you fall for a fic before you ever meet the boy who writes it. getting paired with him for a project was just bad luck. realizing he’s been writing you into it might be worse.
contents: collage!mike wheeler x reader, reader is lowkey weird and avoidant(same twin🚬), mike is creepy, possibly ooc please see the vision tho, FLUFF, yearning from both sides but they’re both creepy idiots, mike is obsessed with dnd and you, SLOWBURN, eventual kissing, a couple that writes fics together stay together, not proofread, i wrote this all day in one sitting please be patient with me i just wanna make the mikelings happy,
you dragged the last box into your dorm room, dropped it without bothering to unpack, and just... sat there for a minute. the room was bare and echoey in that new-space way, mattress in the corner, desk pushed against the window, a stack of half-opened boxes looking at you. exhaustion settled into your bones.
you didn't have the energy to do anything productive. textbooks, syllabi, schedules, planners. all of it could wait until tomorrow. right now you just wanted something familiar. something that felt like you.
your laptop was still sitting on top of the one box you'd actually opened. you powered it on, fingers already typing before your brain caught up: ao3.com. your bookmarks loaded. Player's Manual - ch. 8 — ThePaladin20.
you clicked in. the update was short and simple:
hey all - sorry this update took so long. college hit harder than expected, but i'm back and really excited for this next chapter. thank you for sticking with me.
you read the note twice. no emojis, no over-the-top flair, just honest words. and for some reason that made it feel... real. like this person wasn't just some username, but someone with a life that got messy and complicated in the exact same ways yours did.
you opened the chapter and started reading. by the time you looked up again the sun was dipping low in the sky, turning the walls this soft orange glow. you'd followed this fic for months. not because it was perfect, but because it felt addictive. the attention to little things, the way the narrator paid obsessive care to gestures and micro-movements, the tension you could almost feel in the spaces between sentences... it all just... connected with you.
you closed your eyes for a second, letting your breath settle. you weren't some dramatic, overwrought fan making silly jokes in the comments. you were just someone who had found something that resonated. something that made the noise in your head quiet down for a bit.
after a moment, you opened the laptop again and typed your comment quietly, honestly. just your thoughts on how the chapter made you feel. you hit post. then shut the laptop and stared out the window, thinking about dinner, class schedules, and how exhausted you still were.
you didn't know who ThePaladin20 was. but you liked the idea of someone out there, probably sipping a shitty dorm coffee somewhere, trying to squeeze time for writing around everything else life threw at them.
the next morning, you barely had time to grab breakfast before heading to your first class. you were early, notebook ready, trying to wake up enough to pay attention. the lecture hall was half-full, quiet except for shuffling backpacks and the hum of laptops.
dark hair a little messy, backpack slung over one shoulder, hands adjusting straps almost subconsciously, scanning the room like he was trying to figure out where to sit. new. definitely new. and somehow, even though you'd never met him, something about him made your chest squeeze.
he chose a seat a few rows ahead of you. you tried to focus on the professor, but your eyes kept drifting. there was a naturalness to him, a quiet confidence that wasn't loud or showy. the kind of thing you noticed even if you didn't want to.
he typed lightly on his laptop, fingers moving like he was almost unsure of himself, and your heart fluttered for reasons you didn't understand. he glanced up, just once, catching your eye. you froze, and he looked away, faintly embarrassed.
what you didn't know: he stayed up late last night, typing furiously on the fic you've been reading and obsessing over for months. the idea that someone like you, someone who loved it that much, could be sitting just a few rows behind him, completely unaware, made him want to hide under his desk.
you don’t think about him again right away.
not because he didn’t leave an impression. he did. but the first week of classes hits like a wave and you’re too busy trying not to drown in it to focus on one person you made accidental eye contact with.
your schedule settles into something almost manageable. morning lectures, a long gap in the afternoon where you pretend you’ll be productive and usually aren’t, then readings that stretch later than you expect. your dorm room starts to feel less like an empty box and more like a place you exist in. not exactly home, but something close enough. you think at least.
you keep reading the fic.
it becomes a habit faster than you want to admit. late at night, usually. sometimes in that awkward gap between classes when you don’t feel like talking to anyone. you reread sections you’ve already gone through, noticing things you missed the first time. the way the narrator lingers on hands, on pauses in conversation, on the space between what’s said and what isn’t.
the way the author is able to say so much without needing words, is something you’re both impressed and jealous over.
by the end of the week, your professor makes an announcement.
it’s casual, like it doesn’t matter. like it won’t rearrange the way the next month of your life looks.
“you’ll be working in pairs for the next unit,” they say, already pulling something up on their laptop. “reading partners. discussion, peer review, all of that. i’ll assign them.”
there’s a collective shift in the room. people glancing at friends, already whispering, already hoping.
you don’t really know anyone yet. not enough to hope for anything specific.
names start getting called.
you half-listen at first, until you hear your own.
your last name, followed by a pause.
you don’t react immediately. it takes a second to register, to connect it to the person.
a few rows ahead, he straightens slightly, like he’s just as caught off guard. he turns, scanning the room again, slower this time.
this time you don’t freeze.
you just lift your hand a little, a small, awkward acknowledgment.
he nods once, almost relieved, and gathers his things as the professor continues talking.
you meet him after class because you have to. the room is still loud, just people filing out, the low noise of conversations, backpacks being adjusted, chairs scraping.
he hesitates for a second like he’s deciding whether to approach you or not.
“hey,” he says, stopping a comfortable distance away. “um. reading partners.”
his voice is quieter than you expected, soft but deep. you weren’t sure what you were expecting.
“yeah,” you say. “i heard.”
he smiles a little at that, like he’s not sure if you’re joking.
“i’m mike,” he adds, shifting the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder.
“i know,” you say before you can stop yourself.
“i mean,” you correct quickly, “i heard your name. just now.”
“right. yeah.” he lets out a small breath, something between a laugh and embarrassment. “that makes more sense.”
there’s a pause.. you don’t know who to blame for it. did he make it awkward or did you?
“do you want to, uh,” he gestures vaguely toward the hallway, “figure out when to meet? for the reading stuff.”
you end up sitting on a bench outside the building because neither of you suggests anywhere else.
it’s quieter there. a few people pass by, but most are heading to their next class. the air still has that early semester feel, not quite settled.
he pulls out a notebook instead of using his phone. it’s worn at the edges, pages filled in uneven handwriting. you notice it without meaning to.
“i’m free tuesdays after two,” he says, flipping a page back. “and thursdays, same time.”
“tuesday works,” you say. “i have a gap then.”
he nods, writing it down even though it’s probably unnecessary.
“have you read ahead at all?” he asks.
“a little,” you say. “not all of it.”
“same.” he glances up at you briefly, then back down. “it’s… a lot.”
there’s a shared understanding in that. relief, maybe, that the other person isn’t miles ahead.
“we’ll figure it out,” you add.
he nods again, a little more certain this time.
that night, you open your laptop without thinking.
you click into your bookmarks, into the fic, into the most recent chapter even though you’ve already read it twice.
there’s a new notification. your chest tightens a little before you even process why.
but it’s thoughtful. specific. they mention something you said about the pacing, about the way a scene felt like it was holding its breath. they say they were worried it came off as too slow.
you read it twice. then a third time.
it feels strange, in a way you can’t quite explain. like the distance between reader and writer just shrank a little.
like there’s an actual person on the other side of the screen, thinking about what you said.
you start typing a response, then stop.
keep it simple. why are you so nervous about this?
you hit post, close the laptop, and lie back on your mattress, staring at the ceiling. releasing a breath you’ve been holding onto for who knows how long know.
the library is colder than you expect.
you get there first. not intentionally, just habit. you pick a table near the back, close enough to an outlet that you don’t have to worry about your laptop dying halfway through.
you don’t actually read it.
you skim the same paragraph three times without processing any of it.
you’re more aware of the fact that you’re about to spend a couple hours sitting across from someone you don’t know, trying to have something resembling an intelligent conversation. mike seems like a nice guy, but you also get the impression that he might be way more judgmental than he seems.
mike’s standing there, slightly out of breath like he walked faster than he meant to.
he sets his bag down across from you, pulling out his notebook and a copy of the text. his movements are a little rushed at first, then slow down once he’s seated.
“s-sorry,” he says quietly. “i wasn’t sure if you’d be here already.”
“oh. uh, i just got here,” you lie.
he nods, like that makes him feel better.
for a minute, you both pretend to focus on the reading.
pages turn. pens move. no one speaks.
it’s not as awkward as you thought it would be. just quiet.
after a while, he taps his pen lightly against the margin of the page.
“this part,” he says, glancing up at you, “do you… get what they’re trying to say here?”
you lean forward slightly, following where he’s pointing.
you read the paragraph again, slower this time.
“kind of,” you say. “i think it’s more about the implication than what’s actually written.”
he watches you as you speak, focused in a way that makes you more aware of your own words.
“like, it’s not direct,” you add. “but it’s… like, there. if that makes sense.”
“y-yeah,” he says after a second. “no, that makes sense.”
he writes something down quickly.
you notice the way he phrases it. not copying what you said exactly, but translating it into something more structured, more precise.
you’re starting to realize how serious he’s taking this.
the conversation gets easier after that.
he asks questions that don’t feel performative. when he disagrees, he does it carefully, like he’s not trying to win anything. just understand.
you find yourself talking more than you expected to.
at one point, you lose your train of thought halfway through a sentence. he waits.
he doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t try to fill the silence. just watches, patient.
you pick it back up again, finishing the idea in a different way.
he nods, like it still made sense.
it’s small. but it stays with you. appreciating how kind he’s been with you.
you take a break halfway through.
not planned. it just happens when both of you stop at the same time, realizing you’ve been sitting there for over an hour.
“i’m gonna get coffee,” he says, standing. “do you want anything?”
he lingers for half a second, like he’s deciding whether to insist.
then he nods. “okay. i’ll be right back.”
you watch him walk away, then immediately look back down at your laptop like you weren’t.
your brain feels quieter than it has all day.
you don’t question it too much.
later that evening, across campus, in a different building, mike is sitting at his desk with his laptop open.
he’s not writing. not yet. he’s rereading a comment.
he doesn’t usually do that.
he tells himself it’s because you pointed out something specific. something useful.
he opens the document anyway.
the cursor blinks at the end of a sentence he’s been stuck on for two days.
he stares at it for a long time.
then, slowly, he starts typing.
not rushing this time, just letting the words settle the way they want to.
for the first time since classes started, it feels a little easier.
it doesn’t happen all at once.
there isn’t a moment you can point to and say that’s when it changed, that’s when he stopped being just the guy you were paired with for class and started being… something else.
it’s tuesdays that stretch longer than they need to, where you both say you’re going to leave after finishing one more section and then don’t. it’s thursdays where you don’t even pretend to focus right away, just sit down and start talking like you’re picking up something mid-conversation.
at some point, you stop bringing your full bag to the library. just your laptop, your notebook, one pen. like you already know you’re not going to get through everything anyway.
“okay, no, read that out loud,” you say, pushing the book toward him slightly.
mike glances at the paragraph, already shaking his head. “it’s not gonna make more sense if i say it out loud.”
he exhales through his nose, but he does it anyway, reading the sentence in a low, even voice that stumbles just slightly at the end. something about it sounds makes your skip a beat. why is your heart skipping a beat??
when he finishes, there’s a pause.
“yeah,” you say. “that’s worse.”
he huffs, leaning back in his chair. “i told you.”
“no, but like..” you reach over, tapping the page again. “what the hell is that. what does that even mean.”
he leans forward again, closer this time, his shoulder almost brushing the edge of the table between you.
“i.. think it’s trying to sound more complicated than it actually is,” he says, squinting a little at the text. “like if you strip it down, it’s just saying the character feels out of place.”
“then why not just say that.”
“because then it wouldn’t sound academic,” he says, dry.
you smile, just a little.
he glances at you, the corner of his mouth pulling up before he looks back down again.
he picks up his pen, fidgeting with it.
“i mean,” he adds after a second, “it’s kind of like when something’s obvious, but you don’t want it to be. so you keep… dressing it up until it feels like something else.”
you tilt your head, watching him now instead of the page.
“that’s not what the sentence says.”
“i know,” he says. “i’m just saying that might be what they meant.”
“or you’re just projecting.”
he lets out a small laugh, shaking his head.
but he still writes it down.
the first time you see him outside of your scheduled meetings, it barely registers as anything important.
you’re sitting on the low stone wall outside one of the buildings, your laptop balanced on your knees, not really doing the reading you told yourself you’d do. people pass by in loose clusters, voices overlapping, footsteps uneven on the ground.
you’re halfway through scrolling when you hear your name. a familiar voice close enough that you look up immediately.
mike’s standing a few feet away, one hand hooked into the strap of his backpack like he’d just stopped mid-step.
“h-hey,” he says, like he wasn’t sure if you’d actually hear him.
he nods toward your laptop. “are you working, or just pretending to.”
you glance down at the screen, then back at him.
“i think we both know the answer to that.”
he huffs a quiet laugh and shifts his weight.
you move your bag without thinking, making space.
he sits down beside you, an awkward
closeness, your shoulder would bump his if either of you leaned the wrong way.
for a minute, neither of you says anything.
he looks out across the quad, watching people pass like he’s not really focusing on any of them.
“i tried to do the reading earlier,” he says after a while.
you nod, serious. “that’s a strong start.”
“yeah, i got through like… two pages.”
“honestly, that’s more than i did.”
he glances at you. “you didn’t even open it, did you.”
you close your laptop slowly.
he smiles, just a little.
it’s small, but it stays.
it becomes a thing after that.
not planned, not spoken about, just something that happens enough times that it stops feeling like coincidence.
you run into each other between classes. outside buildings. once in the dining hall line, where neither of you says anything at first, just kind of ends up standing next to each other like it was always the plan.
he starts sitting next to you in lectures without asking.
you start saving him a seat without thinking about it.
somewhere in the middle of all that, you stop calling it “meeting for class.”
“so you actually like this stuff?” he asks one afternoon, tapping your book with the back of his pen.
you shrug, leaning back in your chair.
“it’s not even bad in an interesting way,” you say. “it’s just… kinda there.”
“oh. that’s worse,” he says.
there’s a stop, then he adds, a little quieter, “i think i just like figuring out what something’s trying to do, even if it doesn’t fully work.”
“that sounds exhausting.”
he smiles faintly, looking down at his notes.
he shrugs, not looking up.
“i don’t know. it just feels… worth it, i guess. when it does work.”
you don’t respond right away.
it’s later than usual when you finally head back to your dorm that night.
you drop your bag by the door, kick off your shoes, and sit on your bed without turning the lights on.
the way he looked at you when he spoke. the way his raven curls caught in the sunlight coming through the windows. how he’d smile at you while teasing, his teeth almost perfect, except for that slight crookedness in the front. something that makes your chest tighten.
…wait. what the fuck are you doing?
you squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself to sleep, not ready to question why your mind is wandering somewhere it shouldn’t.
the next time you see him, it’s like nothing changed.
he sits down next to you, drops his bag, runs a hand through his hair like he always does.
“i didn’t do the reading,” he says.
you open your notebook anyway.
paper rustles. his does too.
for a while, it’s just the sound of pages turning, pens clicking, the low hum of the room around you.
you don’t write anything.
you can feel him there, trying not to peak a view at how intense he’s staring at a piece of paper. you’re failing miserably.
it comes out quieter than you meant.
he looks over. “uh, yeah?”
his knee is angled toward yours under the table. you don’t think he realizes.
your fingers press harder into the edge of the notebook instead.
“can.. i ask you something?”
he doesn’t look away this time.
“you said you write, right.”
he nods, slower now. his eyes flick over your face like he’s trying to read ahead.
“uh-..yeah.”
you glance down, tracing the corner of the page with your thumb. it’s already bent.
“do you… post it anywhere?”
he’s watching you differently now. something in his expression shifts.. subtle, but there. his brows pull in slightly, a crease forming between them, and there’s a faint flush high on his cheeks.
your foot shifts against the floor. brushes his for half a second.
neither of you moves it away.
your voice comes out steadier than you feel.
he exhales, glancing off to the side like he needs a second to decide something.
“just online.”
you lean back slightly, just enough to look at him properly.
“mike.”
his mouth twitches, almost a smile, but it doesn’t stick.
“what.”
his fingers tap once against his pen. stop.
there’s a stretch where the room feels too small, like the air’s gone thin.
something tightens in your chest, quick and sharp. you don’t let it show.
you look back down at your notebook like that’s all it is.
out of the corner of your eye, you can feel him still looking at you.
for what, you’re not sure.
you don’t give him anything.
“so.. what do you write?” you ask.
he shifts in his seat. his knee presses a little more firmly against yours before he notices, then stills, like moving it now would make it worse.
“stuff,” he says, too quick. then he winces, dragging a hand through his hair. “that sounds-..i don’t know. it’s not… big or anything.”
“i didn’t ask if it was big.”
his sleeve brushes your arm when he drops his hand. neither of you pulls away.
“what..uh, do you read,” he asks.
like he needs the focus off himself.
you could tell him. you think about the fic, the one you’ve reread too many times, the one that feels a little too specific sometimes, like it knows things it shouldn’t.
“same kind of thing,” you say. “just… whatever’s good.”
but he’s still watching you.
like he’s trying to match something in his head to what’s right in front of him.
your fingers tighten slightly around your pen.
trying not to think about how awkward and small the room feels, or how warm your face feels.
by the third week, showing up to the library feels less like obligation and more like habit.
you don’t say it out loud, and you wouldn’t call it “comfort” exactly, but there’s a rhythm now. the rhythm is him. it’s the way he drags the chair out, the little cough he tries to suppress when he’s settling in, the way his backpack slides to the floor with a soft thump, and somehow, in that same subtle pattern, it feels like the library itself has shifted to make room for him.
you’re halfway through skimming a paragraph you’re not actually reading, just letting your eyes move over the page so your brain can take a break, when the chair across from you scrapes back.
“sorry,” he says, dropping his bag with a little too much force, enough to make the table shake slightly. he’s out of breath, like he ran, though you know he didn’t. he’s late, aware that you’ve noticed.
you glance up, then back down at your notebook. “you’re like, two minutes late.”
“yeah,” he says, a little defensive. “which is why i said sorry.”
“that doesn’t warrant an apology,” you reply, not looking at him. it’s a statement, not a challenge. but you know he’ll catch it anyway.
he exhales and settles into the chair, shoulders lifting in a tiny shrug. “okay, fine. i’m not sorry.”
you finally glance at him, because he’s smiling just a little, not overtly, just the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a way that almost makes you doubt yourself for noticing it.
“sure,” you say, more to yourself than him.
he doesn’t argue. he doesn’t need to. he knows you saw it.
you open the book again. you really try.
a page, maybe two, and your brain wanders. the words blur into shapes. you drop the notebook and sigh.
“this is awful,” you mutter.
mike glances at you without surprise. “yeah?”
“no, like actually awful. it’s trying too hard.”
he leans back in his chair, tilting his head. “trying too hard how?”
“you know. all the phrasing. the emphasis. they’re making a thought that’s actually simple sound dramatic, and it’s- ugh, it’s exhausting.”
he hums softly, nodding. “i get that.”
“you do?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “or you just want to sound supportive?”
“i actually do,” he says. “it reads like they’re pretending the character is smarter than they are.”
you snort, and it’s a genuine laugh this time. “thank you, mike. someone has to say it.”
he tilts his head again, tapping his pen against the paper. you notice the rhythm, two quick taps, then a pause. you notice more than you want to admit.
“okay,” he mutters, almost to himself. “maybe they’re just making it harder for themselves.”
“maybe,” you agree, leaning back. “or maybe they just want someone to care about it.”
his eyes flick up at you briefly, then back down at the page.
the small gestures start piling up.
he brings you coffee one day without asking. just sets it on the table, warm cup, steam curling lazily into the cold air. you protest once, “you didn’t have to-“
“i know,” he interrupts, calm and even. “but you drink it.”
you can’t argue with that, so you take it. your fingers brush his for a fraction of a second. it shouldn’t matter, but the warmth from the cup lingers in a way that makes the brush of his skin feel heavier.
later, he writes notes in his notebook, and you watch him pause at times, like he’s aware that you’re looking, aware that your attention is fixed on him without your consent. it makes your chest squeeze in a way you can’t quite place.
one evening, it’s late. the campus is quiet.
you’re walking back from the library together, bags slung over your shoulders, arms brushing now and then where the path narrows.
he’s talking, something about class, something you halfmissed, but you’re not really listening.
you’re watching him instead.
the tilt of his head when he laughs. the way his hand moves when he’s trying to explain something. the shape of words as they leave his mouth.
you almost miss it when he stops talking.
“you don’t just… let things go?” he asks.
“you notice stuff,” he says. “and then you say it. why?”
you frown slightly.
“i don’t know. i guess i just..care?”
“you care too much sometimes,” he says. “about things that don’t matter.”
you narrow your eyes a little.
he’s not wrong. you just don’t like hearing it from him.
he watches you for a second longer, then looks down at the pavement again. there’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
something in your chest pulls tight.
then, softer,
“you do it too,” you say.
he looks up, quick. “do what?”
“notice things,” you say. “little things.”
your voice is steady. your stomach isn’t. you don’t even know what to call it.
he holds your gaze for a second.
then nods, once.
“yeah. i know.”
after that, neither of you says anything.
your shoulders brush again. neither of you moves away.
you’re suddenly very aware of it, of him, of the space between you, of how little of it there is.
you look out at the empty path ahead, heart beating a little too fast.
he stays close. doesn’t fill the silence.
and somewhere in the back of your mind, a thought starts to form.
you’ve been waiting for this.
for a moment, you let yourself wonder..
later that night, you open your laptop almost automatically. ao3. your usual comfort. you scroll into the fic.
the first few paragraphs feel normal. routine. then a line makes you pause.
she taps the pen twice before answering, like that somehow counts as thinking.
your stomach does a little flip.
you’ve done that exact motion before, in the library, in front of mike. just remembering your moments with him makes your heart flutter. when did you turn 12 again?
“just say it wrong first. you can fix it after.”
your chest feels warm, pulse quickening.
you’ve said that before, practicing a presentation with him, fumbling through the words, thinking he wasn’t was watching.
and that time in the library, when he leaned over your shoulder, murmuring almost the same thing.
it’s all so familiar. gestures, phrasing, little quirks… the laughs, the pen-taps, the hesitant smiles.
wait… this can’t be real.
these aren’t coincidences.
you can’t decide if this is creepy, or sweet.
every little tick, every pause, every movement you thought only you noticed is there, in words he typed.
you close the laptop, fingers brushing the edge of the desk, cheeks warm. your brain is buzzing with disbelief and excitement. he’s been paying attention. all of you.
you don’t text him. you don’t comment.
you just sit there, letting your heart slow slightly, and a silly, thrilling thought spins through your mind: he’s been here all along, quietly, unknowingly close, hidden in plain sight.
not really. you tried. pillow tucked under your chin, blankets tangled, room dark except for the faint glow of your laptop from hours ago. but you kept thinking about it. the fic. every line. every little motion, every sarcastic comment, every tiny tick he’d written in so carefully, like he’d been watching you for months.
you should have been embarrassed. mortified. instead, your chest kept tightening every time you remembered a scene. your fingers itched to scroll through it again.
by morning, you’re exhausted, eyes heavy, and somehow the campus already feels too bright. you trudge to your first class, backpack slipping from your shoulder, coffee lukewarm in your hand.
you spot him before he sees you, earbuds in, dark curls falling into his eyes, like he always does when he’s trying not to be noticed. your stomach twists, a tight, spinning knot that you can’t just ignore. “mike,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. he lifts his head, one earbud tugged halfway out, stops mid-step. “hey-” he says, slower this time, eyes flicking over you like he’s trying to place what’s off.
“so, are you thepaladin20?” you ask, letting the words land without softening them. he freezes entirely, shoulders stiff, like your voice just tripped some wire in his brain. “…what?” he murmurs, uncertain, his gaze darting between your face and the ground. you almost laugh at the thought of how absurd this moment is, almost turn back like it never happened, but you don’t.
“on ao3,” you continue, quieter now, “that’s you, right?” recognition creeps across his features slowly, confusion followed by that flicker of something sharper. “how do you-” he starts, cutting himself off mid-thought. you can see it all in his posture, the subtle tension, the faint, sharp inhale he can’t seem to control. he hadn’t expected this. not from you, not now, not at all.
“…oh,” he breathes, almost too quietly, letting it hang between you. you nod once, a quiet acknowledgment of the impossible. “i’ve been reading it,” you admit. it hits him slower than you want, a delayed reaction that makes his shoulders stiffen further. he looks away, hand brushing back through his hair like he’s trying to figure out which end of this he can grab. “…okay. yeah. that’s-” he huffs, a short laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “that’s great.”
“it’s good,” you say quickly, wanting to anchor him somewhere stable. “that’s not-”
“i didn’t think you’d see it,” he cuts in, fast, defensive but not angry. his words tumble out too quickly, colliding with his own uncertainty. “i mean, obviously, i didn’t think- i wasn’t trying to make it… weird.” your chest tightens, not with judgment but with that familiar, acute awareness of him.
“it’s not weird,” you murmur, and he glances at you like he doesn’t quite believe it, like he wants to but he’s not sure if he deserves it.
you step a fraction closer, small movement, intentional but almost invisible. “you wrote me into it,” you say, stating the truth without accusation. his jaw tightens. “i didn’t-” he starts, automatically, then falters. “…okay, yeah. i did. but it’s not-”
he stops, and you let the silence fill the space, letting him breathe into it. “not what?” you ask softly. he looks at you then, and for the first time in the day it feels like the guard is gone, even if just a little.
“it’s not supposed to be something you read,” he admits, voice low, hesitant. “why?” you ask, quietly, needing the answer. he hesitates longer than before, like every second is dangerous, then finally lets his gaze meet yours.
“i just needed somewhere to put it,” he says.
your breath catches. “put what?”
“…you.” the word comes out too small for how heavy it is.
everything stills for a moment.
you swallow, trying to process it all. it should feel overwhelming. instead, it feels quiet, careful, like the air itself is holding its breath.
you step closer without meaning to, letting the space shrink just a little. he doesn’t move away. you notice how his lips twitch, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure he should.
“you-i mean, i didn’t know you were reading it,” he says finally, voice low, like he’s testing the words out on the air before giving them to you. “you.. liked it?”
“i loved it,” you whisper, and the sound seems too small, but it lands between you anyway. he swallows, one hand brushing the back of his neck, the other fidgeting with the strap of his bag. every motion feels loud in the quiet, and your stomach twists again.
he laughs softly, awkward and breathy, like he can’t quite believe it either. “i… didn’t think anyone would… i mean, not like that.”
you tilt your head, letting the moment breathe. “like what?”
“like… like you noticing me in it,” he says, voice barely above a murmur. he looks everywhere but at your face, though you can feel his gaze catching yours in little flickers, like it keeps betraying him.
you smile, almost against your will, heart thudding. “it’s there,” you say simply. “every line, every little thing you wrote, it’s… you.”
he swallows again, finally looking straight at you, eyes sharp and soft all at once. “i didn’t mean to… put you in it. i just… i didn’t know how else.”
and suddenly you understand. it’s not showy or dramatic, it’s messy and small, but it’s real. his voice, his hands, the tiny crease between his brows when he’s nervous, it’s all him, just like the fic. and the fic is him, too, but more honest in ways he can’t be aloud.
you reach out, brushing a stray curl from his forehead without thinking. he freezes for a heartbeat, then lets it happen, and your fingers linger just a second too long. “i didn’t mind,” you murmur. “i liked it.”
he exhales sharply, relief and something else tangled in it. he takes a half-step closer, so close you can feel the warmth of his shoulder brushing yours. “you really mean that?” he asks.
“yes,” you say, quietly, heart in your throat.
and then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he leans in. not fast, not forceful, just a tilt, a slow press of lips to yours, soft and careful. your chest lifts, stomach twisting, everything inside you humming with that familiar, dizzying shock.
he pulls back just enough to see your face, eyes wide, uncertain, hopeful. “so… this is okay?”
you nod, a grin tugging at your lips, breath shaky. “more than okay.”
the document sat in your inbox like a challenge, like a little invitation you couldn’t refuse. mike’s name flashed in your notifications and your stomach did a weird flip. you opened it.
the fic. the one he’d been working on. the one that mirrored… well, you.
you settled onto your bed, laptop balanced on your knees, and started reading.
he was nervous in the text. every line careful. there were moments you recognized immediately, a sigh, a sarcastic comment, and other little gestures you’d mentioned in passing, not realizing he remembered them.
and then you noticed the tiny mistakes: a missing word here, a tense slip there.
so, naturally, you annotated.
“this line feels off — maybe change the word here?”
“watch the pacing here — he’d pause a beat before answering, not after.”
“also, i know you love adverbs but maybe just… not every sentence?”
and then you added one you couldn’t resist:
“ps. nice touch with the sarcasm. you’re sneaky.”
you hit send, heart racing. not from reading, not from noticing, but because mike would get this. mike would read this. mike.
almost immediately, a reply pinged.
“wow. okay. you’re brutal. thanks. also… the sarcasm note? noted. i hate you.”
you laughed, tapping a finger against your lips. “i call it constructive criticism. you’re welcome.”
you rolled your eyes but smiled, warmth creeping in your chest. you’d never thought a fic would do this, make you blush this hard.
later that night, he posts the fic. you refresh ao3, eyes flicking over the update. chapter uploaded. you start reading. and then you see it:
“thanks to my girlfriend for proofreading! sorry for putting you through that first draft *_* ”
you freeze. cheeks burn. fingers hover over the keyboard. you can’t decide whether to laugh, groan, or send him a million sarcastic emojis.
finally, you type in the comments:
“wow. thanks for the credit, mike. you’re lucky i like you.”
his reply is almost instant:
you sink back into your pillows, reading the chapter again, but this time it’s different. the words still hit, still land. but now every little detail, every carefully observed motion, every sarcastic aside feels… meaningful. personal.
and you realize it’s not just the fic anymore. it’s you and him, tangled up in words, in glances, in late-night edits. and it’s messy, and perfect.
