
You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. Richie melted instantly ."I like that you’re so into me," you whispered. He smiled shyly. "Kinda hard not to be."
You smiled and brushed your thumb gently along his cheek, encouraging him to keep talking.
"I mean… you’re just— you," he said, voice soft but full of emotion. "You’re sweet to everyone, even when they don’t deserve it. You make things feel less scary. When I’m around you, it’s like my brain finally calms down for once."
Your heart fluttered. He swallowed, fingers tightening slightly at your waist.
"And you get so excited about little stuff. Like glitter or cute packaging or matching colors. Most people wouldn’t even notice those things… but you do. And you talk about them like they’re important."
"They are important," you murmured.
"I know," he said gently. "That’s why I like listening to you."
Your eyes softened. "No one’s ever really listened like that before."
Richie shrugged shyly. "They should. You’ve got a lot to say." He hesitated, then continued, words spilling out faster now. "And you’re always nice to me. Even when I’m being loud or annoying or making dumb jokes. You never make me feel like I’m too much."
You felt your chest tighten, overwhelmed in the softest way.
"I just… feel good around you," he admitted quietly. "Safe. Like I don’t have to pretend to be cooler or quieter or different."
Your hands slid gently up to rest on his shoulders. Richie looked nervous now, but he didn’t look away. "You’re not just pretty," he said. "You’re… warm. And kind. And you make people feel chosen."
Your breath caught.
"And when you smile at me?" he added softly. "It feels like I won something."
Your eyes shimmered."Richie…" He gave a small, bashful smile. "Yeah," he murmured. "You’re just perfect."
You leaned down and kissed him, not quick. Full of emotion and affection. Of feeling completely, deeply cared for. Richie melted into it instantly, hands holding you like he never wanted to let go.
Neither of you spoke for a moment. You just looked at each other. Your fingers slowly moved up into his hair, gently brushing through his curls.
Richie’s breath caught. He leaned into your touch without even realizing it, eyes fluttering for just a second before meeting yours again."You’re staring," he whispered softly.
"So are you," you murmured back.
A small smile tugged at his lips. "I just… don’t wanna forget this." Your thumb traced lightly along his temple, smoothing a curl away from his face. "You won’t," you said gently.
Richie’s voice grew quieter, more vulnerable."Being with you feels different. Like everything finally makes sense."
Your heart swelled. You leaned your forehead against his, noses brushing slightly."I feel it too," you whispered. His hands tightened just a little at your waist, like he needed reassurance you were really there.
For a moment, you just stayed like that. Looking into each other’s eyes. Then, so quiet it was almost part of the air. "I love you," Richie whispered. The words were careful, fragile.
Your breath trembled, eyes warming as your fingers slid softly through his hair again. "I love you too," you whispered back.
richie tozier with a homeschooled reader who's tall and acts kinda boyish? like she's always wearing t-shirts/buttondowns and jeans, wears glasses, reads comics, and just generally acts a lot like a boy (not necessarily a tomboy but just...boyish? idk if that makes sense).
Also i think it would be really cool if she had like two or three older brothers, super tall and very protective, and richie has to just deal with them while also crushing on reader 😭
feel free to ignore and i love your writing! ❤️💙
More Than Competition - Richie Tozier x fem Reader
The arcade hums like it always does. Neon buzzing overhead, buttons slamming, someone yelling at a pinball machine. But you don’t notice any of it. You’re locked in. Street Fighter, final round.
Your fingers move fast but controlled. No button mashing. No panic. You lean in slightly, glasses sliding down your nose before you nudge them back up.
Richie has been trying to beat one specific high score for three straight weeks. He does not know that the person destroying his ego is currently wearing an oversized shirt, loose jeans and a backwards snapback with long hair spilling down to her chest.
He just knows the name at the top of the leaderboard. NIGHTWRAITH
The machine flashes: NEW HIGH SCORE
A small crowd murmurs. You lean back, cracking your knuckles once, calm and unbothered.
“What the fuck?"
You recognize the voice instantly. Richie Tozier.
“No way” Richie is staring at the screen, then he looks at you. Then back at the screen. He points dramatically. “You’re Nightwraith!"
You blink. “…Uh. Yeah.”
“You’re the top high score!” he blurts out suddenly, loud enough that a couple of kids at the racing machine glance over for a second before returning to their own game.
You laugh at the sheer disbelief in his voice, the kind of laugh that slips out easily because he looks so genuinely shocked and you shrug one shoulder like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I know that, yeah.”
Richie stares at the glowing leaderboard like it personally betrayed him, then looks back at you with the expression of someone who has just realized the final boss of a long battle has been standing right in front of him the whole time.
“I have been trying to beat that score for weeks,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair in dramatic frustration, like this entire thing has been some personal rivalry he didn’t even know you were part of. “Weeks.”
You shrug again, leaning your shoulder against the arcade cabinet with easy confidence, like the machine has belonged to you longer than anyone else in the room. "Guess you’ll have to try harder."
His jaw drops open slightly as he stares at you, clearly unsure whether to be offended or impressed.“That’s so rude.”
You push your glasses up. “You panic in the last round.” His eyes narrow. “How would you know that?” You tilt your head slightly. “I’ve seen you play.” He freezes. "You’ve— what?"
“You rush when you’re nervous,” you add casually. “You go for flashy combos instead of safe ones.” He stares at you like you just read his diary out loud. "I do not panic."
“You absolutely do.”
He gestures wildly at the glowing screen behind you, where your name still sits comfortably at the top of the leaderboard like it’s been there forever. “You have psychologically terrorized me.”
You grin slightly, the expression small but undeniably satisfied. “You’re welcome.”
He huffs out a laugh despite himself. “You don’t even look competitive,” he mutters. You raise an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. I just expected… I don’t know. Someone named Chad.”
You snort. “Sorry to disappoint.”
He glances back at the glowing leaderboard for a moment, where your name still sits firmly at the top, before looking at you again like he’s trying to mentally rearrange everything he thought he knew about the mysterious player who kept beating him.“You’re actually insane at this.”
“Yeah.” He studies you like he’s recalibrating something. “Rematch,” he declares suddenly. You fold your arms across your chest, leaning your shoulder against the cabinet as you look at him with mild skepticism. “You sure?”
“I cannot allow my legacy to be defined by Nightwraith.”
You stare at him for half a second. “You don’t have a legacy.”
“That’s hurtful.”
You step aside with an easy shrug and gesture toward the controls, giving him the space in front of the machine. "Go."
He immediately drops a coin into the slot with unnecessary intensity, like this is suddenly a matter of pride, and the machine lights up as the game begins again.
You stay close beside him, close enough that you can see the subtle way his jaw tightens whenever he concentrates on the screen and close enough that your shoulder almost brushes against his whenever he shifts his weight in front of the arcade cabinet.
He’s better than most players in the room, that much is obvious, but he’s still impatient, still a little reckless, still glancing sideways at you every few seconds when he thinks you’re too focused on the screen to notice. “You’re overthinking it,” you murmur quietly.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
He immediately fumbles a combo, the character on the screen missing a move he clearly meant to land and you can’t stop the small smile that appears on your face when he groans under his breath. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“Standing there.”
You blink at him with exaggerated innocence, tilting your head slightly.“Beathing?”
You laugh, the sound escaping before you can stop it, not mocking, just genuinely amused and he turns his head to look at you like he’s trying very hard not to like that sound as much as he clearly does. “You’re evil,” he says.
“You’re dramatic.”
“True.”
There’s a pause. The arcade noise fades into background static. “You really didn’t think I’d be Nightwraith?” you ask.
He hesitates before answering, shifting his weight slightly like he’s trying to put the thought into words without accidentally insulting you again. “I don’t know,” he finally admits. “You just don’t… try.”
“Try?”
“To look impressive,” he clarifies, almost like he’s figuring it out as he says it. “You don’t dress like you’re trying to get attention. You don’t act like you care who’s watching. You just walk in here, win and leave like it’s nothing.”
You glance down at yourself for a moment, at the oversized shirt hanging loosely off your shoulders, the worn jeans, the scuffed sneakers that have clearly seen more sidewalks than cleaning products. “I don’t need to.”
He swallows slightly when you say it, something in his expression softening as he looks back at you. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess you don’t.”
You step forward then, closing the small space between you and the arcade cabinet and gently nudge him aside with a light push of your shoulder. "Move."
He does without protest, stepping back to give you room as you take your place at the controls again, your hands settling easily on the joystick and buttons like they belong there.
The game starts.
And you win.
Again.
The machine flashes your name at the top of the leaderboard, glowing brightly in pixelated confirmation as if it’s announcing the result to the entire room.
Behind you, he exhales in exaggerated defeat, dragging a hand down his face. “You are absolutely destroying my self-esteem,” he says, but there’s no real bitterness in it, just reluctant admiration.
You grin slightly over your shoulder. “You’ll survive.”
He huffs out a breath that turns into a smile whether he wants it to or not. He shakes his head once, like he’s accepting something inevitable. “Okay,” he says finally, looking back at the screen and then at you. “Game on.”
This time, when he looks at you, it isn’t just rivalry flickering there. It’s something slower. Something that isn’t about the high score anymore.
~~~
Richie's pretending to focus on the machine in front of him, but he hasn’t pressed a button in a full thirty seconds. Because you’re here. You’re at the Street Fighter cabinet again and you’re completely locked in.
Oversized black tee with some faded horror graphic across the chest. Loose jeans that bunch at the ankles. Vans that look like they’ve actually touched pavement. A snapback today, worn forward, shadowing your eyes. Your long hair spills out from underneath, brushing down to your chest when you lean forward. You don’t look around.
Richie stares. He can’t help it. It’s not just that you’re winning. It’s the way you don’t look like you care who sees.
Like you’re not performing. Not trying to impress. Not trying to look cute or cool or whatever Derry expects from girls your age.
“Yo.”
Richie doesn’t realize the voice is aimed at him at first. “Yo, four-eyes.” His stomach drops and he turns slowly.
Two guys are standing there. Same face and height. Same unimpressed expression. They're a lot bigger than him. One of them jerks his chin toward Richie. “What are you staring at, huh?”
Richie’s throat goes dry. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The other twin steps closer. Not aggressive, just enough. “That’s our sister over there.” Richie looks past them for half a second, just enough to confirm it. You’re still playing. Still unaware. Or maybe you are aware. He forces a shrug. “I was watching the game.”
“Looked like you were watching her.”
“I— it’s the same thing?”
The twin closest to him tilts his head slightly. “You got a problem?” Richie swallows hard. He wants to make a joke. He always makes a joke. But something about their stance, steady and protective, keeps his mouth shut. "No,” he says. And it comes out more honest than he expects. “No problem.”
They study him. “You know her?” one asks. Richie hesitates, just a second. “…Yeah,” he says this time. “A little.” The first twin raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
Richie nods, forcing himself not to shrink. “Yeah.” They just stand there, solid and certain, making it very clear that if he steps wrong, they’ll notice. Richie feels smaller than he has in a while.
Behind them, the game ends. Perfect victory. Your name flashes at the top of the screen. You finally glance over. You see your brothers first, then you see Richie. For a second your eyes pause on him. You step away from the machine.
Your brothers don’t move. “Everything good?” you ask them. “Yeah,” one says. “Just making sure.”
Your gaze shifts to Richie again. He looks caught. Like he’s been pulled into a spotlight he didn’t ask for. You walk closer and stop a couple feet away from him. “You okay?” you ask him. Your brothers glance at you. Richie nods quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Then you look at your brothers. “I know him,” you say casually. They both look at you. “You do?” one asks. You shrug. “Yeah. He’s cool.”
Richie’s brain short-circuits. He stares at you like you’ve just handed him something fragile and important.
Your brothers look back at him. The energy shifts slightly. “He bothering you?” one asks. You shake your head. “No.”
Then you look back at Richie, just briefly and there’s the smallest hint of a grin tugging at your mouth. “He just stares a lot.”
Richie flushes instantly. “I do not—” You raise an eyebrow and he stops talking. Your brothers snort quietly. “Relax,” you tell them. “He’s harmless.” You’re not saying it like an insult. You’re saying it like reassurance.
The twins exchange a look, silent communication and then step back. “We’ll be outside,” one mutters.
You nod once in acknowledgment, and after one last glance in Richie’s direction, they turn and leave the arcade. The door swings shut behind them.
Richie exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since they first walked in. "That went well," he mutters. You tilt your head. “You look pale.”
“I am not pale.”
“You look pale.” He huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh, like he knows he’s been caught.
You gesture toward the machine. “You were staring.” He winces. “Was I?”
“Yes.”
“Subtly?”
“No.” You almost smile.
“You’re really good,” he blurts out suddenly. You push your glasses up your nose. "I know." He laughs softly at that, but he doesn’t look away. This time, when he stares, you don’t look away either. You just meet his eyes.
You’re leaning back against the Street Fighter cabinet, one sneaker propped casually against the side, your skateboard resting upright near your leg, arms folded loose across your chest like you’ve been standing there forever and plan to keep standing there indefinitely.
You’re wearing your Nightmare on Elm Street shirt today. You didn't think much of it when you pulled it on this morning. It’s just a shirt, just something comfortable.
But then you notice Richie staring. Specifically at your chest. You glance down slowly at the graphic, then back up at him. “What?” you ask.
He blinks like he’s just been snapped out of a trance. “Nothing,” he says too fast. You tilt your head slightly. “You’ve been staring at my shirt for like thirty seconds.”
“I have not...okay, maybe a little.”
You look down again. “It’s just Freddy.” He nods like that confirms something monumental. “Right. Yeah. Obviously. Freddy.”
There’s a beat where he clearly wants to say something and is trying to figure out how to say it without sounding like an idiot. You wait, because you’ve learned that if you wait long enough, Richie will fill the silence himself.
“So…” he starts, pushing his glasses up his nose in that nervous little gesture he does when he’s thinking too hard. “You like horror movies?” You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah,” you say evenly. “Love them.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah,” you say evenly. “Love them.”
The word love seems to do something to him. He shifts his weight, glancing down at the floor for half a second before looking back at you like he’s building up courage in real time. “Cool,” he says, nodding once. “Cool, cool.”
You almost smile.
“Uhh,” he continues, and now the rambling begins, “so there’s that new Nightmare on Elm Street playing tomorrow at the Aladdin. The late showing. Not, like, super late. Just normal late. Respectable late.”
You stare at him. He keeps going. “And I was thinking — hypothetically — since you like horror. And I also like horror. And since we’ve, you know, talked about it. A lot. Not obsessively. Just… normal amounts.”
He pauses. His ears are pink. You’ve never seen him like this before. “So,” he says again, swallowing once. “Do you, uhh… want to watch it? With me? Tomorrow? You don’t have to say yes if you don’t want to. I just thought it might be fun. And if not, that’s fine. Completely fine.”
For a second, you forget to breathe. You don’t get asked out. You get curious looks. You get confusion. You get the occasional half-hearted attempt from someone who thinks you’re a dare.
You push your glasses up slowly, buying yourself a second.“You’re nervous,” you say.
“I am not nervous.”
“You’re talking too much.”
“That’s just how I exist.”
“You don’t have to say yes,” he adds, softer this time. “I just thought— since you like horror— and I— I don’t know. I thought it’d be fun.”
You swallow quietly. Because the truth is, you do want to go. You want to sit in the dark next to him and pretend not to notice if your arms brush. You want to see if he actually screams. You want to hear his stupid commentary under his breath during tense scenes. But you’ve never done this before. Not like this. You push your glasses up your nose again. "Maybe I’m free."
"Oh." You watch him try to read you. It’s almost endearing, the way he’s clearly trying not to push, not to ruin whatever this is. Something about that almost makes you smile. He’s not trying to be smooth, just hoping.
You look down at the Freddy graphic again, at the cracked ink and worn cotton. “You actually like horror?” you ask him.
“Yeah,” he says immediately, softer now. “I mean — yeah. I do.”
“You jump.”
“I react enthusiastically.”
“You scream.”
“I do not scream.”
You almost laugh.“Tomorrow’s fine.” You say it casually. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you didn’t just replay the moment three times in your head before answering.
For a second, he just stares at you. Then something lights up behind his eyes, relief, disbelief and something softer. “Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah.” You look at him and feel that stupid, warm, unfamiliar thing in your chest. You look away first. “Don’t make it weird,” you mutter.
“Me? Weird? Never.”
“You just monologued for two minutes straight.”
“That was strategic.”
You shake your head slightly.
He’s still smiling. “You’re not used to this, are you?” he asks suddenly, gentler now. Your eyes snap back to him. “Used to what?”
“Being asked out.” The question isn’t mocking, it's careful. You hesitate and that answers him. He just nods slightly. “Okay,” he says quietly. “We’ll go slow.”
Your throat tightens a little at that.“I don’t need—” you start automatically. “I know,” he interrupts softly. “I just mean… we can.”
a few weeks ago I had like 80 followers and now I’m already at 250... I can’t believe it! Thank you guys so much for following me and for reading and liking my stuff 💗
can be read as part two of "flirting": reader is theo's sister, they smoke weed, first kiss <3
Theo was stretched out in full sunlight. Boris sat half in the shade, hoodie on despite the heat, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes.“You look like a vampire,” Theo muttered amused.
“Shut up,” Boris shot back. “At least I don’t look like a tourist who lost his sunscreen.”
You laughed, taking another sip of beer. This was your routine now, almost every day. Sun, beer, insults, fun.
Theo bumped Boris’ shoulder. “You flirting again today or you tired?” Boris rolled his eyes. “I don’t flirt.”
“You literally—” Theo started. “Shut up, Potter” Boris repeated, but his glance flicked to you for half a second too long. You pretended not to notice. You absolutely did.
After a while, Boris pulled something from his pocket and began rolling with slow, practiced precision. Theo leaned closer. “No way.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is that what I think it is?” Boris didn’t look up. “Relax. You two act like I pulled out a grenade.”
“You’re sharing?” Theo asked suspiciously. Boris shrugged. “If you don’t cough like children.”
Theo and you kept glancing at each other like you were watching someone defuse a bomb. You shifted on the pavement. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to share.”
He looked up at you then, properly. One eyebrow lifting. "I didn’t say that." Then quieter, accent thickening a little as it always did when he relaxed. “You don’t have to just because I do.”
You and Theo exchanged a look. Theo shrugged first. “I mean. We’re already committing bad decisions with the beer.” You laughed nervously. “Okay. But if I die, I’m haunting both of you.”
Boris lit it, inhaled smoothly, then passed it to Theo. He took it like it might explode. “How much—” “Just breathe,” Boris muttered.
Theo absolutely did not just breathe. He coughed immediately, violently, dramatically. “Oh my god,” you wheezed, laughing. “You look like you’re being exorcised.”
“Shut up,” Theo croaked. Boris smirked and turned to you, holding the joint. “Slow. Small pull.” Your fingers brushed his as you took it.
You inhaled carefully. For two seconds, you thought you’d nailed it. Then your lungs revolted. You bent forward coughing, eyes watering, face burning.“Okay— okay— I regret—” you choked out.
Boris was already leaning closer, one hand coming to your back, rubbing gently between your shoulders. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Easy. Breathe through your nose.” His palm moved in slow circles, grounding.
Theo pointed at you triumphantly while still coughing himself. “See? Not just me.” You managed to recover, wiping your eyes. “This is humiliating.” Boris’ lips twitched. “You’re fine.”
~~~
It didn’t hit immediately. At first, it just felt normal. Theo layed flat on his back, arms spread out dramatically. “Guys,” he said after a long pause, staring upward. “The clouds are moving so fast.”
“They’re not,” Boris said.
“They are. They’re escaping.”
You giggled and the sound surprised you. Everything felt light. Your limbs warm and floaty. You leaned back on your hands, staring at nothing in particular.
Boris watched you instead of the sky. Your smile kept appearing for no reason. Your eyes brighter somehow.
“You feeling good?” he asked quietly. His voice was lower now. Less teasing. You turned your head toward him, nodding slowly. Your grin stretched wide without you meaning to. “Yeah,” you said, almost whispering. “I feel… happy.”
He studied your face like he was making sure it was true. “Good,” he murmured.
Theo suddenly sat up halfway. “Wait. What if we never come down?” “You will,” Boris replied dryly.
“But what if we don’t?”
“Then stop talking.”
You laughed again, leaning a little closer to Boris without fully realizing it. His shoulder brushed yours lightly, but either of you moved away.
For a while, the three of you just existed there. Theo narrating nonsense about cloud conspiracies, you smiling at nothing and everything and Boris quieter than usual. Every so often, he glanced at you. Just checking.
Theo was still on his back, philosophizing about clouds turning into dragons, when you suddenly sat up.
You blinked hard, then clutched your stomach dramatically. “Ugh,” you groaned. “I’m dying.” Boris’ head snapped toward you immediately. “What?”
You dissolved into giggles, folding slightly in on yourself. “I’m so hungry.” Theo rolled onto his side. “Oh no.”
“I’m serious,” you insisted, still laughing. “Like… aggressively hungry. This is not normal.”
Boris stared at you for a second longer than necessary. You were holding your stomach like you’d been wounded, smiling like an idiot, hair falling into your face.
He swallowed. You were stupidly cute.“You’re not dying,” he said, but his voice was softer now, amused. “I could be,” you argued. “This is how it starts.”
Theo sat up fully. “Okay. Emergency.” He grabbed his phone. “We order pizza.” Your eyes widened like he’d just proposed something life-changing. “Theo.”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
Boris scoffed lightly. “You love him because he has phone.”
“I love him because he understands my suffering.”
Theo was already scrolling. “What are we getting?”
“Everything,” you and Boris said at the same time. You both froze for a second. Then you burst into laughter again.
The pizza arrived and somehow it felt like the greatest event of the century. You stayed outside, the air cooler now but still warm enough.
Theo opened the box like it was treasure. The smell alone almost made you emotional. “Oh my god,” you whispered, your mouth already watering. Boris watched you instead of the pizza again.
You took the first bite too fast and burned your tongue. “Ouch! Hot! Hot!” you mumbled, fanning your mouth. He shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping him. “You have no patience, Księżniczka.” (princess)
“I waited at least eight seconds,” you said, trying very hard to sound convincing.
“That’s not waiting.”
You took another bite anyway. The cheese stretched. You giggled again for no reason. Theo was already on his third slice, completely silent except for satisfied noises.
You leaned back on your hands after finishing the fourth slice. “This is the best pizza I’ve ever had,” you murmured dreamily. “You say that every time,” Theo said through a mouthful.
Boris wiped his thumb across the corner of your mouth suddenly. You froze. “There,” he said casually. “Sauce.” Your brain short-circuited for half a second. “Oh...thanks”
Theo looked between you both suspiciously. “If you two start making eyes again, I’m taking the rest of the pizza.”
“We’re not making eyes,” Boris muttered. You absolutely were.
~~~
The sky slowly went from orange to violet to deep blue. The warmth faded just enough to make you shiver. Theo stretched dramatically. “Okay. I can’t feel my legs.”
“You’ve been lying down for an hour,” Boris muttered.
“Still.”
You looked up at the darkening sky. “It’s getting cold.” Boris stood first, brushing grass from his jeans. “Inside.” Theo grabbed the empty pizza box like it was precious cargo. “Retreat!”
Inside, the lights were low. Boris turned on party music, bass heavy, slightly trashy in the best way. Theo was instantly reborn. “Oh this is my song.”
“It is not,” you laughed.
“It is now.” He grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the middle of the room. You both started dancing wildly, no rhythm, just chaos. Jumping, spinning and shouting lyrics wrong.
Boris dropped onto the couch, unimpressed. “You look insane,” he called over the music.“You love it!” Theo shouted back. Boris just rolled his eyes, reaching for a random magazine on the table. He flipped through it lazily like he was above the situation, but he was watching over the top of the pages.
You and Theo nearly collided at one point, both laughing so hard you had to hold onto each other to stay upright. Theo attempted some ridiculous move that almost ended in disaster.
“You’re banned from dancing,” you told him between breaths. He stuck his tongue out like a child. “You’re just jealous of my talent.”
Boris snorted softly and pulled a cigarette from his pack. He lit it, the flame briefly illuminating his face. The smoke curled upward slowly, as he leaned back.
From the couch, he had the perfect view of you. Your hair was messy now, cheeks flushed. Completely unfiltered.
After a while, Theo suddenly stopped mid-dance. “Oh no.” You froze. “What?”
“I’m hungry again.” You stared at him in disbelief. “We just ate.”
“That was ages ago.”
“It was forty minutes.”
“Time isn’t real.”
Boris exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “Go hunt.” Theo pointed at you both suspiciously. “Don’t do anything scandalous.”
“Shut up,” Boris said automatically.
Theo disappeared into the kitchen, loudly opening cupboards and narrating his search. “Why do we have nothing? This is tragic!"
The music kept playing. You were still moving a little, catching your breath. Then the heavy bass faded into something slower. A low rhythm, smooth vocals.
The energy in the room changed instantly. You didn’t stop dancing, you just slowed. Your movements became less chaotic, more fluid. Your arms lifted above your head. Your hips swayed naturally with the beat. Your tank top rode up with the motion, revealing just enough tanned skin to make it distracting.
Boris lowered the magazine without realizing he had. He watched you through the faint haze of cigarette smoke. You weren’t looking at him. Not yet.
You were in your own world again, eyes half closed, body moving easily, confidently. The way your fingers brushed through your hair without you even realizing it. The music wrapped around you.
He swallowed. Theo clattered something loudly in the kitchen, but it felt far away. Boris took one last drag, crushed the cigarette out slowly, but didn’t look away.
He ran a hand over his jaw, trying to look unaffected. “Ja pierdolę…” he murmured, his accent thick. (fuck)
His gaze dropped to the way your hips moved again, slow and hypnotizing. It lingered, then slipped a little lower. You were driving him crazy.
He shifted forward slightly, elbows on his knees now, attention fully locked on you. "Yeah. Keep dancing, pretty girl.." It slipped out almost unconsciously.
You turned slightly then, not fully facing him, but enough that your eyes brushed over his.Boris stayed seated, elbows on his knees now, watching you approach like he was bracing for impact. You stopped right in front of him. “Come on, Boris,” you said softly, holding his gaze. “Dance with me.”
He let out a quiet scoff, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “You wish.”. But there was no bite in it.
You tilted your head slightly, a tiny smile playing at your lips. Then, without breaking eye contact, you reached down and took the beer from his hand, setting it carefully on the table beside him. His jaw tightened.
You extended your hands toward him. He looked at them for a second, then at you. “You’re trouble,” he muttered.
“Maybe.” You grabbed his hands anyway. His palms were warm and he didn’t pull away.
You tugged gently. He resisted for half a second, just enough to pretend. Then he stood, now he towered over you, but you didn’t step back. You stepped closer.
Your fingers stayed intertwined with his as you dragged him a little toward the center of the room. He leaned down slightly, voice lower now. “If I look stupid, it’s your fault.”
“You already look stupid.” you say in an amused, teasing tone. His lips twitched despite himself.
You started moving first, slow and subtle. Keeping your hands on his, guiding them until they rested at your waist. He let you without even trying to argue.
Your bodies were close enough now that he could feel the warmth of you through your clothes. His eyes darkened slightly .“You happy?” he asked quietly. You looked up at him. “Hmm, very.” His fingers tightened just a fraction at your waist.
From the kitchen, a cupboard slammed, but neither of you looked away from each other.
Before you could tease him again, he stepped closer and smoothly turned you around, guiding you with steady pressure until your back pressed against his chest. The movement was controlled. You felt the warmth of him immediately, solid and close, almost overwhelming. Your breath caught in your throat.
His hands stayed on your hips, thumbs resting just at the curve where your waist dipped. He adjusted you slightly, lining your bodies up. Your hips moved instinctively again. He inhaled sharply. “God.…” he muttered under his breath.
You could feel his chest rise behind you. Feel how close his mouth was to your ear. His fingers flexed against your hips. He leaned down just enough that his lips brushed the air near your ear, voice low. “Careful,” he murmured. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”
Your pulse jumped. One of his hands slid just slightly higher on your waist, still respectful, just firmer now. “Yeah…” he whispered again, almost to himself. “Keep dancing.”
You let your head tilt back just a little, barely brushing his shoulder. A soft laugh escaped you. He cursed quietly in Polish under his breath.
Your back was still pressed against Boris’ chest, his hands firm on your hips, when the kitchen light flicked off. Theo stopped dead in the doorway. “Holy shit..” he said slowly, taking in the scene. “Didn’t know you were into dancing, Boris”
You felt Boris tense behind you. “Fuck you, Potter,” he shot back immediately. Theo gasped dramatically. “Wow. Hostile. I bring snacks and this is the thanks I get?”
You laughed, a soft, breathless sound, but you didn’t stop moving. Your hips kept swaying to the slow rhythm, brushing subtly back against Boris. His grip tightened just slightly in response.
Theo narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I see how it is.”
“Go eat,” Boris muttered.“You two are disgusting,” Theo said, clearly joking.
“You’re jealous I’m dancing with a pretty woman.”
Theo stared at him. “That’s my sister.” Boris shrugged. “Still.”
You tilted your head slightly, glancing back at Boris over your shoulder, eyes bright with mischief. He was trying very hard to look unimpressed.
Theo shook his head. “I leave for five minutes and suddenly he’s Dirty Dancing.”
“Say one more word,” Boris warned lazily. Theo grinned. “Make me.”
You laughed again and the sound softened something in the room. Boris leaned down slightly, close enough that only you could hear him. “Ignore him.” His voice was rougher now.
Theo flopped back onto a chair dramatically. “I’m watching. For educational purposes of course.”
“Please don’t,” you said, laughing. Boris shook his head, but he didn’t let go of you. Theo glanced between you two one last time, then just smirked and dropped onto the couch, already scrolling on his phone. “I’m not interrupting,” he muttered. “I live here. I’m numb.” He popped a chip into his mouth, unbothered. Almost pleased.
Boris’ hands were still on your hips. Then gently, almost carefully he turned you around to face him. Your back left his chest, but somehow the closeness only intensified.
You were flushed from dancing, from laughing, from him. Your cheeks warm, your lips slightly parted as you caught your breath. He noticed. His hands didn’t leave you. They slid slightly higher, resting at your waist.
For a second, neither of you spoke. Just eye contact. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up to your eyes. You swallowed. “What?” you whispered.
His jaw tightened slightly, like he was debating whether to say something at all. Then, quieter than you’d ever heard him.“You look at me like that…” A small pause.“…and I forget how to behave.” Your heart skipped.
Theo, in the background, scrolled and hummed along to the music, completely pretending not to watch.
You stepped half an inch closer. “Then don’t,” you said softly. That did it. Boris’ hand moved from your waist to your jaw, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek.
He gave you one last look, like he was asking without words. You didn’t look away, so he leaned in.
The first touch was gentle, testing. A soft press of lips. It lingered, then deepened slightly when you leaned into him. His other hand pulled you closer, steady and sure. When you finally pulled back, barely, your foreheads stayed close.
Theo looked up briefly, nodded once to himself. “Yeah,” he said casually. “About time.” Neither of you answered him.
He was still holding your face when you leaned in again. Your lips met with more certainty, more hunger. The kiss deepened almost instantly.
Boris’ hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers tangling lightly in your hair as he pulled you closer. You made a soft sound against his mouth, barely there, but he felt it.
His other hand moved to your waist, gripping a little tighter now. You pressed closer, rising slightly onto your toes. He responded immediately, angling his head, kissing you slower but deeper.
His thumb brushed along your cheek before sliding down your neck. “You're killing me…” he muttered softly against your lips.
You barely gave him space to breathe before kissing him again. His fingers flexed at your waist, pulling you fully against him now.
Theo shifted in his chair, very loudly crinkling the chip bag. “I'm still here,” he announced dryly. Neither of you stopped. Boris didn’t even look.
He kissed you again, slower this time. Your hands slid from his shoulders up into his messy hair, holding him there.
When you finally broke apart, it wasn’t because you wanted to. It was because you both needed air. Your foreheads touched, breaths uneven. He looked at you. Dark eyes and a little blown. A little stunned. “You’re dangerous,” he murmured.
Theo cleared his throat dramatically. “Should I… leave? Or are we pretending I’m furniture?”
Boris dragged a hand down his face slowly, exhaling through his nose like he needed to reset his entire nervous system. “I need my beer,” he muttered, voice rough. “And a cigarette.”
You laughed softly, still holding onto his shirt.“Oh? Overwhelmed?” He shot you a look, half warning, half amused.“You’re not helping.” Theo stood up immediately. “Yes. Yes. Go. Rehydrate. Regain composure. I support this.”
Boris reached past you to grab his beer from the table, but before he could step away, you tugged lightly on his shirt again. He looked down at you. “Are you running away?” you teased quietly.
He leaned in just enough that his forehead brushed yours again. “Not running,” he murmured. “Cooling down.” His thumb traced lightly along your jaw, slow and deliberate, before he stepped back.
He grabbed his cigarette pack, lit one with steady hands that weren’t quite as steady as he wanted them to be. Theo leaned against the counter, smirking. “You good, Romeo?”
“Shut up, Potter.” You watched him take a slow drag, exhale toward the ceiling, but his eyes didn’t leave you.
I heard Finn’s voice with the accent in my head while writing this...🤭💗
Your fingers are still moving slowly through his hair. Ziggy hasn’t moved from where he’s resting against your knee. His hand is still loosely around your wrist. You can feel his breathing even out. Then it shifts. “I don’t really want to go home,” he says.
It’s so quiet you almost think you imagined it. Your fingers slow, but don’t stop. “Really?” you ask gently. He swallows.“Yeah.”
“I know it’s stupid,” he continues. “It’s not like anything huge happened. It’s just… when I’m there, I feel like I’m always slightly in the way.”
Your chest tightens. “You’re not in the way,” you say. “I know.” he makes a small pause. “Here, I mean.”
Your hand moves from his hair to brush lightly along his temple. “It feels different,” he says. “Your mom actually looks at me when she talks. She waits for answers.” You smile faintly. “She likes you.”
He exhales softly. “I don’t think my parents even know what I’m working on right now.” There’s no bitterness in his voice. That’s what makes it worse.
You shift a little so you can lean down closer to him.“You don’t have to go yet,” you say. He tilts his head slightly so he can see you upside down.“What time is it?”
You glance at your phone. “Not late.” He nods. But he doesn’t look relieved. He looks torn. “I just…” He hesitates. “I don’t want to walk back into that feeling.”
You know exactly what he means. That quiet tension. That sense of being slightly misplaced in your own house.
Your fingers return to his hair.“You can stay a little longer,” you repeat softly.
He closes his eyes again when you touch him. His heart is beating faster. “You sure your mom won’t mind?”
“If she did, she’d say something.” He gives a faint smile at that.
“She’d probably offer you dessert.” He actually laughs under his breath. “It’s weird.”
“What is?”
“That I feel more relaxed in your house than my own.” You don’t joke this time. Instead, you say, “Home isn’t just walls.”
He opens his eyes slowly.“You’re really good at saying stuff like that.” “I practice,” you tease lightly. But he doesn’t look amused. He looks grateful.
He shifts slightly, turning so his head rests more fully against your leg. “Can I stay until it’s dark?” he asks. There’s something almost small in the question.
“Yeah,” you say immediately. “Stay.” He nods once. Then, softer than before. “Thanks.”
It starts with a soft tapping against the window. Then steady rain.
You both notice at the same time. Ziggy lifts his head slightly from your knee. “That’s new.”
“Yeah,” you murmur. “Wasn’t supposed to rain.” The rain gets heavier. A steady, comforting sound against the glass. He sits up a little, listening. “It’s kind of nice,” he says.
“It is.”
For a moment, you both just watch the drops race down the window. Then you hear a soft knock and you both freeze. “Yeah?” you call.
The door opens just a crack. Your mom peeks in first. Not stepping inside. Just checking. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says warmly. “I just wanted to ask…” Her eyes flick to Ziggy, not disapproving. Just kind. “It’s raining pretty hard. Do you want to stay overnight?”
Ziggy blinks. “Overnight?” he repeats, like he’s not sure he heard correctly. “Of course,” she says easily. “We have a spare toothbrush. And you can borrow some sweats. It’s no trouble at all.”
You glance at him. He looks stunned. “I—” He swallows. “I don’t want to be a problem.”
“You’re not a problem,” she replies immediately. “You’re welcome here, honey” The words land quietly. Heavy in the best way.
He hesitates again. “I’d have to text my mom.” “Of course,” she nods. “Just let me know, okay?” She smiles once more.“And if you don’t stay, that’s fine too. Just thought I’d offer.”
Another soft knock against the doorframe as she closes it gently behind her. Silence fills the room again.
Ziggy is staring at the door, then he looks down at his hands.“She asked,” he adds. “Like it was normal.”
“It is normal.” He shakes his head slightly.“Not for me.”
After a moment, he pulls out his phone. His thumb hovers over his mom’s contact. “You don’t have to decide right now,” you say gently.
He glances at you. “Do you… want me to stay?” The question is careful. Almost afraid. You nod. “Yes, I do.” your voice is soft and honest.
That’s all he needs. He types out the message. "It’s raining pretty hard. Y/Ns mom said I can stay over. Is that okay?" He stares at it for a second. Then hits send.
His phone buzzes faster than expected. He looks down. “Fine, if you have to.” That’s it. No “have fun.”, or "be safe." No emoji. No warmth. Just permission that doesn’t feel like permission.
You see the way his jaw tightens for half a second. Then he locks his phone and immediately shoves it into his pocket.
“She okay?” you ask gently.“Yeah,” he says too quickly. “It’s fine.”
He clears his throat. “There’s that new show everyone’s talking about,” he says, glancing at you. “Wanna watch it?”
You smile, already knowing you’ll say yes before he finishes. “Yeah. Come here.”
You scoot back against your pillows, lifting the blanket a little in invitation. He doesn’t hesitate this time, he climbs onto the bed beside you, close enough that your thighs touch immediately.
You search for the show on netflix, then you press play. "This better be good," you whisper.
“If it’s bad, we’re committing to hating it together,” he replies. You laugh softly.
A few minutes in, you shift slightly, resting more comfortably against him. His arm slides around your shoulders almost naturally. You melt into it without thinking.
On screen, one of the characters makes a ridiculous decision. “Why would he do that?” you whisper.
“He has the survival instincts of a spoon,” Ziggy mutters. You snort before you can stop yourself. “Don’t laugh that loud,” he teases quietly. “You’ll scare him.”
“You’re the worst.”
“You love it.” You tilt your head to look at him.“I do.” His fingers tighten slightly on your shoulder.
You don’t break eye contact this time. Instead, you let your hand drift down from your chest to rest on the blanket between you.
His hand is already there. Your pinky brushes his and neither of you pulls away. Instead, his fingers slowly turn, hesitant, giving you the chance to move if you want. You lace your fingers with his.
He exhales slowly, like he didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. “Okay,” he murmurs, eyes back on the TV. “Now I can focus.”
You smile against his shoulder. The show continues. You comment quietly on scenes, making fun of dramatic dialogue, predicting twists. He leans closer when something suspenseful happens.
His thumb starts tracing small, absentminded circles against your knuckles. You rest your head more fully against his chest.
On the screen, someone declares something overly dramatic about love and destiny. Ziggy scoffs lightly. “Relax,” he whispers. “It’s episode two.”
You laugh again. This time, when he looks at you, he doesn’t look away quickly. He just stays there for a second. “I’m glad I stayed,” he says quietly. You squeeze his hand once. “Me too.”
The episode ends, but neither of you move right away. The rain is softer now. Just a steady hush against the window.
You sit up first. “I’ll get you some clothes from my brother,” you say casually. Ziggy blinks. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine. He won’t notice.” He gives a small, shy smile. “Okay.”
You slip out of the room and come back a minute later with an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. He takes them carefully. “Thanks.”
“You can change in the bathroom,” you say. He nods and disappears down the hall.
When he comes back, the sleeves are a little too long, the sweatpants slightly baggy. You try not to smile too hard. “What?” he says, noticing.
“Nothing.”
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look fine.” He narrows his eyes slightly but climbs back into bed anyway.
You switch off the main light. The room falls into a soft darkness. You both lie down, facing each other. There’s a careful distance between you at first. You can barely see his face, just the outline of it. “You good?” you whisper.
“Yeah.” A pause. “Thanks. For… today.”
“You don’t have to thank me for existing in my house.” you whisper softly. A faint huff of laughter.“I know.”
The quiet stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. Your eyes adjust to the dark. You can make out his expression now, thoughtful, a little nervous. “You ever get used to this?” he asks softly.
“To what?”
“Being somewhere that feels… normal.”
You hesitate.“I guess I don’t think about it.”
“Must be nice.” There’s no bitterness in his voice. Just wonder.
~~~
You’re both still awake. Curled close under the blanket, his arm around your waist now without hesitation. Your hand is resting against his chest, fingers loosely hooked in the fabric of his shirt.
Neither of you are talking. But neither of you are sleeping. You can feel it, the awareness. His thumb moves slowly along your side, absentminded. “You awake?” he whispers.
“Yeah.”
He shifts slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at you. You can barely see his face, but you can feel his gaze. “I’ve been thinking,” he says quietly. “Dangerous,” you murmur softly.
He smiles, you can hear it in his breath.“No, like… actually thinking.”
Your heart starts beating a little faster. He hesitates. Then, softer. “I really like you.” Your breath catches for half a second. “I really like you too,” you whisper back.
You feel his arm tighten just slightly around you.“You’re not just saying that?” he asks, almost shy .“No.” You shift closer, your foreheads brushing lightly.“I’ve liked you for a while.”
There’s a tiny, almost disbelieving laugh from him. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
He’s quiet for a second, like he’s processing something good. Then his hand moves gently to your cheek. He pauses, giving you space to pull away if you want to. You don’t.
He leans in. It’s soft, almost hesitant at first. Your lips barely touch. Your hand slides up to the back of his neck without thinking, and he exhales against your mouth like he didn’t realize he’d been nervous.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours again.“Wow..” he whispers, like he’s slightly overwhelmed. You smile in the dark. “Yeah.”
He lets out a small breathy laugh. Then he pulls you back into his chest, tucking your head under his chin this time. You can feel his heartbeat again. “I’m really glad I stayed,” he murmurs.
“Me too.”
~~~
He hasn’t fallen asleep. You can tell by the way his fingers keep tracing small patterns against your back. Absent and thoughtful. “Still awake?” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
There’s a pause. A longer one this time. “I keep thinking about earlier,” he says softly. “At dinner?”
“Yeah. And...everything.”
You tilt your head slightly so you can see him better in the dim light. He looks nervous, vulnerable. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” you whisper.
“I do,” he says quickly. Then quieter. “I think I do.” He swallows. “You make me feel…” He trails off, searching. “Not like a total miserable person.”
Your chest tightens immediately.“You’re not—”
“Let me finish,” he says gently. "Please.."
You nod. He exhales slowly. “When I’m at home, I feel like I’m constantly disappointing someone. Or like I’m too much. Too emotional. Too dramatic. Too whatever.” His hand tightens slightly at your waist. "But when I’m with you, I don’t feel like that."
He brushes his thumb lightly over your side. “You make me feel normal,” he says. “Like I’m not broken or annoying or… difficult.”
You move your hand from his chest to his cheek. “You’re none of those things.” He leans into your touch a little. “I know you say that,” he murmurs. “But with you, I actually believe it.”
He hesitates again. “I don’t trust people easily,” he admits. “Not with real stuff.”
Your heart starts beating faster.
“But I trust you.” His voice drops even softer. “I trust nobody like you.” He presses his forehead gently against yours.“You see me,” he continues. “Like… actually see me. Not just the version that’s convenient.”
You swallow.
“I’ve never had that before.” You wrap your arms more tightly around him.“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.
He exhales shakily. “I don’t want to mess this up.”
“You won’t.”, you say softly.
“How do you know?”
“Because you care too much to.” He smiles faintly in the dark.“You always say stuff like that.”
“Because it’s true.”
There’s another quiet moment. Then, softer than before. “I really like you,” he says again. “Not just in a ‘you’re cute’ way. In a ‘you feel like home’ way.”
Your breath catches. You lean forward and kiss him gently. When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his. His arms tighten around you.
“Sleep well,” you whisper. He hums softly in response, fingers tracing a lazy line along your back as his breathing begins to even out.
part two: mike apologizes and realizes he might have stronger feelings for the reader than he thought...
The ride home is tense. After what happened at Rink-O-Mania, nobody really knows what to say. Jonathan keeps glancing in the rearview mirror and Argyle tries to lighten the mood with bad jokes.
At the Byers’ house, dinner feels heavy and wrong. Jonathan and Argyle talk quietly about the skate accident. “Okay, but like… imagine if it had been blades.”, Argyle says, still high. Jonathan freezes mid-bite. “…Blades?”
“Yeah, man. Like ice skates.” Argyle leans back slightly. “That would’ve been way worse.” Jonathan stares at his plate, processing that. “Oh. Yeah. That would’ve been..way worse.”
Across the table, the air goes even more uncomfortable. Eleven’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she snaps.
Silence follows. Then she stands abruptly. “I am going to my room.” Her chair scrapes loudly against the floor before she disappears down the hallway.
No one stops her.
Dinner continues in silence. Forks scrape against plates and glasses clink softly.
Mike barely touches his food. He keeps looking at you. You’re sitting across from him, shoulders slightly hunched, pushing food around your plate more than actually eating it. Your eyes don’t lift once. You look small, closed off. And it makes his stomach twist. He knows why. He knows it’s because of him.
You don’t laugh at anything Jonathan says. Don’t join the conversation. You just nod occasionally and keep staring at your plate.
Mike feels awful.
After dinner, they drift away one by one. The house grows quiet. It’s just you and Mike left in the kitchen.
Mike rubs the back of his neck nervously.“Uhm… do you want to play cards or something?”
You look at him. For a second, he sees it. You want to. But your eyes are still sad. “Oh,” you say softly. “I think I’m going to bed. Long day you know...”
His heart drops. “Oh. Yeah… yeah, of course.” You give him a tiny nod and then you walk past him. He watches you go. The soft click of your door closing feels louder than it should.
His chest aches. He stands there for a while, staring at nothing. “Stupid,” he mutters under his breath.
Stupid for snapping at you earlier. Stupid for not hugging you properly at the airport. Stupid for letting it get this bad.
Thirty minutes later, he’s outside your door. He hesitates, then knocks softly. The door opens. You’re standing there in pyjamas, hair loose, eyes still faintly red but wide awake. “Mike?”
He swallows, hard. “Can-can we talk? Please? I mean..just for a second. If you’re not, like… asleep. Which you’re obviously not. I just— yeah.”
You step aside silently. He walks in and immediately feels like he’s taken up too much space.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out before the door even fully closes. “I was such a dick today. I mean— not like, all day. But earlier. At the rink. And kind of at the airport. Which I didn’t mean to be, it just..came out wrong.”
You blink at him.
He keeps going. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. That wasn’t fair. You were just— you were just telling me how you felt and I made it sound like you were attacking me or something, which you weren’t. I know you weren’t.”
He runs both hands through his hair now. “I just felt… I don’t know. Cornered? And then I said stupid stuff. Which I do. A lot. Apparently.”
Your eyes soften slightly. But they’re still sad. And that makes him talk faster.“I didn’t mean to make you feel like you don’t matter. You do. You always— you’ve always mattered. Like, a lot. Probably more than I’ve said out loud. Which is also on me. I’m bad at saying things.”
You finally speak. “It doesn’t feel like that.” Your voice is quiet.
That hits him right in the chest. “I know,” he says quickly. “And that’s my fault. I didn’t realize I was making it feel like that. I thought things were just… normal. But they’re not. And I should’ve noticed.”
He paces once, then stops. “And at the airport—” He exhales shakily. “I didn’t hug you properly because I panicked.”
You frown slightly. “Panicked?”
“Yeah. Not because I didn’t want to. I just—” He gestures helplessly. “You looked different. In a good way. And it threw me off. And then I got awkward and did that stupid shoulder thing.”
Despite everything, your lips twitch faintly.“The shoulder thing,” you repeat softly.
“Yeah. That.” He winces. “I’ve literally never hugged you like that in my life.”
Silence.
“Every time El got a letter, I kept thinking maybe… maybe there’d be one for me too.”
Mike’s breath catches. The image hits him instantly. You walking to the mailbox. Opening it and finding nothing. Waiting.“I did write,” he says weakly.
“Not like before.” You shake your head slightly, tears slipping down now. That one lands. He swallows, jaw tightening.
“You used to tell me everything, stuff about school, about D&D, stuff that didn’t even matter. And then it just… stopped.”
He feels sick, because he knows you’re right. He thought things would stay the same without effort. “I didn’t realize I was pulling away,” he says quietly. “I thought— I don’t know what I thought. That we’d just… be fine.”
“I just...miss you,” you admit quietly.
His face crumples a little.“I miss you too,” he says immediately. “Like, I didn’t realize how much until today. And then when you walked away..I hated that. I hated that I was the reason you looked like that.”
Your eyes fill again.“I thought I stopped being important to you.”
“What? No.” He steps closer instinctively. “No, you didn’t. You didn’t stop being anything. I just… I think I got so focused on not messing things up with El that I didn’t see I was messing things up with you.”
He rubs the back of his neck again, voice softer now. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t even know what that would look like. And I don’t want to find out.”
You look at him, sad and vulnerable. His heart does something painful and protective all at once. Before he can overthink it, he steps forward and pulls you into a hug.
This time, he doesn’t hesitate. It’s tight, almost desperate, but gentle at the same time. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I’m really, really sorry.”
You melt into him after a second, your hands gripping his hoodie. Both of you exhale. His heartbeat is racing. Even after the hug loosens, you’re still standing close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him.
The idea of losing you terrifies him in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time, maybe ever. And that realization feels dangerous. Confusing. He shouldn’t feel like this. But he does.
Mike swallows. He suddenly feels nervous all over again. His hands hover for a second before he carefully lifts one and wipes the last tear from your cheek with his thumb. The touch is gentle and careful. Your breath shudders and so does his.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
He clears his throat softly. “Uh… do you maybe want to play cards now..? Or do something else?” It’s quiet, hopeful.
You look at him and then you nod. A small giggle escapes you.“Yeah. Okay.” His lips lift instantly.“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I’ll get them.” He leaves your room a little too quickly, like if he stays he might overthink it. You’re left alone for a second and you smile to yourself.
A minute later he returns, holding the deck of cards like he accomplished something important. “Got them,” he says softly.
You sit cross-legged on your bed, smoothing the sheets absentmindedly. He sits opposite you, close enough that your knees almost touch.
You shuffle.“You still shuffle like a grandma,” he teases gently. You gasp. “Excuse me?” He grins.
You start playing, nothing serious, just a simple game. The cards land softly against the sheets. Your voices stay low. You talk about small things. School, California, Hawkins.
Every now and then, your eyes meet and linger a second too long. Your cheeks warm slightly.
At one point your fingers brush when you both reach for the same card. You both freeze. Then laugh quietly. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “It’s fine.” But neither of you pulls away immediately.
Eventually your knees touch, but neither of you moves. When you look at him again, his eyes are softer than you’ve seen them all day.
You slap the last card down dramatically. “I won.” Mike stares at it like it personally offended him. “You cheated.”
You gasp, hand flying to your chest. “I did not!” He squints at you. “You definitely did.”
“You’re just a sore loser, Michael." you said teasing him.
“I am not a sore loser.”
“You are. It’s tragic.”
He lunges for the deck, trying to reshuffle defensively and you both start laughing.
Mike clears his throat. He’s been thinking about it for ten whole minutes. Trying not to ask. “So…” he starts, pretending to focus very hard on rearranging his cards. “Are you and that guy from skating, like… dating?” He says it casually.
You blink at him, then a small laugh escapes you. “Ben?” you repeat, amused. Mike shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. “Yeah. Ben.”
You shake your head, smiling softly. “Oh no. He’s sweet and kind but… no.”
Mike nods immediately, too quickly. "Oh.." Relief floods through him before he can stop it. He tries to hide it.
Your smile turns a little softer. “I mean,” you add lightly, looking down at the cards for a second, “he’s nice.” Mike’s stomach tightens again. “But no,” you continue gently. He exhales slowly.
Then you say it.“I… like someone else already.” The words land quietly between you.
Mike looks up automatically and you’re already looking at him. Your eyes meet. Your expression isn’t teasing, it’s shy and vulnerable.
His heart slams hard against his ribs. He swallows. Blush creeps up his neck, spreading across his cheeks. He feels it. The implication. The weight of your gaze. The way you didn’t look away when you said it. His voice almost fails him. "Oh.." That’s all he manages to get out.
Suddenly the space between you feels charged again, different. Because he knows, or atleast he thinks he does. That knowledge makes everything inside him spin.
He has a girlfriend. He reminds himself of that instantly. But sitting here with your knees touching, your eyes locked on his. His heart doesn’t care about logic. It just beats faster when you’re near.
I left the ending open because I don’t want Mike to cheat on El…
Buuuut I can write another part where Mike confesses his feelings and breaks up with Eleven... just let me know <3
part one: reader and mike are best friends, reader has feelings for him, mike's acting like a jerk..
You stand a little behind Eleven outside the airport, hands nervously twisting in your sleeves. Jonathan shifts beside you, trying to look casual. You’re not even pretending. You’ve been waiting for this. For Mike.
And then you see him. Mike walks toward you, backpack slung over one shoulder, scanning the crowd until his eyes land on all of you.
For a second, his gaze stops on Eleven. She walks forward, small and careful, like she’s unsure how this is supposed to look. “Hi,” she says softly. “Hey,” Mike answers.
They hug. It’s not dramatic, or long. Just a brief, slightly stiff embrace. Familiar, but not overwhelming. She kisses his cheek quickly.
He steps back and adjusts his backpack strap awkwardly. Then he reaches inside and pulls out a small bouquet. Soft pink flowers. Your breath catches. Your favorite. You remember telling him that once, at the park.
“They’re for you,” he says, handing them to Eleven. She looks down at them, frowning slightly. “They are… pink.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “I thought they looked nice.”
Pink isn’t her favorite color. You know that and the confusion in her eyes says she knows it too. But she nods politely. “Thank you.”
Then his eyes find you. He stares at you. Like he didn’t expect you to look like this.
You’ve changed this year. You can feel it in the way he looks at you. Your hair is a little longer and your tanned skin glows softly under the sun. The outfit you're wearing looks great on you.
Mike forgets how to breathe for a second. You look beautiful. You always do, but even more now, after not seeing you for so long. That realization makes him suddenly, horribly aware of himself. Of how he’s standing and of what he’s supposed to say.
You light up when you see him staring. “Mike,” you breathe, smiling fully now. You step toward him automatically, arms lifting slightly. It’s instinct. You’ve hugged him a thousand times before.
He freezes. Not because he doesn’t want to hug you. Because he suddenly feels nervous and he doesn’t understand why.
Instead of stepping into you, he awkwardly lifts his hand and gives your shoulder a gentle pat. A soft, brief squeeze. “Hey,” he says quickly. “Everything good?”
Your arms slowly fall back to your sides. The smile stays on your face but your eyes change, just slightly. A flicker of disappointment you try to swallow down before anyone else sees it. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “Yeah. Everything’s good.”
You had been soo excited to see him. Counting down the days and imagining this moment. But instead of pulling you close, he barely touched you.
Mike notices. He sees the way your smile doesn’t fully reach your eyes, the way you swallow like something hurt. His stomach twists, because he didn’t mean to make it weird. He didn’t mean to hold back. He doesn’t know why the thought of hugging you suddenly felt like too much.
At the airport, after that awkward moment with you, Mike turns toward the others like it’s easier to breathe.
“Will!” he calls and Will steps forward with a shy smile. Their hug is quick but real, the kind built from years of basement games and shared nightmares. “It’s good to see you,” Mike says, and this time it sounds effortless.
He claps Jonathan on the back next, pulling him into a loose, slightly awkward bro hug. “California hasn’t turned you into a surfer yet?” Jonathan snorts softly. “Working on it.”
Then there’s Argyle, who grins like they’ve known each other forever. “Welcome to the sunshine state, my dude.” Mike laugh. “Thanks” They shake hands, then somehow end up in another half-hug, half-shoulder-bump situation that makes everyone chuckle.
You stand a few steps away, watching. Your chest feels tight, because he hugged them without thinking. He smiled without forcing it.
He looked comfortable.
Rink-O-Mania was loud.
Music pounded through the building, neon lights flashing pink and blue across the polished floor while kids circled in uneven lines, wobbling, laughing, falling.
You sat at a sticky plastic table under buzzing neon lights, a half-melted strawberry milkshake in front of you.
Across from you, Mike was talking, gesturing with his hands. But not to you. Mostly to Eleven, sometimes to Will. You told yourself you were imagining it. You weren’t.
“And then Dustin totally wiped out—” Mike laughed, turning toward Eleven. “You should’ve seen it.” Eleven smiled softly at him. Will nodded along.
You stared down at your milkshake. You traced the glass with your finger, pretending to listen. You hadn’t spoken in minutes. Your throat felt tight. You swallowed carefully, hoping no one would notice the way your eyes burned.
Mike’s shoulder brushed Eleven’s as he leaned closer to her to say something quieter. She laughed.
You felt smaller and smaller in your seat. You swallowed again. Your vision blurred slightly. “Will?” Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. He looked at you immediately. He always noticed. “Yeah?”
“Can you—” You cleared your throat. “Can you let me out?” He glanced at you, really looked at you this time. He saw it. The glassy eyes, the tight jaw. The way your fingers were gripping the edge of the table.
“Yeah. Of course.” He slid out quickly to let you pass. You didn’t look at Mike. You couldn’t. “Be right back,” you murmured.
As you walked away, weaving past tables and arcade machines, you felt it. His eyes. Mike watched you go. He noticed the way your shoulders were tense. The way your head was down. The way you didn’t say a single word to him.
His stomach twisted. “Is she okay?” Eleven asked quietly. Mike didn’t answer right away. Because he knew. He had seen your face when you said it’s fine and it hadn’t been fine.
The bathroom door swung shut behind you, muffling the music instantly. You gripped the edge of the sink and stared at yourself in the mirror. “Don’t,” you whispered to your reflection. But your bottom lip trembled anyway.
You swallowed and then the first tear slipped down. You covered your mouth quickly. Your shoulders shook just a little. Not loud sobbing. Just quiet, exhausted heartbreak. You felt stupid.
Stupid for caring this much. Stupid for thinking things wouldn’t change. Stupid for wishing that he’d look at you the way he looks at her.
You wiped at your cheeks angrily. “Get it together,” you breathed.
Back at the table, Mike wasn’t listening to the conversation anymore. He kept glancing toward the hallway that led to the bathrooms.
His chest ached. He didn’t know why it felt like this. He had a girlfriend. He was happy. So why did it feel like he had just watched something important walk away from him.
After a few minutes, the bathroom door opens and you step out like nothing happened. Your eyes are slightly red, but not enough to be obvious. You ran cold water over your wrists, fixed your mascara, practiced a neutral face.
You don’t go back to the table. You can’t. Instead, you drift toward the snack counter, pretending to study the menu like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever seen. Anything but Mike.
Behind you, at the table, Mike finally notices you’re not coming back. “Where’s she going?” he mutters. Will shrugs, but he knows. He absolutely knows.
You order a cherry slush you don’t even really want. “You seem sad.” The voice is gentle. You turn. It’s Ben, a kind guy from school. Always holding the door open for people. You’ve had English together since the beginning of the year. “Oh.” You blink. “I’m not.”
He smiles softly. “Okay. You seem not-sad then.” A tiny laugh slips out of you before you can stop it and from across the room, Mike sees it.
Ben leans casually against the counter beside you. “You skate?” “Badly,” you admit.
“Perfect. Me too.”
Mike’s stomach twists. He watches as Ben takes your empty cup and tosses it for you without being asked. Watches the way he gestures toward the rink, asking silently. You hesitate for half a second. Then you nod.
On the rink floor, the lights flash pink and blue again. Ben wobbles dramatically, almost falling and you instinctively grab his arm. “See?” he grins. “Professional.” You laugh, real and loud this time.
Mike’s grip tightens around the edge of the table. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like the way Ben stands close to you to steady you. Doesn’t like the way you’re smiling without forcing it. Doesn’t like that you didn’t come back.
“Who is that guy?” Mike asks suddenly. His tone is sharper than he intends. Eleven follows his gaze. “Oh, that's Ben, from school.”
“Are they…” He hesitates, like the word tastes wrong. “Dating?” Eleven tilts her head. “I do not think so.”
“You don’t think so?” Mike presses quickly. Will glances at him. “Why?” Mike scoffs lightly, trying to sound casual. “I’m just asking.” But his arms are crossed tightly over his chest.
On the rink, Ben says something that makes you roll your eyes playfully. He spins once, dramatic and terrible at it and nearly crashes into you. You steady him again, hands on his arms. For a second, you forget about Mike.
Mike feels something sharp and unfamiliar twist in his chest. He tells himself it’s nothing. You’re allowed to talk to whoever you want. But the thought of you dating someone else unsettles him in a way he doesn’t understand.
On the rink, Ben offers you his hands. “Slow song,” he says lightly. “You trust me?”
You hesitate, not because of Ben. Because for a split second, your eyes flick across the room and they meet Mike’s. The look on his face makes your stomach flip. Confused. Hurt. Something almost possessive.
You swallow, then you place your hands in Ben’s. “Okay,” you say quietly. Ben pulls you gently closer so you don’t lose balance. It’s innocent. Respectful.
Eleven notices the silence beside her. “Mike?” He blinks. “Yeah?”
“You are not talking.” , she says.
“I’m fine.” But he isn’t.
Because you’re laughing again and when Ben spins you lightly and catches you before you tip too far, your hands stay on his shoulders just a second longer than necessary.
Mike stands abruptly. Will looks up, confused. “Where are you going?” “I—” Mike exhales. “Just skating.”
He skates toward you. Not even fast, just enough that he’s near. Close enough to hear you say, breathless and smiling, “Okay, that was actually fun.”
The song ends. You and Ben separate slightly, both a little breathless, both laughing. “That was less embarrassing than I expected,” he says. “Speak for yourself,” you grin.
And then you see him. Mike is standing a few feet away. Not skating, or smiling. Just watching. Your laughter fades. Ben follows your gaze. “Oh. Do you—?” “Yeah,” you say quickly. “I… yeah.”
Ben nods, easygoing as always. “I’ll grab some water. See you?”
“Yeah.”
He pushes off gently, disappearing into the moving crowd. Now it’s just you and Mike. The rink suddenly feels too loud and too bright again. He skates a little closer, awkward as ever. Almost bumps into you before steadying himself. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
Silence.
You shift your weight, arms folding loosely over yourself like armor. He rubs the back of his neck. “Can we talk?” Your heart stutters. You nod slowly.“Okay.”
You both skate toward the edge of the rink, stepping off onto the carpeted area near the lockers. It’s quieter there. For a second, neither of you speaks.
Mike avoids your eyes. “You looked upset earlier,” he finally says. You let out a small breath. “I wasn’t.”
He gives you a look. The kind that says don’t lie to me. “I just…” You swallow. “It’s fine.”
“There it is again,” he says, frustration creeping in. “You keep saying that.”
“What do you want me to say, Mike?” He flinches slightly at your tone.
“I don’t know. Something real?”
You stare at him. “You don’t even look at me anymore.”, you say quietly. That lands. He blinks. “W-what?”
“At the table. On the rink. It’s like I’m just..there.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.” You stare at the floor for a second before forcing yourself to look at him. You swallowed.“And you don’t really write anymore.” His shoulders stiffened slightly. “What? I-I do.”
You tilted your head. “Eleven got so many letters and calls..” He ran a hand through his hair, already defensive. "Well yeah… we’re-we're friends. She’s my girlfriend."
The word lands heavy. You nod slowly, even though your throat feels tight.
Your eyes aren’t angry. They’re tired. Hurt in a way you’ve been trying to hide all day. Your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. “We used to be best friends, Mike.”
For a second, something flickered across his face. Guilt? Frustration? You couldn’t tell. “Well maybe you should’ve reached out more,” he shot back. “But why is this on me? Why am I the bad guy?”
“I don’t know what you want from me.” The edge in his voice makes your eyes sting instantly.“I don’t want anything,” you say quickly, but your voice wavers.
He lets out a breath through his nose, like he’s trying not to snap. “It’s like no matter what I do, it’s wrong,” he mutters. “I come all the way out here and now I’m suddenly the bad guy because I didn’t write enough?”
You flinch. That wasn’t what you meant. “I’m not saying you’re the bad guy,” you whisper.
“Then what are you saying?” he presses, a little too harsh and frustrated.
Tears spill before you can stop them. Your eyes drop to the floor, blinking fast. Your throat feels tight. You hadn’t wanted this to turn into a fight. You hadn’t wanted him to sound annoyed.
You swallow.“Forget it…” you whisper. Your voice cracks on the second word. You shake your head slightly, like you’re disappointed in yourself more than him. “It’s stupid. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
He exhales sharply. “That’s not—” But you’re already stepping back. You wrap your arms around yourself.“I didn’t mean to make it a thing,” you add quietly. “I’m sorry.”
That breaks something in him. Because you’re the one apologizing. You turn before he can see the next tear fall.“Forget it,” you repeat, softer this time.
Then you walk away. The neon lights blur as you head toward the exit of the rink floor, wiping at your cheeks quickly so no one else notices.
Behind you, Mike stands there. His chest tight, because he didn’t mean to snap. He didn’t mean to make you feel small. He drags a hand down his face, jaw tight. “Stupid idiot,” he mutters under his breath. He lets out a frustrated breath and kicks lightly at the carpeted edge of the rink.
He didn’t mean to snap. He just felt cornered. Guilty. Called out in a way he didn’t know how to answer. “Great,” he mutters to himself. “Real smooth.."
He glances toward the exit where you disappeared.
part two:
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 24 · Best Friends ² - Mike Wheeler x fem Byers Reader · part two: mike apologizes and realizes he might have stronger feelings
Ever since you and your friends found Eleven in the woods, something had shifted between you and Mike.
His attention seemed constantly pulled toward her, toward her powers, her past, the mystery surrounding her. He watched her closely, spoke to her softly, stayed near her like he was afraid she might disappear. It wasn’t romantic, not really, but it was consuming.
In the middle of all that focus, you felt yourself fading. You and Mike had been inseparable before. Late-night talks in his basement, shared jokes no one else understood, walking home together like it was automatic. You’d never had to fight for his attention, it had always just been there.
Now it felt like you were standing right in front of him and he couldn’t see you anymore.
~~~
You grabbed your jacket earlier than usual. No one really noticed at first. Dustin was still rambling. Lucas was arguing about something. Eleven was sitting close to Mike, quiet but watching him like he was the only safe thing in the room.
You stepped toward the stairs. “I’m gonna head home,” you said. Mike looked up.“Oh. Already?”
You shrugged. “Yeah. I’m tired.” It wasn’t convincing. You knew it wasn’t, but you didn’t trust your voice enough to say more.
You started up the stairs. You heard his chair scrape against the floor. “Wait,” Mike called. “I’ll bring you to the door.”
Your stomach twisted. You turned halfway around. “It’s fine.”
He was already standing. “I don’t mind,” he said, like it was automatic. Like it was what he always did. It used to feel sweet. Tonight it felt like pity.
“I said it’s fine,” you repeated. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, confused. “I just—”
“I don’t need you to walk me to the door, Mike.” You hated that edge in your voice. You could hear it, sharp and defensive.
The room got quieter.
He frowned slightly. “Okay… I was just trying to-” "I know," you snapped.
Dustin slowly looked between you two like he’d just tuned into the world’s most awkward TV show.
Mike's eyebrows pulled together slightly, like he was trying to replay the last five minutes in his head to figure out what he’d missed.
He took a small step forward anyway. “Did I do something?” And that did it. Because he said it the way he always did, genuinely. Like he had no idea. Like he hadn’t spent the entire night hovering around someone else.
You felt your throat tighten. “No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s just… I said it’s fine.”
Mike just stared at you. Not angry, just stunned. Because you never talked to him like that. Ever.
Mike swallowed. “Okay,” he said quietly. That hurt tone slipped into his voice before he could stop it. He stepped back slightly, like he didn’t want to make it worse.“See you tomorrow, I guess.”
Your eyes stung immediately. Regret mixing with pride. You didn’t want him to see you cry. Not here. Not now. “Bye,” you muttered quickly.
And before he could say anything else, you turned and went up the stairs. The door shut a little harder than it needed to.
Outside, the air felt cold against your face. You walked fast at first. Then slower. Then you stopped halfway down the driveway.
Your throat hurt from holding everything in. You didn’t mean to snap, you didn’t want to push him away. You just didn’t know how to stand there and pretend you weren’t breaking a little.
Back inside, Mike was still standing at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t sit back down right away. He looked at the door. His chest felt tight. He didn’t understand what just happened.
But he knew that wasn’t just “fine.” Whatever it was, it had something to do with him.
~~~
The next time everyone met in his basement, you arrived a little later than usual.
You smiled when you came in. You said hi. You looked normal. But you didn’t sit in your usual spot. You didn’t drop down beside Mike on the floor like you always did.
Instead, you sat next to Lucas. Right next to him, close enough that your shoulders brushed when you leaned forward to look at the board. Mike noticed immediately. He told himself it didn’t mean anything. It’s just a seat.
You laughed at something Lucas said. Not a fake laugh. A real one. The kind that used to belong to Mike during late-night conversations. Mike rolled his dice harder than necessary.
The basement started to feel colder and you rubbed your hands over your arms without thinking.
You stood up quietly and grabbed one of the old blankets from the back of the couch. As you sat back down, you noticed Will doing the same thing you had been, his hands were tucked into his sleeves.
Without making a big deal out of it, you draped the blanket over yourself. Then you shifted closer.“Here,” you said softly, lifting one side of it so it covered him too.
Will blinked, a little surprised.“Oh. Thanks.” “Yeah,” you shrugged lightly. “It’s freezing.” He gave a small smile and tucked the edge of the blanket more securely around both of you.
Mike watched you and Will. It wasn’t romantic. But it was warm and it wasn’t directed at him.
Another night, you biked home with Dustin instead. You didn’t even look at Mike when you said, “I’m going this way.”
He stood there for a second, stunned. “You don’t usually—” “I know,” you said quickly. “It’s closer.”
It wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. But you were already pedaling away.
You were still kind. Still you. You just weren’t his anymore. You didn’t lean into him during scary movies. You didn’t nudge him when he said something stupid. You didn’t glance at him first when something funny happened.
You looked everywhere else. You were laughing with Lucas. Whispering with Will. Arguing playfully with Dustin. Anyone but him. And every time Mike tried to catch your eye, you looked away half a second too soon.
One evening, Mike instinctively glanced toward where you would normally sit beside him. The space was empty. You were across the room, helping Will with something. You smiled softly at him. You didn’t look at Mike.
Something tight formed in his chest. This wasn’t just you being busy. You were choosing distance. From him.
~~~
Dustin was leaning over the coffee table, sketching out routes while talking so fast he almost tripped over his own words. Lucas kept cutting in with sarcastic comments from the couch. Will was flipping through an old comic book, only half-paying attention but smiling at the argument anyway.
You sat cross-legged on the floor, hands folded in your lap. Listening, but not really there. Mike noticed. He noticed that you hadn’t said much in the last ten minutes. He noticed that you were sitting just slightly farther back than everyone else.
He noticed that you hadn’t looked at him once. He tried to ignore the uncomfortable twist in his stomach.
“So,” Dustin announced, clapping his hands, “same routes as last year?”
“Obviously,” Lucas said. Will nodded. “Yeah.”
Mike hesitated for just a second before glancing at you. This was usually your part. You were the one who always got excited about it.
He cleared his throat slightly. “We could do the partner costume again?” he said, looking directly at you. He meant it casually.
The room quieted a little.
You looked up, almost surprised he’d addressed you. “Oh,” you said softly. “Uh… I’m not sure if I’m going this year.”
Mike blinked. “What?” Dustin froze mid-sip of soda. “Why?” Will asked gently. You shrugged. “Maybe I’ll go with a friend this year.” The words were light, but they landed heavy.
Mike stared at you like you’d just spoken another language. "But we always go,” he said. And this time, the disappointment in his voice wasn’t hidden. You avoided his eyes. “I know.”
“That’s kind of the point,” he pressed. “We always go together.”
You shrugged again. “Things change.” It wasn’t sharp, or angry. That almost made it worse. Because you sounded like you’d already accepted it. Like you’d already let go.
Something in Mike’s chest dropped. He didn’t like the idea of you walking around town with someone else. Laughing with someone else. Sharing a costume with someone else.
He didn’t like the idea of not walking beside you. Of not feeling your shoulder bump his every few steps. “But…” he tried again, softer now. “That’s our thing.”
For a split second, your expression flickered. Something vulnerable, but then it disappeared. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be,” you said quietly. That was the moment. Because suddenly, he understood what it felt like. To think something was still yours and realize it might not be anymore. He swallowed.
Across the room, Eleven glanced between you both, sensing the tension but not fully understanding it. Mike didn’t look at her. He was looking at you. For the first time since all of this started he really felt the distance.
You stood up after a second.“I should head home.” He almost said, 'I’ll walk you.' But the memory of you snapping at him stopped the words in his throat. So he just nodded. “Yeah..okay.”
You gave a small wave to the others. When the door upstairs closed, the basement felt colder.
Lucas raised an eyebrow at Mike.“You’re just gonna let that happen?” Mike didn’t answer. He was still staring at the empty space where you had been sitting. It felt like he was losing you and he didn’t know how to fix it.
The boys walked together in their Ghostbusters suits, proton packs slightly crooked, arguing about who had the best candy haul already. Eleven drifted beside them in her simple white sheet, their ghost.
But Mike wasn’t really paying attention. He kept scanning the sidewalks. Every group of kids. Every laugh that sounded remotely like yours. He told himself it didn’t matter that you said you might not come. He told himself he wasn’t looking for you. He was.
Then he saw you across the street. Walking beside a girl from school, both of you carrying candy buckets.
You were dressed in black, fitted sweater, dark skirt and tights. Black ears perched on your head, whiskers drawn delicately across your cheeks. A thin tail swayed behind you when you walked.
Your friend beside you wore grey, round mouse ears, little pink nose, oversized shirt with a drawn-on cheese wedge. Cat and mouse. Matching. Not with him. Mike’s stomach twisted.
You laughed at something your friend said and lightly nudged her shoulder. The tail flicked when you turned your head.
He had the strangest urge to walk over and pull you back to where you belonged. Instead, he just stared for half a second too long.
Lucas followed his gaze. “Oh.” Dustin blinked. “Ohhh.” Will said nothing, but he understood immediately. Before anyone could stop him, Mike crossed the street. He didn’t even think about it.
You noticed him approaching. Your smile faltered slightly, but you tried to recover. “Oh,” you said softly when he stopped in front of you. “Hi, Mike.”
“There you are,” he said, a little breathless. Your friend looked between you two curiously.
“Nice costume,” Mike added, eyes lingering just a second too long on the whiskers, the ears and the tail. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly self-conscious. "Oh, thanks"
A pause. “Yours too,” you said politely, glancing at his Ghostbusters suit. He nodded, distracted.
“You’re a… cat?” he asked unnecessarily. You gave a small smile. “Yeah. She’s the mouse.” Your friend waved awkwardly. “It was her idea.”
Mike’s jaw tightened just slightly at that. Of course it was. “It’s cool,” he said quietly. It sounded disappointed.
He swallowed, then looked at your friend briefly. “Can I talk to her alone?” The question was careful. Polite. But there was urgency underneath it.
Your heart skipped. Your friend gave you a look that clearly said 'oh my god' and stepped away toward the next house. “Uh,” you nodded. “Yeah.”
Now it was just you and him.
Your whiskers were slightly smudged from laughing earlier. “You look…” he started, then stopped. You raised an eyebrow slightly.“What?”
He swallowed. “Different.” It wasn’t what he meant. He meant beautiful, distracting. He meant it hurt seeing you dressed up for someone else’s tradition. But he didn’t know how to say that. “You said you might not come,” he said instead.
“I didn’t know if I would.”
“But you did.”
You shrugged gently. “Yeah.” The tail swayed when you shifted your weight.
“I thought we always went together,” he said quietly. You looked down for a second. “We used to.”
He looked at you and something in his chest tightened. You weren’t trying to hurt him. You were protecting yourself.
For the first time all night, Mike stopped feeling jealous. He started feeling scared. “You’re distant,” he said quietly.
You looked up. “And you’re not?” you asked softly. He blinked. “What does that mean?”
You hesitated. You didn’t want to fight. You didn’t want to cry. Not dressed like this. Not in the middle of the street. “It just feels like…” You swallowed. “Like you don’t see me anymore.”
The words slipped out before you could stop them. Mike’s face changed immediately. “What? That’s not—”
“You look at her like she’s the only thing in the room,” you said quickly, your voice still controlled but fragile underneath. “Like nothing else exists.”
His mouth opened slightly.
You pressed on before you lost courage. “And I get it. She’s different. She’s been through things. She has powers. I can’t compete with that.”
His eyebrows pulled together. “Compete?”
“I didn’t want to feel stupid,” you admitted. “Standing there hoping you’d look at me the way you used to.”
Mike’s chest tightened. Because he had looked at Eleven differently. But he hadn’t realized what that looked like from your side. “I wasn’t choosing her over you,” he said quietly.
“It felt like it.” That hurt him. He stepped closer without thinking. “You stopped sitting next to me,” he said. “You bike home with Dustin. You share blankets with Will. You almost didn’t come tonight.”
Your heart flickered painfully. “That’s because I thought you didn’t care if I was there.”
“I cared,” he said immediately. “I care.”
“About what?” you asked softly. He hesitated.“About you,” he finished, a little breathless.
The wind lifted a strand of your hair. His eyes followed it instinctively. You noticed. Your heart did that stupid flip again.
“I saw you tonight,” he admitted, quieter now. “And I hated it.”
Your eyes widened slightly. “Hated what?”
“You laughing with someone else. Wearing a costume with someone else.” He shook his head slightly, frustrated with himself. “It shouldn’t matter. But it did.”
You stared at him. “Why?” you whispered. He swallowed.“Because that’s supposed to be me.” The words left his mouth before he could overthink them.
Your breath caught.
“Me walking next to you,” he continued, voice unsteady. “Me being the one you plan stuff with. Me—” He stopped, realizing how much he’d just revealed.
You stepped closer now. “So why didn’t it feel like you wanted that anymore?” you asked gently. He exhaled shakily.“I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of messing it up.” His eyes finally locked fully onto yours. “You’re my best friend. If I said something and you didn’t feel the same, I’d lose you.”
Your throat tightened.
“And if I didn’t say something,” he continued, “I still felt like I was losing you.”
“I thought you liked her,” you admitted. He shook his head immediately. “No.”
“But you look at her—”
“I look at her because she’s… a mystery. Because I’m trying to help.” His voice softened. “But when I look at you, it’s different.”
Your heart skipped.“How?”
He hesitated again, but not because he didn’t know. “When you laugh, I notice,” he said quietly. “When you’re quiet, I notice. When you leave early, I can’t stop thinking about it.”
Your eyes shimmered.
“And when you said you might not come tonight,” he added, “it felt like something dropped in my stomach.”
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.“Why?” He stepped just a little closer.“Because I like you.”
You froze.
“Not El,” he said quickly, almost stumbling over it. “You. I don’t like her like that. I never did. I just didn’t know how to tell you without ruining everything.”
Your heart pounded in your ears.“You like… me?” you asked softly. He gave a tiny, nervous nod.“Yeah.”
A beat.
“A lot.”
You stepped closer, close enough that the edge of your black sleeve brushed against his Ghostbusters suit. “I like you too,” you said softly “Not just tonight. Not just because you said it first.”
He swallowed.
“I’ve liked you for a while,” you admitted shyly.
“How long?” he asked, almost hopeful. You tilted your head slightly. “Long before we found her.” His eyes widened just a little.“Really?”
You nodded. “I just thought you stopped looking at me like that.” His expression softened instantly. “I never stopped.”
You stepped into him first. You just leaned forward and wrapped your arms around his middle, your cheek resting against his chest. You were a little shorter, so you fit there naturally. He froze for half a second, just long enough to process and then his arms came around you. Tightening slightly like he didn’t want to let go.
“You smell like candy,” you mumbled against his suit. He huffed out a quiet laugh. “You smell like… a lot of hairspray,” he teased gently.
You pulled back just enough to look up at him. His face was pink again and it made your heart melt a little. Before you could overthink it, you leaned up on your toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
When you pulled back, he just stared at you.“You just—”
“Yeah,” you smiled shyly. His ears were completely red now. “I— okay,” he said, clearly malfunctioning. You giggled softly. Then after a second, you glanced toward where your friend was pretending very badly not to watch.
Mike rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “So…” he started. You tilted your head slightly. “So?”
He glanced toward where the others were gathered across the street. Dustin dramatically gesturing, Lucas shaking his head, Will adjusting his proton pack, Eleven standing quietly beside them.
Then he looked back at you.“Do you… wanna walk the rest with us?” he asked. “With you?” you teased softly. His cheeks flushed immediately. “Yeah. With me.”
You smiled at that.
“Your friend can come too,” he added quickly, glancing toward her so she wouldn’t feel excluded. “I mean— obviously. I just… I’d like you there.” There was something about the way he said it.
Your heart squeezed. “I’d like that too,” you said gently. Relief washed over his face so clearly it almost made you laugh.“Yeah?” he asked, just to be sure.
“Yeah.”
He reached for your hand like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t. When your fingers laced together, both of your hearts were still racing.
When you walked toward the others, Mike stayed slightly closer to you than necessary. Like he was afraid if he gave too much space, it might disappear again.
Halfway across the street, he leaned down slightly and murmured. “I’m glad you’re here.”
You looked up at him, soft smile returning.“I’m glad you asked.”
part one: i don't really like his mom, so yeah.. there’s a bit of arguing, his mom isn't really kind, but readers mom is <3
You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of Ziggy’s room.
Posters peeling slightly off the walls. Guitar picks scattered across his desk. His window cracked open just enough to let the evening air in.
He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, guitar resting against his knee. “You sure?” he asks, glancing at you.
“Yes,” you say for the hundredth time. “Play it.” He rolls his eyes, but you see the nerves.
Then he starts. The first chord is softer than you expected. Not angry, or dramatic. His voice follows, low, steady, a little rough at the edges.
You don’t move, don’t interrupt, don’t even blink much.
Your chest tightens.
He’s not looking at you, he’s staring at the strings like they might betray him if he makes eye contact. And then—
The door swings open.
No knock. Just the click of the handle and the door hitting the wall. “Oh—” his mom says, standing there. “I didn’t realize you had someone over.”
Ziggy’s hands freeze on the strings. You feel the shift instantly, the warmth in the room cooling by several degrees.
“Mom,” he says, jaw tightening, “I’m playing a song. Could you at least knock a few times?”
She frowns slightly. “I was just bringing laundry.”
“You could’ve knocked.”
“It’s my house.”
“And it’s my room,” he shoots back.
You glance between them, suddenly very aware that you’re sitting on his floor in the middle of this.
She steps inside anyway, setting the folded clothes on his desk. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“It is to me,” he says. His voice isn’t loud, but it’s sharp.
She looks at you briefly and give you a thin polite smile. “I’m sorry if I interrupted.”
“You did,” Ziggy says flatly.
“Ziggy,” you murmur softly. But he’s already standing now.
“You don’t just walk in,” he continues. “You never knock.”
“I have never needed to schedule an appointment to enter my son’s room.”
“It’s called basic respect.”
His mom’s expression hardens just a little.“You’re being dramatic.” You see his shoulders stiffen. “I was in the middle of something,” he says.
“It’s a song.”
“Yeah,” he snaps. “It is.”
She exhales. “Lower the volume. Dinner in twenty minutes.” And then she leaves.
The door is still wide open. The hallway light spills into the room. Ziggy stands there for a second, staring at the doorway. Then he walks over and shuts it firmly. He leans his forehead against it for a second.“She does that on purpose,” he mutters.
You stay seated on the floor, watching him.“You were really good,” you say gently.
He huffs a laugh. “That’s not the point.”
“I know.”
He turns around. “It’s like she waits,” he says. “Like she can’t stand not being in control of every moment.”
You don’t say anything bad about her, even if you’re thinking it. Instead, you say, “You asked for something reasonable.”
He walks back over and sits down again, more heavily this time. “She doesn’t listen,” he mutters.“I did,” you say quietly.
That makes him look at you. For a second, the anger softens. “Yeah, you did,” he agrees.
He picks up the guitar again, fingers brushing the strings.“Do you… still want to hear the rest?” he asks.
“Yes.” No hesitation. He studies your face like he’s grounding himself in it. Then he starts playing again. This time, a little louder.
You follow him downstairs when his mom calls that dinner’s ready. The smell of food fills the kitchen.
Ziggy walks in first. You step in behind him. His dad is already sitting at the table. His mom is placing the last dish down. There are three plates.
Three.
You notice it at the same time Ziggy does. You can tell by the way he stops mid-step. His eyes flick from the table… to you… back to the table.
For a second, nobody says anything. His mom looks up at him. “Wash your hands.”
Ziggy doesn’t move. “Y/N's here,” he says. His mom glances at you like she just remembered you exist. "Oh. I didn’t know she was staying.”
You feel heat crawl up your neck. “That’s okay,” you say quickly. “I should probably go home anyway.” Ziggy turns to you immediately. “No—”
“It’s fine,” you repeat, forcing a small smile. “My mom’s probably cooking too.” You hate how small your voice sounds.
His mom doesn’t offer to grab another plate. Doesn’t say stay. Just stands there, waiting.
The silence is thick.
You step back toward the hallway. “I’ll text you later,” you tell Ziggy softly. He looks torn, embarrassed and angry. “I’ll walk you out,” he says.
“It’s just two houses down.”
“I don’t care,” he said firmly.
You grab your jacket. The air feels colder outside. For a second, neither of you speak. “That was messed up,” he says finally. You shrug like it doesn’t matter. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me.” You give him a small look. “Don’t start a war over it, Ziggy” He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“That’s the problem,” he mutters. You step back toward the sidewalk. “Text me when you’re done,” you say. He nods. You walk away and he watches until you disappear around the corner.
The front door shuts harder than it needs to when he walks back in. His mom looks up from the stove. “Where’s your friend?”
“She went home.”
“Oh.”
Ziggy stares at the table again, at the three plates. “You said dinner was ready in twenty minutes,” he says.
“Yes?”
“You knew she was here.”
“I didn’t know she wanted to eat with us.”
His jaw tightens. “You didn’t even put a fucking plate down for her.” His dad looks up sharply. “Language.” “No,” Ziggy says, not taking his eyes off his mom. “You knew she was upstairs. You didn’t even ask.”
His mom folds her arms slightly, defensive. “She didn’t say she was staying.”
“You could have asked her!” The words echo louder than he expected.
His mom exhales slowly. “I’m not running a restaurant, Ziggy. I cook for the people who live here.”
“She’s here all the time.”
“And that doesn’t make her family.”
That one hits. He laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “So that’s what this is?”
“Don’t twist my words.”
“I’m not twisting anything!”, Ziggy shouted. His dad shifts in his seat. “She probably assumed the girl would go home for dinner.”
“She has a name,” Ziggy snaps.
“Enough,” his mom says firmly. “No,” he says again, quieter now, but angrier. “You embarrassed her.”
“I did no such thing.”, his mother scoffs.
“You made her feel like she wasn’t welcome.”
“She isn’t entitled to dinner here.”
“I didn’t say she was entitled!” His voice cracks. “I said you could have been decent.” His mom’s expression cools.“You’re overreacting, Ziggy.”
He shakes his head slowly. “It was one plate,” he says. “And she chose to leave,” his mom replies. “That was her decision.”
He stares at her for a long moment. “She left because you didn’t want her here.”
“That is not true.”
“Then prove it,” he says.
Silence.
She doesn’t move toward the cupboard. Doesn’t grab another plate. Doesn’t say bring her back. That’s proof enough. Ziggy steps back from the table.“I’m not hungry.”
“Sit down,” his dad says.
“I said I’m not hungry.” He turned and walked upstairs before either of them could answer. He slammed his door and started playing his guitar loudly, letting his emotions out.
Timeskip - Friday
The last bell rings and everyone spills out into the parking lot. You spot your mom’s car almost immediately.
Then you see Ziggy. He's standing near the bike racks, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, backpack slung over one shoulder. He’s not on his phone. Just waiting.
You slow down. Your mom rolls the window down. “Hey, honey.”
“Hi Mom, can you wait a minute?”
“Sure.”
“You’re still here,” you say when you reach him. He shrugs a little. “Yeah. Uh… my mom’s going to be late.”
“How late?” He avoids your eyes for half a second. “An hour or so.”
You blink. “What? No way.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. Come on.” He frowns slightly. “What?”
“My mom’s here. You can drive with us.” He immediately shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to—” “Ziggy.” You grab his sleeve lightly. “Come on.” He hesitates, then nods. You walk him over to the car.
Your mom smiles the second she sees him. “Hi, Ziggy.”
“Hi, Mrs. L/N”
“You waiting for a ride, honey?” He stiffens just slightly at the word. “Yeah. My mom’s running late.” “Well, we’ve got room,” she says easily. “Hop in.”
“No, I don’t want to be a problem—”
“You’re not a problem,” she says immediately, warm but firm. “Just write your mother, so she knows your safe."
You suppress a smile as he climbs into the backseat beside you.
“So,” your mom says, glancing at you both in the rearview mirror, “how was school?” You start rambling about a math test. Ziggy joins in after a minute. “And the teacher forgot to unlock the classroom,” he adds. “So we just stood there for like ten minutes.”
Your mom laughs softly. “Sounds organized.” He smiles. It’s small, but it’s real.
“And how are you, Ziggy?” she asks casually. He pauses.“I’m good.”
“Good-good, or just saying it?”
You glance at him. He hesitates. “Good-good,” he says this time. She nods like she accepts that answer. “Well, you can come with us,” she adds. “I’m making lasagna for lunch.”
You look at Ziggy immediately. He tenses again.“Oh— uh. I don’t want to be a problem.”
“Sweetheart,” she says gently, “the pan is already too big for two people.” He looks down at his hands. “You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, honey.” You see it. The way his shoulders soften just a little.“Okay,” he says quietly. When you pull into your driveway, your mom says,"I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Thank you,” Ziggy adds politely. “Anytime, honey.”, she smiles kindly at him.
"Let's go in the garden". Ziggy nods and follows you. “You look less mad today," you say as he drops into the chair across from you. “I’m not less mad,” he replies. “I’m just tired.”
You talk about yesterday. But not dramatically. “She didn’t even grab a plate,” he says quietly. "I noticed."
He looks at you. “You weren’t embarrassed, right?” You smile softly. “A little.” His jaw tightens. “But mostly I just felt bad for you.” That catches him off guard. “For me?”
“Yeah.”
He leans back in his chair, staring up at the sky. “Why?”
“Because you noticed,” you say. “And you cared.” He goes quiet at that.
The music hums between you. For a while, it’s just the two of you. Sunlight, warm air and cold drinks sweating in your hands.
Then your mom opens the back door. “Lunch is ready!” Her voice is warm, bright.
You glance at Ziggy. He freezes for just half a second.“Come on,” you say, nudging his foot with yours.
Inside, the house smells like garlic and tomatoes and something homemade. Your mom is already setting the table when you walk in.
You see it in the way his eyes flick over the table for half a second longer than necessary. “Perfect timing,” your mom says. "Come on, sit."
You both slide into your usual spots. Ziggy hesitates for a second before sitting down, like he’s still checking if this is actually okay.
Your mom places a generous slice of lasagna onto his plate. “Careful, it’s hot.”
“Thank you,” he says automatically. She smiles at him. “You’re very polite, you know that?” He looks slightly caught off guard. “Uh… thanks.”
“So,” your mom says as she sits down, “what was the most interesting part of your day?” You groan. “Define interesting.”
“Anything that wasn’t boring.”
Ziggy shrugs. “We had a fire drill.” “Oh?” she says. “Real or practice?”
“Practice. But someone panicked anyway.”
You laugh. “He thought it was real.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
Your mom chuckles, watching the two of you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “And how are your classes going?” she asks, looking between you.
You start explaining something about a group project. Ziggy listens, then jumps in. “Oh yeah, we’re doing something similar.” No one’s interrupting him. No one’s correcting his tone.
Your mom asks small follow-up questions. “And music?” she asks casually. “Still writing?”
He pauses mid-bite.“Yeah,” he says. “Anything you’re proud of?” He thinks about it for a second.“…Yeah.”
You glance at him. He sounds more certain than usual. “That’s good,” she says warmly. “You should be proud of creating things.”
He nods slowly. He takes another bite. After a moment, he looks up and says, “Okay, this is actually insane.”
You grin. “Told you.” Your mom laughs lightly from across the table. “Insane good or insane bad?”
“Good,” he says quickly, almost offended she’d assume otherwise. “Like… dangerously good.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” she smiles. “I’d hate to poison a guest.” “I’m serious,” he adds, taking another bite. “This is the best lasagna I’ve ever had.” Your mom beams. “High praise.”
The conversation drifts into something lighter, a funny story from when you were younger. You roll your eyes. Ziggy laughs at the right parts.
You notice something. He’s sitting differently. His shoulders aren’t pulled in and his jaw isn’t tight. He looks comfortable.
When the plates are almost empty, your mom says, “There’s more if you’re still hungry.” Ziggy glances at you first, like he’s checking if that’s real. Then at her. "Maybe just a little," he says.
“Of course.” She stands up without hesitation and brings the dish back to the table.
After dinner, you automatically start stacking plates. He does too.“Oh Ziggy, you don’t have to—” your mom begins.“It’s fine,” he says quickly. “I don’t mind.”
You carry dishes to the sink together. He rinses without being asked and dries what you hand him. Your mom watches for a moment, then says gently, “Thank you for helping.”
He pauses. It’s such a simple sentence. But it lands. “Yeah,” he replies quietly. “Of course.”
When everything’s clean, you jerk your head toward the hallway. “Come on.” He follows you upstairs to your room. The door closes softly behind you. He looks around like he always does, not because it’s unfamiliar, but because it feels peaceful.
“You okay?” you ask. He nods. “Your mom’s…” He trails off.
“Nice?”
“Yeah.”
You sit on your bed, pulling your legs up. “She likes you.” He scoffs lightly. “Why?”
“Because you’re polite. And you say thank you. And you compliment her lasagna like it’s a five-star restaurant.”
He smiles faintly. He sits down on the floor, back against your bed. “It’s weird,” he admits. “I didn’t feel like I was in the way.”
“You weren’t.” He tilts his head back so he can look up at you.“Is it always like that?”
“Yeah.” He nods slowly.“That’s nice.”
You smile down at him. You shift slightly, letting your legs hang over the edge so your knees brush his shoulder. Neither of you are talking anymore. It’s comfortable.
Without really thinking about it, you reach down. Your fingers hover for half a second, then gently slide into his hair. He freezes. Not pulling away, just surprised.
You start playing with it softly. Twisting a strand around your finger. Letting it fall. Brushing it back from his forehead. He exhales slowly.“You good?” you ask quietly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
You keep going, slow and absentminded. His shoulders loosen under your touch. He tilts his head back slightly, giving you better access without even realizing he’s doing it.
“You’re really quiet,” you say.
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.” He smiles faintly. After a moment, he says it.“I like it here.” Your hand pauses for just a second, then continues.“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His voice is softer than usual. “It’s just… easy,” he explains. “Nobody’s walking on eggshells. Nobody’s waiting for someone to say the wrong thing.”
You brush your fingers lightly over his temple.“You don’t have to be defensive here,” you say. He swallows.“I know.”
You gently scratch at the back of his head and he closes his eyes for a second. “You’re going to fall asleep,” you tease. "Maybe," he mutters.
You smile down at him. “I meant what I said earlier,” you add quietly. “You’re always welcome.” He opens his eyes and looks up at you.“I know,” he says.“That’s new.”
Your fingers slow in his hair. “You deserve that,” you tell him. He studies your face like he’s trying to understand why you sound so certain.
After a second, he reaches up and lightly rests his hand around your wrist. Not stopping you. Just grounding himself. “Thanks,” he says.
Downstairs, you can faintly hear your mom moving around the kitchen. Dishes clinking softly. A normal evening.
He shifts slightly, resting his head more comfortably against your knee. You keep playing with his hair.
