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â︾ pairing đ đ đ mike wheeler x cheerleader!reader
ę° đ˛ ęą synopsis đ đ đ tutoring a cheerleader is harder than any dungeon boss, mostly because mike keeps losing focus on math. or was it history? oh well.
part one. part three.
HE CANâT BELIEVE IT.
you. the cheerleader. the one with perfect hair and perfect smile and the routines that could hypnotize the entire bleachers into thinking you were actually the school itself. now youâre his. like, his, as in mike wheeler, freak, misfit, technically one of the people who used to roll eyes at the pep rallies and the drumline and the marching band nonsense. now heâs obsessed.
he used to think all uniforms were evil. a straight-up conspiracy. cheerleaders were propaganda. the school was propaganda. the football team, the band, the posters about âschool spiritâ plastered on every hallway wall were lies. liars. liars in polyester. liars in short skirts and high socks. then you happened, and now he actually kind of likes the uniform. not the uniform itself, thatâs still awful fabric and itchy and weirdly hot, but you in the uniform. the way you wear it, like itâs just part of your body and your whole energy and heâs allowed to touch it sometimes, sometimes just a brush of fingers over your shoulder or the waistband when youâre adjusting your skirt, and itâs fine. itâs fine. itâs fine.
he dated a superhero once and somehow this is still the coolest thing thatâs ever happened to him, which feels wrong, like he should be struck by lightning for even thinking it. but here he is, walking you to class everyday while people stare like heâs smuggled a priceless artifact out of a museum in his backpack.
heâs painfully aware of his posture now. his hair. his clothes. he owns the same jacket heâs had since eighth grade and suddenly heâs wondering if it looks stupid. he used to pride himself on not caring. caring was for people who peaked in high school. now he cares. a lot. he asked his mom how to âget lint off clothes without a rollerâ last night. humiliating. truly. sheâd looked at him over her coffee mug like she was trying to decide whether to laugh or ask follow-up questions and heâd immediately backtracked, said it was for dustin, which made it worse, because now his mother thinks dustin henderson is the kind of boy who sheds.
the point is: he was on guard. aggressively so.
the thing people get wrong is assuming this means heâs changed his mind, like dating you rewired him. like he suddenly believes in school spirit and authority and the basic goodness of institutions. absolutely not. mike wheeler remains deeply suspicious of anything with a uniform. cheerleaders. cops. government guys in windbreakers. anyone who looks like they got issued an outfit and a script and told to smile while enforcing rules. uniforms mean control. propaganda. lies. he learned that at twelve, and nothing since has convinced him otherwise.
he still hates pep rallies. still thinks the football team is a cult. still rolls his eyes at the posters about pride and tradition and excellence, because excellence according to who, exactly. he doesnât trust cops because heâs seen how useless they are. doesnât trust the government because, well, obviously. doesnât trust authority because authority has consistently proven it does not deserve trust.
you are the exception. the single glaring outlier in an otherwise airtight worldview.
it annoys him a little. not you but the fact that his brain short-circuits when you walk past in that uniform, because the uniform is still stupid. aggressive school branding. objectively evil. mike hates that his cynicism takes a knee when he sees you in your uniform. hates that he thinks, unironically, wow. he rationalizes it. youâre not the uniform, youâre talented. terrifyingly good at what you do. the uniform is just packaging. misleading packaging, like a government agency with a friendly name. except in this case, the product is actually good. exceptional, even. infuriatingly so.
the first time you hung out alone after that day you first spoke, actually alone, not in a hallway or a parking lot or with other people around, you sat on opposite ends of the couch like there was a line of tape down the middle. mike kept his hands folded in his lap, folded, like he was waiting for a principal to come in and accuse him of something. he nodded too much. made sure his knees didnât touch yours. he kept thinking: this is a prank. this is social experimentation. any minute now, someone is going to burst in and point and laugh and tell him he failed. he was painfully polite. doors held open from an unnecessarily far distance, offering you the better seat, asking before he did literally anything. âis this okay?â âdo you mind if iâ?â âsorry.â constantly sorry. you couldâve told him the couch was on fire and he wouldâve apologized for being in the way.
part of it was you. part of it was that you were a cheerleader, capital c, capital everything that had always stood for danger in his head. you were popular. mike had always assumed people like you had an agenda. he kept waiting for the angle. the moment where youâd reveal that you were bored, or slumming it, or proving a point to someone else. so he kept distance. literal, measurable distance. at one point he was sitting so far away from you that you asked if he needed more room, and he almost short-circuited trying to explain that no, he was fine, he just didnât want to be weird, which somehow came out sounding ten times weirder.
but then you kept⌠not doing anything.
you didnât make fun of him. you didnât push. you didnât even comment on how stiff he was being, which in retrospect was kind of saintly of you. you just talked. about practice. about how exhausting it is to be âonâ all the time. about how people think cheerleading is easy, or dumb, or automatic, when actually it hurts and takes work and focus and discipline. mike listened, and slowly, against his will, his brain started filing you under new categories. not propaganda. not enemy. not threat. just⌠person.
the second time you hung out he relaxed maybe five percent. enough that his shoulders dropped. enough that he stopped monitoring every inch of space between you. he still didnât touch you, but he stopped flinching when you shifted closer.
by the third time, the distance was gone. you sat close. your leg pressed against his. he noticed the way you tuck your feet under you when youâre comfortable, the way you lean in when youâre interested, the way your voice drops when youâre being honest. he realized, dimly, that if this was a trick, it was a bad one. too much effort. too much sincerity. too many small, unguarded moments.
the kiss happened fast. embarrassingly fast, considering how cautious heâd been. not even a full week of hanging out. you were laughing about something stupidâhe canât even remember whatâand then you werenât laughing anymore, and then you were very close, and then there was no distance left to manage. he froze for exactly half a second. old instincts screaming, cheerleaders are evil. this is a mistake. but then you kissed him anyway, and his brain just gave up. after that everything flipped.
the guard vanished. the over-politeness evaporated. it was like once he knew you were real he stopped holding himself back at all. suddenly he was everywhere, leaning into you, sitting too close, walking you to class and then walking you to your next class too, even when it made him late. you started showing up at his house and heâd forget to pretend to be normal, just drag you straight to his room and flop onto the bed like this was the most natural thing in the world.
when you two started dating it was as if someone reached into his chest and flipped a switch labeled self-control straight to off. suddenly thereâs no mental checklist. no measuring inches of space. he just exists next to you, with you. his arm slung around your shoulders like itâs been there forever. your legs tangled with his under tables. your backpack hooked over his chair because you forgot it and now itâs his problem, which he takes very seriously, and people notice immediately.
hawkins high is not subtle. hawkins high is a hive mind with lockers. the first time you walk in together, actually together, fingers linked, no plausible deniability, heads turn. whispers start before second period. by lunch itâs a full-blown phenomenon, because, objectively, this makes no sense.
he knows what they see when they look at him. skinny. perpetually unimpressed. almost always wearing the same shirt. hellfire club. d&d kid. mouthy. intense. not exactly⌠aspirational. heâs not bullied, not reallyânot anymoreâbut heâs filed away under background character by most of the school. tolerated, ignored, occasionally mocked if someoneâs feeling brave.
then thereâs you.
you, who people know. you, who gets waved at from across the cafeteria. you, who teachers smile at automatically. you, who looks like you belong on the glossy posters mike has been hating since freshman year. you, walking next to him like this is normal.
people stare like theyâre trying to spot the hidden camera. he hears things. not clearly, but enough. âis thatâ?â âno way.â âdidnât he used toâ?â âwhat?â
someone actually laughs once when you sit down with him at lunch. mike considers flipping them off. he doesnât, because you squeeze his knee under the table, grounding him, and suddenly the rest of the cafeteria feels very far away.
youâre the coolest person heâs ever met. full stop. smarter than people give you credit for. tougher than you look. talented in a way that actually takes work, not just applause. heâs seen you practice. seen the focus, the discipline. it blows his mind that people reduce you to smiles and skirts. he wants to tell everyone. wants to correct them. wants to say actually, she hates calculus. actually, sheâs really funny. actually, she listens to weird music and has strong opinions about movies and gets this crease between her eyebrows when sheâs concentrating.
mostly, he wants them to know you chose him. not as a joke. not as a phase. not because you lost a bet.
so mike wheeler, resident cynic, former cheerleader-hater, survivor of interdimensional hellscapes, is walking around life like heâs won something. like the upside down can do whatever it wants, vecna can haunt whoever he likes, hawkins can keep being awful and small and loud â- but mike has a hot, popular, terrifyingly cool cheerleader girlfriend who sits in his lap sometimes, kisses him, and looks at him like heâs not a loser at all. and honestly?
nothingâs topping that.
and it shows, unfortunately. constantly. mike is not subtle about it. he used to think he was, which in hindsight is hilarious. now he doesnât even pretend. he trails you like a loyal guard dog with a resting bitch face. he waits outside practice, sits on cold bleachers with his jacket zipped all the way up, pretending not to watch even though he knows your routine by heart now.
he talks about you. a lot.
not in a bragging way, he tells himself (its definitely in a bragging way). just⌠observational. did you know how hard cheerleading actually is? did you know practice is canceled this week? did you know she can do this thing where she lands perfectly every time? itâs important information. the party disagrees. dustin starts making noises every time mike brings you up. exaggerated sighs. fake gagging. lucas just raises an eyebrow and says âwe get it, man.â max tells him heâs being insufferable, which mike pretends to take as a compliment. will listens, but mike catches him smiling sometimes, fond and a little sad, like he recognizes the shape of this happiness even if itâs not his.
mike doesnât care. again. this keeps happening.
heâs too busy collecting memories with you. little things. stupid things. hes had years to make some with his dumb friends, now itâs time to hang out with his hot girlfriend, duh. the way you steal his fries even when you say youâre not hungry. the way you sit on the kitchen counter at his house. the way you laugh into his shoulder when he says something dry and mean about school, like youâre in on the joke now. he remembers the first football game you dragged him to. how he stood there, arms crossed, scowling out of principle, until you grabbed his hand and pulled him closer, shouting something supportive that made no sense to him but clearly meant everything to you. he remembers thinking that if anyone else had tried this, he wouldâve hated it. with you it felt like visiting a foreign country and deciding, reluctantly, that it wasnât so bad.
his friends are annoyed because heâs never around anymore. or when he is, heâs distracted. checking the time, wondering if youâre done with practice yet, offering to leave early so he can walk you home. and yeah, maybe thatâs unhealthy. maybe thatâs too much. mike wouldâve had opinions about it once. now he just shrugs. heâs survived worse obsessions. if this is what he getsâthis warm pull toward someone brilliant and popular and slightly intimidatingâheâs not giving it up. whatever. let them be annoyed. let them stare. let the world keep being awful.
heâs got you.
which is how he ends up standing on your porch on a thursday night with his backpack slung over one shoulder like an idiot, shifting his weight from foot to foot and staring at your front door. heâs early. obviously. heâs always early now. he told himself heâd aim for on time, which in mike-wheeler-logic means arriving seven minutes ahead and pretending that was accidental. he rang the doorbell once already and immediately regretted it, because now heâs worried it was too eager, but also worried that if he hadnât rung it you might think he forgot, which would be worse. so now heâs just waiting. listening. trying not to look like a stalker.
the tutoring thing was his idea. sort of. youâd mentioned, offhand, casual, not a big deal, that you were struggling in one of your classes. math, maybe. or chemistry. something with numbers. youâd said you might ask around, or that your parents would probably just hire someone, and mikeâs brain had immediately short-circuited.
absolutely not.
he didnât say it like that. he said it like, âi mean, i could help. if you want.â which was a lie, because it wasnât optional in his head. he was already imagining some random senior with a superiority complex explaining things wrong to you. or one of your many friends leaning too close over a textbook. unacceptable. mike is smart. mike knows how to explain things. mike is already here most of the time anyway.
yeah, you couldâve asked anyone. you know everyone. you couldâve snapped your fingers and had three volunteers, plus a backup. or your parents couldâve paid some grad student to come over with flashcards and a fake smile. but you said okay to him. you smiled and said, âreally? thatâd be amazing!â like it wasnât obvious heâd do literally anything you asked.
so here he is. on your porch. with notes. he actually made notes. like a nerd.
he blew off the party for this. didnât even feel bad. dustin had complained, lucas had given him a look, will had hesitated like he wanted to say something and then didnât. mike had already been halfway out the door. priorities have shifted. this is not a discussion. he checks his watch then immediately regrets it because now he feels impatient, which is stupid. you didnât do anything wrong. youâre probably just upstairs. changing. doing whatever cool, popular, cheerleader things you do before hanging out with him.
it still feels surreal. that heâs here because you need help. that you trust him with something that matters. that you want him around when youâre stressed, not just when things are fun. he likes that part more than he expected, feeling useful. chosen for something. he shifts again, glances down at his shoes, wonders if they look dumb on your porch specifically. finally the door opens and there you are. whatever irritation he was carryingâabout school, about hawkins, about the party, about standing outside like an idiotâjust drains out of him. instantly. you smell good. you always do. âhey, you.â you greet, smiling like youâre actually happy to see him.
mike feels stupidly victorious.
he steps inside and drops his bag by the wall without asking, not rude, just familiar, clocking the driveway on the way in, the absence of cars registering immediately. your parents are probably not home. or not yet. the house feels quieter because of it. he says, âi brought notes.â a little too fast, like he needs to justify his existence here beyond wanting to see you. the backpack on the floor might as well be proof of good intentions.
you laugh softly and tell him to come in all the way, and he follows you into the kitchen, where you automatically grab him a glass of water without asking. you always do. he drinks it like heâs parched, because he is, because he walked here thinking too hard. you ask if he wants to head upstairs, and he nods, already moving, already halfway there. heâs been in your room enough times now that the stairs donât feel intimidating. still, thereâs this thrill every time.
your room is big. mike had noticed that on the first visit and never quite gotten over it. high ceilings, soft lighting, posters on the walls, music, movies, things that feel like you instead of decoration. your trophies are lined up on a shelf, not front and center, like theyâre not the point. your bed is enormous, covered in blankets and pillows that look like they belong in a catalog. everything smells like you. itâs girly. unapologetically. pinks and creams and soft textures and things that mike wouldâve once dismissed as frivolous. now he just thinks itâs comfortable. safe. this room is where he comes to be himself. he doesnât even hesitate, just flops down on your bed on his back, arms out, staring at the ceiling like heâs earned this. this is his reward for surviving the day. the mattress swallows him a little, and he exhales, long and deep, the tension finally draining out of his shoulders.
he could stay like this forever. flat on his back staring at your ceiling. not thinking. which is, statistically, rare for him. you sit down at your desk and start rummaging through your backpack, papers rustling, calculator clacking against wood, and mike squints at you upside-down like this is already an insult. studying. right. that was the premise. the excuse. the flimsy narrative justification for him being here. he watches you open a textbook. âwhat are you doing?â he asks, like the concept has escaped him.
you look over your shoulder. âgetting my stuff?â you roll your eyes, which he takes as a challenge. he sits up, crawls toward you across the bed, grabs the back of your shirt and tugs until you lose balance and fall backward onto him. you let out this surprised laugh that immediately dissolves into giggling, and mike grins like heâs won something. âmike,â you say, trying and failing to sound serious. âweâre supposed to study.â
âyeah,â he counters easily, arms already around you, chin tucked into your shoulder. âiâm studying you.â
heâs like this now. touchy. clingy. physical in a way that feels compulsive. he doesnât even realize heâs doing it half the time, hands finding your waist, your arm, your hands. like if heâs not touching you, you might disappear. heâs aware that this probably says something concerning about him psychologically. he chooses not to unpack that.
you wriggle a little, trying to get out of his hold. âseriously. mike.â
âright,â he says, blinking like heâs been snapped out of a trance. âsorry.â he loosens his grip immediately, guilt flickering across his face. he never wants to be that guy. the one who doesnât listen. âi forgot.â which is mortifying because he really did forget. completely. within the two minutes it took to walk to your room.
you sit up properly this time, pulling your notes onto the bed between you. he follows, begrudgingly, propping himself up against your headboard. he looks at the open page and immediately feels his soul leave his body. calculus. of course itâs calculus. numbers. symbols. squiggles that look like someone sneezed on the page. mike has always been good at math but even he thinks this is stupid. you glance at him, already bracing yourself. âokay, um. iâm really bad at this. like, really. so sorry in advance.â
âyouâre not bad,â he says immediately, the kind of tone he uses when heâs absolutely sure. heâs already shifting closer, knee bumping yours. âcalculus is just stupid.â
he gestures vaguely at the textbook. you smile a little at that. mike wheeler, always the protector. even from yourself.
your room is quiet, late afternoon light slanting in through the window, curtains half-drawn, everything washed in this soft gold that makes you look unreal. you look nice. you always look nice. even now. especially now. hair pulled back loosely, a shirt thrown on thatâs probably expensive but pretending not to be. cheer practice glitter still clinging to your skin like evidence of another life. your room is decorated the way everything about you is, intentional without being showy. framed photos with friends. ribbons tucked into corners. a few handmade things that mike clocks as important because you wouldnât keep them otherwise. heâs sitting in the middle of all of it, trying very hard not to think about how strange it is that thisâthis space, this girlâis his now.
youâre not dumb. mike knows that. youâre just not⌠academic in the way teachers worship. youâre talented in other directions. physical, artistic, social. you learn with your body, not numbers on a page. mike gets it. heâs helped you before. technically. âhelped.â copying homework. checking answers. walking you through just enough to get by. he doesnât mind. if he can make your life easier, why wouldnât he? but this is different. this is real tutoring. sitting down, slowing it all the way down, actually teaching.
he takes the pencil from your hand without asking, gentle about it, and taps the first problem. âokay,â he starts, switching gears. focused now. âwhere do you want to start?â
you shrug. âum. like. the beginning. pretend i know nothing.â
âperfect,â he jokes. âthatâs my favorite audience.â
he starts explaining. not fast, not show-off smart. he breaks it down into pieces. uses words instead of symbols first, checks your face every few seconds to see if youâre still with him. when you furrow your brow, he stops and rephrases. when you nod too quickly, he backs up, suspicious. heâs good at this. heâs always been good at this. patient in a way people donât expect from him. he wants you to actually understand, not just get through it.
you lean closer as he talks, chin tucked into your shoulder without thinking. your hair brushes his cheek. he inhales and immediately regrets it because now heâs distracted. you smell goodâalwaysâand it makes concentrating harder than it should be. he adjusts, forces himself back on track. professional. tutor mike. not boyfriend mike who wants to kiss you and forget derivatives exist. âdoes that make sense?â he asks.
ââŚi think so,â you reply, hesitant.
âokay,â he says. âwalk me through it.â
you do. slowly. you mess up halfway through and immediately tense, ready to apologize again. âhey,â mike says, stopping you with a light touch on your wrist. âthat part was right. you just skipped a step.â
you nod like that helps. it does not help.
you try again. you really do. pencil moving slow, tongue caught between your teeth, brow furrowed so hard mikeâs pretty sure youâre at risk of a headache. you get halfway through and then take a hard left turn into nonsense. mike watches it happen in real time, like witnessing a car drift calmly off the road. ââŚokay,â he says carefully, when you stop. âso. walk me through why you did that.â
you shrug, already shrinking in on yourself. âi donât know. i thought thatâs what you said.â
he exhales, but not in an annoyed way, more like heâs resetting. heâs used to frustrationâhis own, other peopleâsâbut this isnât that. this is you trying and not trusting yourself. âitâs fine,â he says immediately, because youâre already looking at him like you expect disappointment. âyouâre not wrong-wrong. youâre just⌠skipping ahead.â
âiâm sorry, i justâiâm really bad at this.â
âyou keep saying that,â mike mutters, flipping the pencil around in his fingers. âand itâs still not true.â
you try again. and again. and again. each time getting a little closer, each time getting tripped up by a different thing. mike explains it three different ways. then a fourth. then a fifth, increasingly unhinged. âokay,â he says finally, tapping the page. âforget the numbers for a second.â
you look at him suspiciously. âthatâs⌠all it is.â
âyeah, well. humor me.â he leans back against the headboard, thinking. gears turning. mike wheeler does not give up on puzzles. ever. heâs beaten worse odds than this. âthink of it like,â he pauses, searching, âcheer.â
you perk up immediately. traitor.
âwhen youâre doing a routine,â he continues, gesturing vaguely, âyou donât just jump to the last move. thereâs a sequence. if you skip a step, you fall on your face. same thing here. each step sets up the next one. you canât just⌠vibe your way through it.â
you glare at him. âi vibe through a lot of things.â
âyeah,â he says dryly. âand look how thatâs going for you right now.â
you shove his shoulder lightly. he grins, unrepentant. âokay,â he says, softer now. âtry it again. explain it to me.â
you do. painfully slow. you say each step out loud. mike nods along, correcting you gently when you veer off. you hesitate before the last part, clearly bracing yourself. ânope,â he says quickly. âyouâve got it. keep going.â
you do.
you write the final answer and then freeze, staring at it like it might explode. ââŚis that right?â you ask.
mike looks it over once. twice. itâs right. he doesnât even think about it, he just leans in and kisses you. quick, warm, right on the lips. proud, like congratulations just physically escaped him. when he pulls back youâre staring at him like he just broke your brain. âyou did it!â he says, grinning. âsee? not stupid.â
your mouth opens, then closes. color creeps up your neck then settles warm and obvious in your cheeks. you look back down at the page like it betrayed you. âwhat,â mike questions, immediately clocking it. he knows that look. he lives for that look. âwhat?â
ânothing.â you defend too fast, already reaching for your pencil again like busywork might save you.
he smiles slowly. smug. dangerous. âyou liiiiked that.â he notices, voice pleased, like heâs just solved a mystery.
you scoff, still not looking at him. âshut up.â
âwow,â mike says. âthat wasnât even a denial.â you finally glance at him, flustered, and he feels it, that spark of victory. the kind that says yeah, youâre his girlfriend and he gets to do this. âokay,â he continues, tapping the notebook. ânext problem.â
you groan softly but comply, shoulders brushing his as you lean in again. mike watches you work through it, correcting you here and there, being a model tutor. ignoring the part of his brain thatâs already thinking about the next kiss like itâs scheduled.
you get it right again. he doesnât hesitate this time either. just leans in and kisses you, a little longer now. still sweet, still restrained, but definitely intentional. you laugh into it when he pulls back, breathless and disoriented. âmikeââ
âwhat?â he says innocently. âyouâre doing great.â
you stare at him. âyouâre bribing me.â
âencouraging,â he corrects. âbig difference.â
and okay, maybeâmaybeâthis is partially about motivation. but also mike is not blind to the fact that kissing you repeatedly while pretending itâs academic support is efficient. thereâs nothing technically wrong with it. no rules against it. heâs helping. youâre learning. everyone wins.
you move on to the next one. mess it up. no kiss. you sigh dramatically. âwow. okay. that hurt.â
âsee?â mike says. ânow youâre invested.â
you glare. âyouâre evil.â
you try again slower, more careful. you talk through it out loud like he taught you. he listens, nodding, correcting one tiny thing. you land on the right answer. you donât even look up this time, you just wait. mike laughs softly and kisses you anyway, because obviously. heâs not a monster. somewhere along the way you end up sitting between his legs, back against his chest, notebook balanced precariously. his arms are around you under the pretense of âpointing at things.â he kisses your temple. your cheek. your lips when you get something right. sometimes when you almost get something right, which he decides counts.
studying has become⌠flexible.
mike sees no issue with this system. youâre happier, less embarrassed, actually engaging, and he gets to touch you, kiss you, feel you relax against him like this is where you belong. which, yeah. it is. heâd help you with anything. calculus. homework. life. whatever you need. even if it means bending the rules a little. especially if it means more kisses.
this becomes the rhythm. problem, attempt, commentary. kiss when you succeed. mild disappointment when you donât. âyouâre learning,â he notices at one point, quieter now. âi can tell.â
âbecause of the kisses?â you tease.
âbecause youâre actually thinking,â he says. âthe kisses are just⌠supplemental.â
âsupplemental.â you repeat, amused, like youâre testing the word out.
mike nods seriously. âvery important part of the curriculum.â
he glances back down at the page and immediately regrets it, because this problem has been sitting there for an embarrassing amount of time now and it is⌠not going well. itâs one of those optimization questions. rates of change. maximize this, minimize that. a paragraph of text pretending to be helpful while actually just being condescending.
he squints at it. reads it again. then, slower, like the problem might get scared and simplify itself. it does not. âokay,â he says finally, rubbing his face. âso. pretend this is a story problem. because it is. a really mean one. weâre trying to find the maximum,â he explains, tapping the paper. âwhich means derivative equals zero. thatâs the rule. donât argue with me, i didnât invent calculus.â
you smile, but when you try to apply it, you get stuck again. five minutes pass. then ten. mike shifts. stretches his legs. glances at the clock. heâs not annoyed at you, heâs annoyed at the problem. and maybe a little at calculus as a concept. he has half a mind to write a letter to isaac newton and tell him this was a mistake.
âokay,â he says, softer now. âtalk to me. where did it lose you?â
you hesitate, then point at a line. âhere. everything after that just⌠stops making sense.â
he leans closer, arm sliding around you again automatically, and walks you through it step by step. he reframes it three different ways because he refuses to let a stupid math problem win. you try again. still wrong. you groan, dropping your head back against his shoulder. âiâm sorry, i swear iâm trying.â
âi know,â mike says immediately. no sarcasm. no teasing. âi can tell.â
and thenâbecause heâs bored, and because youâre right there, and because his brain has officially decided this is close enoughâhe tilts his head and presses a kiss to your lips, more comfort than reward. you laugh softly, surprised. âmike.â
âwhat? morale boost.â
you turn a little, smiling up at him, and he kisses you again, still gentle, nothing dramatic, just incapable of not touching you when youâre within reach. thatâs where the problem starts. the kiss lingers a second longer this time. then another. then he tilts his head without really deciding to, like his body is voting and his brain is outnumbered. how hard is it to just keep tutoring. really. how hard.
his hand comes up to your jaw automatically, thumb tracing that small arc under your ear. a motion heâs done enough times now that it feels habitual, domestic, like grabbing his jacket off the chair. he kisses you again, softer, slower, and somewhere in the back of his mind a tiny voice tries to remind him about math. that voice is immediately ignored. you make a small soundâsurprised, amusedâand he takes that as permission, because of course he does. mike has always been terrible at moderation. if something is good, he leans into it. if something is bad, he fixates. this is good. very good.
he pulls you a little closer and his brain offers up a completely reasonable justification: studying has clearly plateaued. diminishing returns. this is practically time management. (also: youâre his girlfriend. touching you is allowed. encouraged, even.) the notebook slides an inch to the side. then another. he keeps kissing you unhurried, like heâs got nowhere else to be. which, to be fair, he doesnât. he already blew off the party. might as well commit.
the thing about mike is that heâs always been bad at stopping once he starts. games. arguments. plans. feelings. thereâs a momentum to him, a tendency to lean forward instead of back, and right now that momentum is very clearly carrying him in one direction. you shift, maybe to sit up straighter, maybe to grab the notebook back, heâs not entirely sure, but his hand settles at your waist and suddenly youâre tipping backward, laughing softly as you land against the pillows. he braces himself over you without really thinking about it, one arm planted beside your head, the other still warm at your side. thereâs a split second where his brain tries to check in. is this okay. are we going too far. should weâ
you kiss him again, answering all of that without words, and the internal committee adjourns indefinitely. his thoughts scatter. useful ones, at least. whatâs left is sensation: the way your hands curl into the front of his jacket, the familiar give of the mattress beneath his knees. itâs not frantic, it never really is with him. itâs focused. intent. like this is the most important thing happening in the world, and for now, maybe it is. he pulls back for air, forehead dropping briefly to yours. breathes. laughs softly, because of course this is how this went. âwe are terrible.â he murmurs, half to himself.
you smile up at him, a little dazed, and say something about studying, about responsibility, about how you were supposed to be learning calculus. âwe did learn,â mike says earnestly. âyou learned derivatives. i learned that kissing you improves morale.â this is the kind of logic that has gotten him grounded before. the kind that sounds airtight in his head and absolutely ridiculous out loud. heâs aware of this. he proceeds anyway. he kisses you again, slower now, like there isnât a clock ticking somewhere, like hawkins hasnât taught him that good moments are usually brief. he hates that part of himself, the one always waiting for the drop, but right now itâs quiet. drowned out by you.
he tells himself theyâll go back to the homework. in a minute. after this kiss. or the next one. soon. âokay,â he says, pulling back with a sigh like heâs forcing himself to be responsible. âback to work. before i completely abandon my duties.â
and yeah, maybe heâs kissing you more than necessary. maybe the rewards are a little unbalanced. maybe heâs using calculus as an excuse to keep you close. but mike wheeler has faced monsters from another dimension. heâs allowed this.
and honestly? if this is studying, he hopes you never get good at math.
based off these two requests. <3 i got them and my brain went what if⌠both?? so here we are!! hope it feels like the best of both worlds âĄâĄ volume two dropped how we feeling because WOWWW đ!!!
STARTED 12.27.2025. POSTED 12.27.2025.
â â¸â¸ââmasterlistââ.áââđđ
ÂŠď¸ latedeparture
this whole series is so cute this part had a special place in my heart i love mike wheeler so much guys
