You, a poor jewellery maker from Ba Sing Se’s Lower Ring, sneak into a royal ball for inspiration, only to captivate Firelord Zuko with a single dance before fleeing into the night.
Armed only with a memory of a lotus hairpin and a forgotten sketchbook, Zuko becomes determined to uncover your identity...
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kinda cinderella au but different, yearning!zuko, kinda stalkerish behaviour from zuko, no use of y/n, fluff, kissing, angst if you squint, slight suggestive themes, non-bender!reader
w.c: 9.5k
The music was beautiful, but loud. It made it hard to concentrate on what you had come here to do.
Another ball held within the Royal Palace, which were becoming more common with each year that had passed since the Avatar had ended the hundred-year war. It was a sign of good fortune for the city, particularly the elite of the Middle and Upper Rings. Even your home in the Lower Ring had seen some prosperity in the last few years. Food was more plentiful, people seemed happier, and even the crime rates had dropped. Things had been looking up.
Fashion trends changed quickly, and one had to adapt to what the high-society folks deemed cool.
Your family’s jewellery business had once been famous. So famous that they’d had a shop in the Upper Ring, where all the rich residents would go to buy their jewellery for gatherings just like this. Whether it was wedding rings for their brides, pearls for their mistresses, or even the Earth King’s ceremonial mianguan, they had been revered as the best jewellers in the Earth Kingdom.
Verdant Jewels.
Forgotten, of course. Like many businesses during the Hundred-Year War, with the Fire Nation cutting off supply lines and destroying over half of the mining villages across the land.
You had never seen any of of your family's old prosperity, and it may as well not even have existed. But the skills passed down through your family, finally landing in your hands had not wavered, unlike the money. You had once seen it as pointless. Starving, unable to fight back without the gifts of bending... you could have laughed in the faces of your ancestors.
But discovering that skill to fire metal, twisting and tinkering with even the smallest scraps and slivers borrowed from the blacksmith, had proven to be your saving grace. It was what stood between you and quietly fading away in some alley of the Lower Ring, with an empty stomach and no one to remember you.
It started as simple chain bracelets, which at first you'd give away for free to the little girls of the neighbourhood. Then their mothers caught wind, and by that stage you'd grown just proficient enough to set small, pretty stones inside tiny prongs of metal at the cusp of bracelets, necklaces, and even rings. They were uneven, with rough edges and symmetry far from balanced. One day, you were told they had charm. It had been enough to fill you with confidence to keep going. The mothers had demanded you begin charging for them, and from then, you had been able to set up a humble stand on market square and sell them for a copper piece each. It was enough.
Your parents had always talked about the incredible designs created by Verdant Jewels. Sharp, gem-encrusted hairpins shaped like the delicate neck beak of a swan, engraved bangles of the purest jadeite, heavy golden necklaces dripping with every jewel imaginable littered their stories, and even they had never laid eyes on them. Scattered across the Upper Ring, deemed out of fashion and forgotten about in their chests and drawers. All that remained were stories, of a legacy you were struggling to reclaim.
It was important to remain aware of changing style among the upper class, as it influenced the money-spending of the Lower Ring. And it hadn't been easy gaining an invite to the Upper Ring- you owed it all to a Earth Kingdom commander on patrol, who had spotted a set of glass droplet earrings hanging on your market stall and thought they would be perfect for his wife. She had clearly been impressed, and invited you to advertise your wares to her in her personal home. The house itself had been intimidating, never mind the task of stealing an invite to the Earth King's ball, thrown in honour of some special guest, after you had spotted it sitting on the lady's desk.
It was a miracle they hadn't come after you, or that the soldiers at the palace doors had not checked to ensure you actually were Mrs Lin. They had accepted the invitation without protest, and in a matter of moments you entered the dazzling ballroom.
The wide hall stretched out, its golden ceiling supported by carved pillars of warm stone carved with winding patterns of mountains, vines, and flowers, looking as though they had been rooted there, rather than built.
At first, the floor looked like a glimmering lake, but the moment you stepped on its smooth solidness, you realised it was actually jade. Laid in sweeping circular patterns which echoed the city walls, and illuminated by the light of the golden lanterns, all hung at various heights, it glowed.
Like sunlight through a leaf, you pondered. Perhaps a necklace of silver leaves, each one unique, all linked together with a flower at its cusp...
Your eyes fell onto the raised dais at the north of the hall, where the seat of the Earth King rested. It made an impressive picture, with the backdrop of perfectly painted mountains and various animals- platypus bears, turtle ducks and badgermoles made it all the more realistic and reminiscent of everything the Earth Kingdom stands for. The clouds of the painting swirled around its mountains, cresting over the dais, where two men stood.
Both were instantly recognisable, despite the fact you'd never seen them in your life.
The Earth King wore robes of muted green and cream, a beautiful string of jade around his neck and gilded glasses perched at his nose. He smiled down at his people, who were mingling in various spots across the jade flooring and enjoying the endless spread of delicacies you wanted to bundle up and hand out to the people of the Lower Ring.
Your eyes didn't linger on the Earth King. It was incredibly easy to forget he was even there, when compared to the Fire Lord who stood at his side.
He was as impressive as the stories, the ones that had made it through the Ba Sing Se walls.
Once a banished prince, he had well and truly reclaimed his honour. He shone with it, from the ruby red of his robes to the gleaming golden headpiece adorning his hair, which was the most impressive shape of rising flames. You couldn't even begin to imagine how old it was, how much skill it would take to fire gold into that blazing shape. Not even the scar over his left eye and upper cheek marred his glow.
A line of people queued to speak to him. You doubted you would ever be able to get close enough to Fire Lord Zuko to get a proper look at the crown of the Fire Nation, so you settled on weaving through the throng of attendees, catching glimpses of their hairpins, necklaces and earrings and recording each one in your mind. Inspiration was the food of artists, and tonight, inspiration would put food on your table.
You shoved as many jiaozi in your face as possible and continued to work, subtly sketching away in a scrap of parchment all the designs that came to mind. At one point, you had even found yourself tracing the engravings of the pillars, the vine patterns too beautiful to ignore. The edges of the room are easy to cling to, and offer opportunities not only to observe jewellery trends, but how the other half truly live.
"Excuse me."
Your eyes darted up at the voice. You hadn't even noticed the people around you went quiet. It was obvious why, when Fire Lord Zuko stood before them.
Your stared at him, the parchment and charcoal long hidden up your sleeve. You became eerily aware of every sensation- the shift of your stolen clothes against you, the tightness of the shoes, and the gentle caress of the dangling glass droplets of your hairpin against your nape.
"Dance with me."
For a moment, you wanted to glance behind you and look for the person he was talking to. Because surely, he was just looking straight through you. Surely, the Lord of the Fire Nation had not looked at you. had not spoken to you. And he'd spoken in a way you'd never assumed a noble would.
But his eyes were definitely on you. And he was waiting.
Panic flared underneath every inch of your skin, as your mouth moved without a single sound coming out. And the worst thing? He waited.
Eventually, you remembered that you have in fact spoken before (many times, in fact), and should be speaking right now.
"I- uh, I don't... why?"
There was the tiniest hint of a smile that pulled at his lips. "I think you're the only person in this room who hasn't come to talk to me."
Had he been watching you? You glanced around at the crowd, who were still dancing and eating and enjoying the rich atmosphere, but still casted sidelong, observant glances towards the Fire Lord. It was then you noticed the sheer amount of young women at the ball.
With the sketchbook a feeling like a stone weight in your sleeve, and knowing deep down you should just refuse and run... you nodded. He was the Fire Lord, and you had to blend in. Rejecting the Fire Lord would be sure to raise eyebrows and stir suspicion.
Zuko's arm was warm, solid, underneath his robes. It brought you a sense of comfort over the pounding dread in your heart, which only amplified as he led you to the centre of the ballroom. You looked up at him in panic.
"I don't know how to dance," You say dumbly, cursing yourself for getting caught up in the lie. It had been far too easy to. Backtracking, you pretend to actually listen to the dramatic change music over the roaring in your eardrums. "Well, not this one. Ba Sing Se has many... variations of dance."
Zuko's lips twitched up again. It distracted you from the way the dissonant conversations quieten, and the way he placed his hand tentatively on your waist.
His head lowered slightly towards you. "I asked them to play this one. It's from my home. I'll show you how."
The energy of the music the musicians now played grew like a steady heartbeat, opposing your own. The strings of the pipa felt as though they were snapping into place, fast and powerful.
Once the sharp flutes began, Zuko started to lead.
Your steps faltered immediately- a mere fraction of a second, but it feels like enough.
His hand tightened at your waist, the other coming to gently grasp your hand, and a collective gasp and mutter runs through the onlookers. By some miracle, he'd made it look as though he had pulled you into him, instead of letting them notice your fault.
“This isn’t—” you start, then stop yourself. Not this style, you almost said. Another half-truth, not quite a complete lie.
The music swelled, the drums settling into a steady, unyielding cadence. Around you, the other dancers seemed to adjust seamlessly into sharper turns, exact steps. Men and women who had grown up in halls like these, living with the luxury of learning to dance rather than to simply survive.
“I know,” he said quietly, carefully yet confidently leading you into a sharp turn which had you clutching at his hand. They remained clasped together, both yours and his elbows bent, as though raising your joint fists in prayer. If the stories were true, he was an incredible fire bender. The best, perhaps. You imagined columns of flame billowing out from his palm, and your own grew sweaty.
You blinked, looking away from your feet for the longest stretch of time since the dance had began.
There was no judgment in his expression. No embarrassment, no irritation. Just that same searching look, which made you feel incredibly see-through. He was royalty, and could probably tell a peasant from a mile away. Still, he didn't say anything.
Your next step came too late, your turn slightly off-rhythm. Heated embarrassment crawls up your neck. You shouldn’t have agreed to this, you knew you shouldn’t have. You wondered if there was still time to slip out. Perhaps no one had gotten a proper look at your face except for him, and it wasn't like he'd chase after you.
“I can stop,” you muttered under your breath, pulling back and attempting to dissuade him from holding on. “You shouldn't have asked me to dance, there are plenty of others-"
His grip shifted on both your waist and hand, strong enough to keep you exactly where you are.
“No.” His word was quiet, but firm.
You couldn't even still your body to calm your mind, caught between the urge to flee and the fact that you were in the centre of the Earth King's ballroom with the Fire Lord’s hands on you.
The drums pressed on, steady and unforgiving to your predicament. You actually felt sick. It was getting too complicated. You were just meant to slip in, take a few sketches, then leave.
He shook his head softly, guiding you into a complicated stepping spin. When you stumbled, he was quick to cast the bottom half of his robes out to distract any onlookers from noticing it.
“You to don't need to follow the music, you know,” he told you. “Just follow me.”
You started to protest. “I’m not—” you started, then stop.
You weren't even a dancer. Not a noble. You're not supposed to be here.
“Just follow me."
It was like looking into his eyes, two golden gems of amber, placing you under some kind of spell. It was too late to back out now, and perhaps it was easier just to follow along with the lie. So you stepped with him, mirroring his movements as best you could.
At first, it felt slightly off, as though you were pushing against a current rather than flowing along with it. The rhythm was incessant, pressed against the edge of your awareness. But you began to step where he guided you, rather than following the demanding music.
The air between you grew charged with something, as the world seemed to narrow to the sliver of space between your bodies. When your next turn landed much cleaner than the last few, you let out a breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding.
You find yourself looking up at him. A risky move.
"There," he said, quietly. It had been a mistake to look at him, because that's when you noticed the tension in his shoulders, and the way his focus never once drifted, not to the crowd or any watching eyes, but fixed on you.
You never stumbled the rest of the dance.
The final note strikes, and the world rushes back in. Applause, polite for the most part, but then it grew louder for him. The Fire Lord.
That was when you realised his hand was still clasping yours. If he looked any closer, he was sure to notice the scars that dotted it- various burns and cuts from hot, sharp metal, forged in the corner of a dirty blacksmith's shop. Certainly not the hand of noble Lady Lin.
“Firelord Zuko—”
“A remarkable display—”
“Your partner—who is she?”
You hand went rigid in his, feeling its fiery warmth one last time before you pulled it from his grasp. The look of concern he had towards you was a grateful gesture, but you thought nothing of it. You couldn't, not really.
"What is it? A re you alright?"
You shook your head, taking a step back. Panic bit through your words as you look nervously at the approaching noble men and women, who hoped to praise Fire Lord Zuko and his mysterious dance partner.
"I can't," you started, taking another step back. Then another. You clutched your hand to your chest, as though you could still feel his palm pressing against it. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"
You quickly realised there was no possible way to explain. No way that wouldn't get you arrested and sentenced for impersonation and mingling with nobility under false pretences. The Dai Li could be cruel. Inhumane with their punishments.
So you turned, and ran. Quick enough that all you hear is a "Wait!", before you were swallowed by the crowd. Shifting bodies created gaps just big enough for you to slip through, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out the Fire Nation melody now being played by the musicians. You kept your head down, determined to get out before they stop you, before he caught up.
Your breathing finally began to to calm after you'd scaled the wall, back into the Lower Ring. Back to where you belonged.
The next morning, at the first light of dawn, you stepped into the blacksmith shop, ready to take your place at the smaller forge in the corner. You had barely slept last night, tossing and turning on your bedroll, haunted by amber eyes and a warm, gentle hand.
It was only after you had heated the forge and gathered the metal scraps, that you realised what had gone missing.
Your sketchbook.
Zuko stared at where you had disappeared from his sight, his jaw set.
People crowded him, and for once he wished he could go back to his defiant, rude childhood self and tell them all to fuck off and leave him alone. But it wouldn't bode well for the ongoing talks for the construction of the future Republic City- something he desperately needed the Earth King's approval on.
He was stuck trying to make sense of it, they way you had changed your mind, the way your voice had become so panicked, eyes wide with terror. But something shifted near his feet, and he tears his eyes away from where he's last seen your disappearing form.
He picked up the small, worn sketchbook, turning it over in his hands. Just by first glance, it certainly did not belong to any of these people. His thumb brushed over the faint indentations in the leather, where fingertips had spent a long time holding. His scar tingled.
Curiosity had always gotten the better of him.
Placing the sketchbook in the sleeves of his robes, he quickly dismissed himself for the evening, bidding goodnight to Earth King Kuei and his many guests and a promise to meet in the morning for more construction talks.
He carefully slipped into a dark, empty hallway, with his back pressed against the cool stone of a hidden alcove, he opened the sketchbook. A flame ignited in his palm, held not too close to the sketchbook for fear of setting it alight.
Page after page was filled with drawings of various jewellery. Earrings, necklaces, arm cuffs, rings, hairpins... some sketches were more detailed than others, but each was borne from a careful hand, which captured all angles of each piece. Some had been crossed out, with scribbled notes beside them- metal too expensive, stone slips and needs better setting, too thin, bends under pressure.
Another note beside a familiar-looking hairpin caught his eye.
The hairpin had a design of twisting vines, with a lotus flower in bloom cresting at the top. Beads, labelled as being glass, dangled from the flower, looking like dripping dew drops.
Beside the hairpin, a charcoal scrawl read, imperfection makes it more alive. Final version- keep this one.
He continued to pore over the little sketchbook, searching with keen eyes for the slightest mark that could be a signature, an address of a home or shop, but to no avail.
He sat in the bed of the grand guest room within the Earth Palace, silk blankets pooling around his waist, firelight highlighting the yellowish pages and shining a slight glow over his skin. He imagined that hand he held, the hand of his mystery woman, the way it clutched and held on to him. She did not behave the way woman at the Earth Kingdom or Fire Nation behaved. She had been nervous, flighty. He had seen the way she'd weaved through the crowd, and had only looked at him once. Why had she hidden herself away?
It had been wrong of him to pull her into the centre of that jade floor, and subject her to the stares and whispers of nobles and officials. Even King Kuhei had asked him, when the night was over, who that delightful young woman he'd danced with was. It had annoyed him.
Zuko threw his head back onto the pillows, throwing an arm over his face and letting out a heavy sigh.
Who were you?
Where were you?
A lot of things in his life had left him. Some things had stayed away, for the best. And some things had come back to him.
He decided that the mystery jewellery maker would be one of the latter.
The guards standing at his bedroom doors practically jumped out of their skin when he threw the doors open, fixing them with a hard stare. He'd always been very good at giving orders.
"Take this and make copies of every page. If a civilian recognises these pieces, you will inform me immediately."
By the next day, over one hundred civilians had come forward after seeing the copies of the sketchbook pages, claiming to recognise the jewellery in their own collections. But with every house he visited, his hopes of finding you dwindled. Ba Singe Se was the largest city in the world, and clearly filled with people who just wanted to waste his time.
This had been the twenty-third house today, and once again, the noble lady and her husband had laid out the entirety of their jewellery boxes. Gems, gold, and jade shone, and each piece was elaborate and beautifully designed. All flawless, technically perfect. Expensive. But they all felt... empty. Crafted to impress, but not to mean anything.
Not like— His jaw tightened. Not like yours.
Zuko stood, the others in the living room standing with him, with a heavy sigh. He tucked the sketchbook back into his sleeve, before offering a polite smile to the lady and her husband.
"Thank you for your hospitality. I do not think these pieces match the ones I am looking for. Farewell."
Two more days passed in the same way.
House after house, each one boasting an impressive collection of jewels, but less impressive results. Zuko grew more frustrated, spending his nights getting it out of his system by firebending in his private courtyard within the Earth Palace. After accidentally setting several peonies alight, he'd sulked back to his room, turning the sketchbook over in his hands.
It was on the fourth day that something finally turned up.
Once again, he'd been visiting houses to try to match the sketches with the ones owned by the rich families of Ba Sing Se. The routine had gotten thin, as well as his patience. His chances of finding you were growing slimmer.
Mrs Chen, the lady of the house, had fussed over him like a grandmother, wailing in protest when he'd poured his own tea. Her jewellery laid our between them, but he didn't need to compare them against the sketches- they'd been burned into his mind, after several sleepless nights.
Mrs Chen's jewellery collection was much smaller than the other sixty-three families he had visited. She'd carried the wooden box in herself, and with a smug smile she'd begun to tell him the story why.
"I only collect rare items, as you can see," she waved a wrinkled hand over the necklaces, rings and hairpins. "I only keep what is worth keeping."
For a moment, Zuko's disappoint reached a chasm. It was the same as all the others.
But then his breath hitched.
It wasn't the most elaborate piece in the collection, not did it boast the most gems. It was lotus flower hairpin, and he'd seen it before. It had sat in your hair, holding it up away from your neck, and the beads cascading from it had swayed against your nape as you danced.
The only differences, he noticed when he'd carefully picked it up, was that the metal seemed of higher quality. A pink gemstone was nestled in the bud of the lotus, and each of the beads were diamond rather than glass.
Zuko turned it over, once, twice, three times before he asked, "This one. Where did you get it?"
Mrs Chen rubbed her chin. "That's an old piece, one of the first in my collection. It had belonged to my mother, you see. She'd purchased it from a shop that no longer exists."
Zuko's attention, which had gone slightly fuzzy the longer he'd looked at the hairpin, suddenly snapped into place. Mrs Chen looked startled for a moment- fire burned behind his eyes.
"Which shop?"
"It was called Verdant Jewels," she told him. "They were family owned- It closed its doors during the war- too many of the family's mines had been shut down."
Guilt and shame gnawed at him. The Fire Nation had destroyed everything in its path, and he had been a destroyer once. There was a time in his life that Zuko would have actually been pleased to hear that the Earth Kingdom had suffered, and wouldn't have batted an eye at the news of a village being razed do the ground. Or even doing the razing himself.
Suddenly, it clicked.
He pulled out the sketchbook, flicking to the twelfth page where he'd remembered one of your notes beside a delicate bend engraved with flecked markings. It had clearly not turned out the way you had expected it to, so you'd written a reminder to redo it.
Try again with better materials.
Need more brass- save.
What he had stupidly interpreted as you simply saving metal to use for future adornments, was actually a reminder to save money. He pictured that night again, your discomfort in the ballroom, your lack of dancing skills which every other person in the room possessed, and how you had disappeared from his sight within the crowd.
The hairpin burned in his hand, forged by a forgotten jewellers a hundred years ago, and the one you had been wearing were not very different after all. You clearly worked with the same skill these jewellers had all those years ago, who had developed the finest, mot unique adornments for the people of the Upper Ring. You did not possess grand materials; things that were once crafted from gold and jade were now made of smoothed glass, polished stones and brass. But you worked with what you had...
He knew where to find you.
"Mrs Chen," Zuko staggers to his feet, still clutching the bejewelled hairpin. "May I take this? I have gold- lots of it. Name your price."
What he had not fully expected, was the look of outrage on the old lady's face. "I'm sorry, Fire Lord Zuko, but that is a family heirloom, I cannot part with it."
But Zuko still left Mrs Chen's home a few moments later, the hairpin tucked into his sleeve along with your sketchbook and his head feeling a little lighter. He commanded his guards to lead him to the Upper Ring monorail station, and to inform him immediately of the next train departing for the Lower Ring.
Meanwhile, back in her home, Mrs Chen sat wide-eyed, at the Fire Nation crown in her hands.
The market was always busy at this time of day, the sun inching across a cloudless sky to the tune of a hundred footsteps.
You had already made eight sales today, and the copper coins jingled in your pocket to the tune of good meals this week. You could get a couple more rings or necklaces sold, then head back to the blacksmiths and finish up on the brass ring you'd been dying to finish. You'd finally saved up for some extra brass, and could probably have enough left over to make a few more. You were glad you'd memorised the designs, but it would have been better to actually have your sketchbook in hand, so that you could draw out a few more ideas for engravings.
You had also managed to remember some of the deigns you'd seen that night on your... outing to the Upper Ring. Right now, it felt like you had lost more than you gained, with losing the sketchbook, and getting caught up in a fantasy world that involved developing a crush on Fire Lord Zuko. You tried telling yourself it was just the cacophony of emotions that night making you think of him every waking moment.
You had to forget about him. It was nothing more than a silly fantasy that you couldn't afford to get caught up in. Literally. He occupied your thoughts the most during your work at your small table and forge at the blacksmith's. The heat reminded you of him, his hands. The glowing embers became his eyes.
You even caught yourself one afternoon humming the Fire Nation music, before dropping your head into your sooty hands and telling yourself to get a grip. He was nice to dream about, but that was all he was.
"Thank you!" you bid farewell to a gaggle of little girls who slipped bangles onto their wrists with each other's help. You smiled softly as they skip back to their mothers, with a lonely pang in your chest.
You'd brought some polished, coloured glass and wire, hoping to replicate a design you'd spotted on the bony wrist of a Upper Ring noble from the ball during short lulls between customers. You reached for your tools, ready to twist another section of wire into place to securely hold the glass in place, when something in the market's atmosphere shifted. Conversations seemed to fall and spike at something in the near distance.
A man hurried past your stall, eyes fixed ahead as he urged people to the side.
“Move—move—he’s coming through—”
You frowned slightly.
“Who?” somebody called from the stall opposite yours.
The answer didn't come from the man who had rushed past. Instead, it got carried by the crowd like a spark catching on a dry field.
“The Fire Lord!”
A glass bead dropped from your fingers, clacking onto the wood of the stall and matching the rhythm of your heart.
“The Fire Lord is here!"
“No, I heard he’s inspecting-”
“Make way!”
The words blurred together, but the meaning landed on your shoulders all the same.
Firelord.
Zuko.
Your stomach dropped. He couldn't be here. He shouldn't. Why would he-?
Perhaps he was coming with guards. He'd found out you had lied to get inside the King's personal residence, had tricked the officials into thinking you were some commander's wife. You had tricked him, and he had taken it as a slight. he would hand you over to the Dai Li for deserved punishment.
Your pulse kicked hard, sudden and sharp. Then your hands finally caught up to your thoughts, racing to gather your things before it was too late. The tray of finished pieces, your tools, the cloth beneath them, all gathered into your arms. You'd be damned if you left them behind like your sketchbook.
But your movements fumbled in the midst of your panic- the wire you had been working with tangled on a ragged nail poking out from your old wooden stall.
You swear, fingers clumsily trying to free it.
"Make way for Fire Lord Zuko!"
You lowered your head, hoping, praying that he wouldn't notice you. You were just another vendor, another face. But then you made the mistake of taking a chance, and you looked up.
Zuko walked through the space that parted for him, the people of the Lower Ring waving and calling out his name in the hopes he'd notice. He was scanning the throes, not offering anyone a second glance.
Before you fully realised, you were looking into those amber eyes again.
Your eyes dropped immediately, at last freeing the wire and turning away from the market, head down. Walk. Just walk.
"Wait!"
His voice cut through you, and for a foolish moment, you wanted to wait. You selfishly hoped he had come here for you on purpose, and that he had felt the same way you had when you danced together. But it was too much of a risk.
You darted into an alleyway, weaving past people rushing our of their homes to catch a glimpse of the Fire Lord. You quickly turned down a narrower path between homes and stalls, hoping that you're moving fast enough to disappear.
Your shoulder clipped a hanging cloth, sending it swaying, but you didn't dare stop to fix it.
"Stop!"
His voice again, sounding more urgent. You risked a glance back, so see him knocking the same cloth you had out of his way to keep up his chase. People watched with wide eyes, pointing at the Fire Lord and calling out his name. But he just kept going.
You could lose him. You knew these streets well, you just needed to-
An uneven stone catches your foot, sending you stumbling forward and knocking the balance out from right underneath you.
A hand closed around your wrist, catching you before you fell. You remembered that warmth. He had you, and there was no chance he'd let you go.
So, you turned.
It was painful to look at him, knowing that in another life, you perhaps could have had him. Your family would still be prospering in the Upper Ring, every noble wearing an item from Verdant Jewels. You would have been trained in the art of dancing, and it would have been easy to impress the visiting Fire Lord with your grace and skill. But the time for pretending had come to an end.
His gaze searched your face, quick and certain. "You-" he started, before swallowing. "You left."
Your brows furrowed, before realisation dawned. He was talking about the dance.
"I had to," you managed to find your voice, although it was unsteady. His grip on your wrist loosed, but not entirely, not enough to let you run again.
Barely a moment passed before he responded with a, "Why?"
You shook your head, trying to pull your wrist back but he was unrelenting. "I had to. I didn't belong there, it... it was a mistake to go." You waved your other hand, gesturing to yourself. You didn't belong there, not for one moment. It was just pretend.
He stared at you for a moment, his dark eyebrow furrowing. "No, it wasn't."
You stopped trying to pull away from him, now looking at him in utter confusion. You want to help him understand, you truly did. But all it would do is pull you deeper in. In to him. People had already seen you together, watching you run. It wouldn't be difficult for them to assume the worst. And if somehow, incredibly, you made it off without being handed over to the authorities, you wouldn't be able to sell as much as a ring. You would be ostracised, avoided.
As though sensing your worry, he lets go of your wrist to reach into his sleeve, pulling out a familiar item.
Worn edges, soot-smudged edges and that corner you bent and never fixed.
"You left this." Zuko stated simply, eyes darting between it and you. "I've been using it."
Your eyes broke away from one of your only material possessions, and land on his. "What?"
"To find you," Again, he talked like it was obvious. But somehow, you knew he was telling the truth. Perhaps it was that look in his eyes- wide, clearly wanting to understand. "I just... had to know why you left. Why you were even there in the first place."
There was no chance he would leave you now that he'd found you, you realised. This man who had danced with you at the ball, who had kindly covered for your dancing skills (or lack thereof) and had taken care of your sketchbook. You had ran away from him, after all. You owed him an answer.
If you couldn't find the words, then you would have to show him.
"Not here," you told him, as he pressed the sketchbook into your palm with such gentleness it made your lip wobble. "If you want answers... come with me."
You decided, wisely, to avoid the main paths.
One of Zuko's personal soldiers caught up at one point, which he had commanded to retreat- peruse the market.
You never once had to look back. You didn't need to, when you could feel the heat searing from him.
You pushed the door of the small forge the moment you arrived, shutting out the light and any prying eyes. You took a moment to breath, forehead pressed against the door, before you turned to him.
It was funny, how out of place he looked. In his impressive Fire Lord robes, although he'd clearly forgone the crown this time, he looked like the handsome protagonist of one of those street plays.
He glanced around, his eyes lingering on the small forge where you bend metal without any special powers, the tiny rack of tools and the dusty floor. You cringed the longer he looked, and desperate to fill the silence, you spoke.
"This is it. Impressive, right?"
"Yes, I think so."
You stared at him, almost wanting to laugh. His voice was incredibly earnest; did they not teach sarcasm in the Fire Nation?
Shaking your head, you set your bag down in the corner, your gaze passing slightly bitterly over the place you called your life.
After a few moment's silence, you decided to tell him. What more could you lose? Your dignity, perhaps. "This is just what's left of my family's legacy," you said, picking up a half-finished ring and rubbing it with your thumb. "They were jewellers, in the Upper-"
"The Upper Ring," he interjected suddenly. Intensely. "Verdant Jewels. I know."
The ring slipped from your hand, abruptly clattering to the floor. "H-how did you know that?"
The blush that spread across his high cheekbones was a sight you wanted to never stop seeing. Dusty pink just visible in the low light of the blacksmith's, you saw the Prince shining through. He was not a Fire Lord, simply Zuko.
He coughed awkwardly, eyes latching onto yours. "I've been... looking for you. Ever since you left. I was told that Verdant Jewels made the most beautiful and rare things."
His heavy stare made you shift your feet, but you shrugged it off. "They don't exist anymore. It's just me. They at least had the decency to leave me with some of their skills."
Zuko's gaze shifted sideways, barely a fraction, as though searching for something at the back of your head. "You made the hairpin. The one you wore that night- it's in your sketchbook. You've made everything in that book."
You nodded. "Yeah. Some are still a work in progress, though."
"Show me."
You blinked. "What?"
"I want to see you..." he started, lingering on the words for a moment too long. It's a moment that had your heart leaping in your chest. "I want to see you make them."
You didn't quite know what to do. No one had ever asked you, for anything like this. He was the Fire Lord, a man who ruled an entire nation and was one of the most powerful benders in the world. At the least, you appreciated his supposed interest. Could you really deny him?
"You don't have to-"
"I do," he said with finality. That strange feeling tightened your chest up, dangerously.
"... Alright," you replied, maybe a little too quickly. Your eyes dropped to the forge, only a few glowing embers alight from your day's work here yesterday.
You reached for the bag of coal, ready to hoist it up- when a sudden heat torched behind you. You spun around in shock, to see a blazing fire filling the forge. Its flames twisted and curled around each other, and you couldn't look away. But when you did, you saw Zuko's outstretched palm return to his side, a satisfied look on his face.
You raised an eyebrow at him, a smile threatening your lips. "Seriously? Where have you been all this time? I'd have saved a fortune on coal these last couple of years."
You don't catch his small smile when you turn around and busy yourself with gathering what you need- strips of brass, a small glass bead, and your trust, worn tools. The fire he lit in the forge burned a lot hotter than the ones you usually lit, thanks to his clear, natural talent for fire bending. You imagined having that same ability, and huffed at how easy it would be to melt metal with fire beneath your fingertips, or even bend it with the new metal bending fad going around. Had your family, the past owners of Verdant Jewels, possess those talents?
You didn't have to turn around to know he was watching.
Watching as you focus despite the heat brushing incessantly at your skin as you heat the metal in the fire with old prongs, before bringing it back to the small anvil with extreme care. You'd endured enough burns on your skin to last the Avatar's lifetime.
But what you didn't expect was for him to come closer. He doesn't crowd, nor is it intrusive. He was just... near. You'd been closer than this before, dancing to the music from his nation. Your hand had been clasped in his, and his other had been on your hip. You wondered what it would feel like for him to reach forward and put his hand back in that same spot.
You tried to focus harder.
Your fingers twisted with the tools, carefully bending, shaping, then back into the flames. Repeat. Repeat.
You worried at your bottom lip with your teeth. "This part is the most important. If the base is wrong, everything else just... oh."
Zuko's hand enclosed around yours, with the lightest touch.
"Keep going," he murmured, and you feel his chest press against your back, just as gently as his hand was to yours. "I want to see."
Your breath stuttered out of you, to the relentless fever pitch of your pounding heart.
His hand followed yours, every time you twisted the metal or the tools, and even followed as you fired it in the flames. Flames, which you swore burned brighter than before.
"This- this isn't how it's supposed to be done," you breathed.
His mouth, brushing the shell of your ear and making you shiver despite the sweat beading at your neck, simply murmured the words, "I didn't think it would be," His fingers curled around yours, his touch heavier yet flawless in their movements with yours. "You do not possess earth bending... and yet you control this metal like it's a part of you. You- it's incredible,"
The world outside felt very far away, as the crackle of the flames and the shift of fabric filled your senses. His chest was solid against your back, but despite the heat it brought, and as much as you wanted to just turn around and meet the amber eyes that you felt flickering between your joined, working hands and the side of your face, you kept your back to him. It was easier that way.
When he spoke next, his tone was more serious. "Do you regret it?"
You pressed your lips together, focusing creating a small lip in the metal for the ring's setting. "Regret what?"
He was silent for a few moments, as though thinking carefully over what he was going to say next. "Going to the Earth King's ball."
You didn't even risk a look towards him, knowing that if you had, you would do something stupid. But would you even regret that?
"No," you replied, attempting to keep your voice level despite the nerves that threaten it. "I don't."
You had relived that night over and over again in your mind, dreaming of the Fire Lord who had captivated your every thought since. Now he was here, his hands once again touching yours, and you couldn't even get yourself to turn around.
You swore for a moment his hands shifted- just a fraction.
"But you ran away. Twice."
A wry smile tugged at your lips. For being a ruler of a nation, he sure was a little slow to catch on sometimes. "You said to me that I was the only person who hadn't desperately tried to talk to you. But I hid my true self from you," you reminded him, fingers tightening on your tools to the point your knuckles tighten. "You shouldn't make me into something I'm not."
His hands finally fell away from yours, coming to grip the sides of the anvil. Still close. His breath came out hot against your ear. "Then tell me to leave."
Your breath hitched, and finally, you turned to look at him. "What?"
That warm breath tickled your cheek as he leans in, and you saw the flames reflect in his eyes, burning bright as he looked at you. Those same eyes flickered down, to your lips, then back.
"Tell me to leave. Right now," his arm snaked around your back, sliding up and coming to rest at the nap of your neck. His fingers lifted, taking one of the dangling beads of your lotus hairpin and gently rolling it between them. "I'll walk away and leave you to your life, if it is what you truly want. If it will make you happy."
You shook your head, eyes searching his face. His furrowed brow, the arch of his nose, the curve of his lips. You reached a hand up and gently touch the left side of his face.
He didn't stop you, nor did he even flinch. Instead, he raised his other hand, the one that was not on your neck, and placed it right over yours. Over his scar.
He smiled softly. "Imperfection makes it more alive," he whispered. The beads on your hairpin gently clinked together as he continued to feel them between his fingertips.
Your pulse tripped over itself. "You really did use my sketchbook. To find me," The breathless words fell out of you, as you gazed up at him in disbelief. It doesn't feel real. None of it did. You felt that you were about to wake from some perfect dream your heart spun up. "That's insane."
"Probably," he mused. The way his fingers brushed the hair at the nape of you neck made you shiver in the hot forge. "After the sixty-third house, I started getting impatient."
Your eyes widened, but right before you could exclaim an incredulous "What?!", he kissed you.
He had clearly learned his lesson from the dance. You had truly terrible balance.
Right before you could steady yourself with an arm thrown back, a hand ready to clasp onto the edge of the workbench, he reached down and takes it, holding you steady. He brought your arm to his front, wordlessly encouraging you to rest it on his front. So, you did just that.
Mouth moving with his, your fingers fisted into the front of his robes, pulling him in closer. Your back pressed against the edge of the workbench, and your breath escapes you at the feeling.
Immediately, he broke away, searching your face. "Did I hurt you?" The question felt far more loaded that it should, and you felt like he was asking about more than just the workbench.
You shook your head, smiling softly. "No. You didn't."
He kissed you again, mirroring your smile as the forge behind you burned endlessly on.
"All this time, you failed to mention that you have a dragon?"
The massive winged reptile, with it's shimmering red scales, thrashing tail and jagged teeth was something out of a story book. It stared down at you, and for moment, you thought it would simply lean down and snap you up. You tried very, very hard to not look intimidated.
But Zuko stood at the beast's side, patting its leg affectionately. "He's harmless, trust me."
"He's staring at me."
"That's because he likes you."
"How can you tell?"
He paused for a moment, a sneaking smirk written on his lips. "He hasn't tried to eat you."
Incredulously, you stared at him, folding your arms. "You just said he was harmless," But despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you, and you debated just going over there and patting the dragon- Druk, he called him- but something held you back.
The look in Zuko's eyes, perhaps. The pained ache in your chest was large contributor, also. He was leaving soon. Further discussions were to be had over the future of this new idea of a city with other nations, but it would take time. Too long for a Fire Lord to be away from his nation.
It had been two days since the events at the forge in the Lower Ring, and the feeling of Zuko's lips against yours had not left your mind since.
He had made time to come and see you in secret, not wishing to risk you coming over the dividing wall between the rings again. You had spent an evening with him sitting on the rooftop of some houses, staring up into the stars and asking him every question about his adventures across the world. With every story he told, you fell deeper and deeper in love with him.
But all good things had to end, sooner or later.
"I'm going to miss you," the words fell from you before you could hold them in, and simply saying what you had been thinking made tears spring to your eyes. He had come into your life in a whirlwind, spun you around on a dance floor and chased you across the city. He had left a mark on your soul, a brand of fire. "Try to come back and visit, alright? I want to hear more about this 'Republic City' idea."
He abandoned his dragon's side, coming to cup your jaw and press his lips to your falling tears. The sun had begun to rise, and the city was waking around you.
Then, Zuko exhaled softly, as though he made some internal decision. He fixed his gaze on yours, unwavering. "The royal artisan's wing in Caldera City has been empty for years," he stated, "The previous Fire Lord deemed art unworthy of his time and effort."
You blinked. "What?"
His hands dropped from your jaw, coming to rest on your shoulders. You could practically see the cogs spinning behind his eyes, the fire fuelling them was right there in his irises. "Most of the jewellers there only make ceremonial pieces. Decorations."
Your head rapidly started to spin, not helped by the pounding in your chest. "You're doing that thing again," you whispered, and at his quizzical look, you explained. "That thing where you start talking weirdly before you say something that makes my heart literally stop."
He laughed, and the fondness that blanketed your heart told you that you could never live a fulfilling life where that laugh was not a part of it.
He quirked his head, still smiling. "I didn't realise I had a habit," But that smile soon faded, replaced by something more vulnerable. "None of them makes things the way that you do."
Your heartbeat stumbled. "Zuko..."
He shook his head, not wanting to hear protest. "Come to the Fire Nation with me,"
Before you could open your mouth, he pressed on with a soft hush. "I know. I know what I'm asking of you. To leave your life here and start something new in a land unknown to you. I know how selfish I'm being right now. But I am the most selfish man alive when it comes to you."
You smiled sadly. "Zuko... my family lost everything to the Fire Nation."
A beat of heavy silence crossed over. "I know."
"And you're asking me to go there anyway."
"I'm asking you," he said carefully, "to bring your work somewhere it can live again. A new nation. A nation that really needs to find meaning."
The morning wind breezes through the city, catching loose strands of your hair. He reached out automatically, tucking them gently behind your ear. His touch lingered there, brushing against your ear. Then back more, until he made contact with the lotus hairpin. The piece that gave you the most pride. The one he had upturned the city for, all in the hope... all in the hope to find you.
"I've seen what you can create with scraps and broken tools," he continued quietly, over the breeze. "You do not belong at that little workbench in the corner of a blacksmiths. I want to give you more. As much as you will allow me to give you."
As his words settled in your chest, your eyes stung. You looked away for a moment, at the city around you. At the Lower Ring beyond the wall, that physical restriction that had always held you back. But the forge. The market. You had built it from almost nothing, and you were proud of that. Could the Fire Nation offer you more?
"I wouldn't belong there," you whispered.
"Hm. You said the same thing about the ball."
Your breath caught in your throat. "That," you started, the words nearly dying before they were out in the air, "Was different."
He dragged a hand behind your neck, gently forcing you to look up at him. "When you danced with me, what did you feel?" he asked, lips brushing your ear. "When we kissed at the forge, what did you feel?"
Hope. Desire. Belonging.
You didn't say it aloud- you didn't need to. From the small twitch of his lips and the sparkle in his eyes of cut amber, he knew.
"I would never ask you to become anything different than what you are. A jeweller. Someone whose work deserves to be seen."
He pulled away from the side of your face, from where he whispered in your ear and played with your hairpin. He lowered his face to yours, and murmured, "Someone I love."
The world stilled. Even the dragon's tail ceased its swishing and smoke curled lazily from his nostrils, blending with the morning mist.
Your heart gave one more pitiful pull in your chest. Despite very reason that it should frighten you, Zuko was there to calm it. In the same way he had that night, when he took your hand and lead you into a dance.
Your rose onto your tiptoes, and kissed him.
The wind swept around you sharply, carrying the dragon's heat with it.
You kissed him like you still can't quite believe he was real, just like those night after the ball when you replayed every moment like a play, so that you would never forget him. You felt his hands clamp around your waist, pulling you impossibly close, until you were weightless.
His strong arms pulled you from the ground with care, spinning you around once, twice, as you laugh breathlessly against his lips. He gave you one last grinning peck before setting you down, forehead resting against.
You closed your eyes, breathing him in. Then you mumbled, "I'm bringing my tools. How dare you call them broken. They're literally fine."
The relief that flashed across his face actually takes the weight from his shoulders, and his quiet laughter warms your body straight through.
Behind him, Druk the dragon let our what sounded like an impatient huff, as though bored with the display of affection. Your eyes flickered nervously towards him, and back to Zuko.
"...I've never ridden one before."
His expression softened immediately, and he took your hand, carefully leading you over to Druk with guiding steps. He felt warm. Steady and certain, just as before.
"It's alright."
You watched him climb onto the great beast's back, where he settled on the saddle. The sun gleamed ahead of him, bleeding into his eyes and casting light over his scar. The Fire Lord.
Druk sniffed at you as you approached, fixing an eye on your outstretched hand. You placed in on his lowered snout, fingers smoothing over the course scarlet scales. You assumed that the two, slow and reptilian blinks mean climb on.
Zuko leant down, eyes fixed on you and nothing else.
And when he reached out his hand, you took it without hesitation.
ৡ ৡ ৡ
part 2
a.n this took way longer than i though it would, oops! anyway i hope you enjoyed, i kinda veered off the original cinderella plotline bc i wanted it to go a little differently and fit in with the atla universe a little better. i really want to make a part 2 to this, so keep an eye out!
summary: The most dangerous silence wasn't the one held by the monsters, but the polite distance between a boy who forgot how to stay and a girl who learned how to disappear. As the grandfather clock began its final chime, Mike Wheeler was forced to choose between the safety of his silence and the violence of his truth. Some ghosts don't haunt houses—they’re waiting for a letter that was never sent.
wc: 6,8 k
post contains: past relationship, past mileven mentioned, hurt/comfort, vecna-ed reader, set in s4 in the final episode except it’s mike & reader instead of lucas & max, hints of cheating if you squint, eleven goes to hawkins high.
author’s note: no words lol criticism and feedbacks are appreciated!
The lockers at Hawkins High always slammed with a finality that Mike Wheeler felt in his teeth. But nothing felt more final than the way Y/N walked past him in the hallway.
She didn't run. She didn't glare. She simply moved like a gentle breeze—quiet, unobtrusive, and completely out of reach.
“Earth to Mike,” Dustin muttered, snapping his fingers in front of Mike’s face. “The Hellfire meeting is at three. You’ve been staring at the back of her head for four minutes. It’s creepy. You’re being creepy.”
Mike adjusted the strap of his backpack, his jaw tightening. “I wasn't staring. I was... thinking about the Vecna lead.”
“Right,” Lucas chimed in, leaning against a locker with a skeptical look. “Because the 'Vecna lead' is currently wearing a soft knit sweater and heading toward the library. Give it up, Mike. You’re the one who built the wall. Don't act surprised that you can't see over it anymore.”
Mike watched as Y/N stopped at her locker. She was the same age as them, a permanent fixture in their group since they were kids, but she had become a ghost in plain sight.
Then came the moment Mike hated most. Jane walked up to her.
Jane—the girl Mike had spent a year convinced was the center of his universe—reached out and touched Y/N’s arm. Mike felt a sharp, familiar pang of guilt in his chest. He had drifted toward Jane’s light because it was blinding and heroic, leaving Y/N in the shadows. He had assumed Y/N would just... be there when he got back.
He had been wrong.
Y/N offered Jane a small, genuine smile. It was a soft thing, full of the gentleness that Mike used to wake up thinking about. But when Y/N’s eyes accidentally flickered over to Mike, the smile didn't drop—it transformed. It became a polite mask.
“Morning, Mike,” she said, her voice steady and kind.
It was the kindness that killed him. If she had screamed at him, he could have apologized. If she had cried, he could have held her. But this polite distance? It was a fortress.
“Morning,” Mike managed to croak out.
“Are we still meeting at the Creel house at six?” she asked, her hands folded neatly over her books.
“Yeah. Six,” Mike said, trying to regain some of his usual firmness. “Don't be late. It's dangerous.”
“I won't be,” she replied softly. She gave a small, respectful nod to Jane and walked away without a second glance at him.
As she disappeared into the crowd, Mike’s hand instinctively went to his back pocket. He felt the sharp edge of the Polaroid tucked inside his wallet—the one from the Snow Ball, years ago, before everything went wrong.
In the photo, she was laughing at something he’d said, her head leaned towards him, her guard completely down. He hadn't seen that version of her in two years.
“You're doing it again,” Eddie’s voice rang out, startling the group as he threw an arm around Mike’s shoulder. “The pining. It's tragic, Wheeler. Truly Shakespearean. If you keep this up, I’m going to have to write a ballad about the Boy Who Forgot What He Had.”
“Shut up, Eddie,” Mike snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite.
He turned and walked toward class, the silence between him and Y/N feeling louder than any alarm Vecna could ever sound. He had the plan, he had the leadership, and he had the group—but as he felt the box of unsent letters sitting under his bed in his mind, he realized he was the only one truly lost.
That afternoon, Mike slammed the front door hard enough to rattle the coat rack.
“Michael? Is that you?” his mother called out from the kitchen. “You’re home early! I was thinking of making—“
“Not hungry, Mom!” he barked, already halfway up the stairs.
He didn't miss the way Nancy was standing in the hallway, leaning against her bedroom doorframe with her arms crossed. She didn't say a word. She just watched him with a look of pity that made him want to scream. She had seen him ignore Y/N’s phone calls two years ago; she had seen the way Y/N’s face went pale the first time she saw Mike holding Jane’s hand. Nancy knew exactly why he was grumpy, and her silence was louder than any lecture.
He ducked into his room and kicked the door shut, locking it with a sharp click.
The room felt too small. It was filled with maps of the Upside Down, walkie-talkies, and the heavy weight of a war he was supposed to be leading. But Mike ignored the strategy notes on his desk. Instead, he dropped to his knees and reached under the bed frame.
He pulled out the shoebox. It was battered at the edges, the lid slightly warped from being opened and closed every single night for months.
He sat on the floor, his back against the bed, and pulled out his latest unfinished draft. He grabbed a pen and began to write, his hand shaking with a mix of frustration and desperation.
Y/N,
I saw you today in the hall. You looked tired. I wanted to ask if you were sleeping okay, but I knew you’d just give me that small, polite nod and tell me you’re “fine.” I hate that word. I hate that I’m the reason you have to be “fine” instead of happy.
I’m an idiot. I thought I was being a hero, looking after Jane, but I was just a coward who didn't know how to hold onto two things at once. I let you go because I thought you’d always be there to catch me when I landed. I never realized that you were the one flying with me.
He stopped, the ink pooling in a dark circle on the paper. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He wanted to tell her that the “special bond” he thought he had with Jane was just admiration for a miracle, while what he had with Y/N was... life. It was his heartbeat.
But he couldn't send it. If he gave her this, he’d be breaking the peace she’d fought so hard to find. He couldn't be selfish again.
He folded the paper and shoved it into the box, on top of dozens of others. He then reached for the stack of Polaroids tied together with a rubber band.
He flipped through them like a man obsessed.
Y/N in that soft blue dress, her hair pinned back, looking at him like he was the only person in the room.
A blurry shot of her laughing after Dustin lost a bet. Mike had caught her mid-laugh, her eyes crinkled at the corners.
Just a quiet shot of her reading a book while they played D&D. He remembered thinking back then that he loved the way she breathed—soft, steady, safe.
He traced his thumb over her face in the photo. “I'm so sorry,” he whispered to the empty room.
A soft knock on the door made him jump, nearly spilling the box.
“Mike?” Nancy’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle through the wood. “The group is meeting at the Creel house in an hour. You need to pull it together.”
Mike wiped his eyes aggressively with his sleeve, his face hardening back into the “firm” leader persona. “I'm fine, Nance! Get off my back!”
“She's going to be there, Mike,” Nancy added, her voice dropping. “If you’re going to act like a brat because you’re hurting, don't. She doesn't deserve to deal with your mood on top of everything else.”
Mike didn't answer. He waited until he heard her footsteps retreat before shoving the box back into the dark, dusty space under his bed. He stood up, checked his reflection to make sure his eyes weren't too red, and grabbed his jacket.
He had a world to save. But as he headed out, he felt like he was already standing in the ruins of his own.
The Creel House was a skeleton of a home, looming against the darkening Hawkins sky like a tombstone. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the smell of dust and the hum of high-stakes anxiety.
Jonathan and Nancy were hunched over a makeshift map on a dusty table, while Dustin and Eddie were checking the battery levels on the walkies. Jane sat in a corner, her eyes closed, mentally gauging the “static” in the air.
Mike stood at the center of the room, his hands on his hips, his jaw set in that rigid, authoritative line he used when he was trying to stop his heart from thumping out of his chest.
“Okay, listen up!” Steve called out, clapping his hands. “We’re splitting into teams. We need two people on the perimeter of the attic, two in the basement, and two to stay with Jane while she's in the Void. We need balance—firepower and focus.”
Nancy looked up from the map, her eyes darting between Mike and Y/N, who was quietly sharpening a hunting knife near the fireplace. Nancy knew exactly what she was doing.
“We need the strongest tactical minds together for the attic,” Nancy said, her voice smooth but pointed. “Mike, you’re the best at the long-game strategy. And Y/N, you’re the only one calm enough to keep him grounded if things go south.”
Mike’s heart skipped. He looked at Y/N. She didn't flinch. She didn't look up. She just finished her task, sheathed the knife, and stood up.
“If that’s what the plan requires,” Y/N said softly. Her voice was like silk—smooth, but impossible to grab hold of. “I'm fine with it.”
I'm fine with it. The words felt like a cold splash of water to Mike. He wanted her to protest. He wanted her to say she couldn't stand being alone with him. Anything would be better than this crushing, professional indifference.
The climb up to the attic was silent. Mike led the way, his flashlight cutting through the cobwebs. When they reached the top, the air was freezing.
“Set up the tripwires over there,” Mike said, his voice a bit firmer than intended—a reflex to hide how much he wanted to reach out and touch her hand. “I’ll handle the radio frequency.”
“Copy that,” she replied.
She moved with a quiet grace, her movements efficient. She was a different person than the girl who used to giggle at his bad jokes in the basement. She was a soldier now, and he was just a commanding officer she happened to know.
Mike watched her for a moment too long. “Y/N?” She paused, a spool of wire in her hand. She looked at him, her expression perfectly neutral. “Yes, Mike? Is there a change in the plan?”
“No. I just...” He swallowed hard. “You’re doing a good job. With the knife. And the training.”
“Thanks,” she said, already turning back to the wire. “We all have to do our part. We don't want anyone else getting hurt because someone was... distracted.”
The comment wasn't a jab—it wasn't mean. That was the problem. It was just a fact. But Mike felt the heat rise to his neck. He knew she wasn't just talking about Vecna. She was talking about the years he spent looking at Jane while she stood right next to him, invisible.
“I'm not distracted,” Mike said, stepping closer, his firm persona slipping just a fraction. “I'm more focused than I've ever been.”
Y/N stood up, finally meeting his gaze. For a second, the polite mask flickered, and he saw a flash of the old Y/N—the one who could read him like a book.
“Good,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Because I’m not the hero, Mike. I can't fly, and I can't close gates. I'm just the girl who stays behind to make sure the lights stay on. Don't waste your focus on me. Focus on the win.”
She stepped past him to check the other corner of the room, her shoulder brushing his arm. The contact sent a jolt through him, but she didn't even stumble. She kept moving, leaving him standing in the dark, surrounded by the ghosts of his own making.
The silence in the attic was heavy, smelling of rotting wood and Mike’s unspoken words. Y/N was kneeling by the window, her silhouette framed by the moonlight, looking so composed it made Mike’s chest ache. He couldn't take the “polite coworker” act for another second.
“Is that all I am to you now?” Mike’s voice cracked the silence, sharper than he intended. “A mission objective? A box to check off?”
Y/N didn't look up from the tripwire she was securing. “I’m following your lead, Mike. Isn't this what you wanted? For everything to be... uncomplicated?”
“I never wanted this!” Mike stepped toward her, his boots thudding on the floorboards. “I never wanted us to be strangers. I just—I was twelve, and our friend was missing, and Jane was this miracle I thought I had to protect. I got lost in it. I was an idiot, okay? I know that. Everyone reminds me every day.”
Y/N finally stood up, her hands dusted with white attic grime. She looked at him, and for the first time, the polite barrier dropped, revealing a deep, tired hollow in her eyes. “You weren't an idiot for caring about her, Mike. You were an idiot for thinking I’d just wait in the corner until you were done admiring the miracle.”
“I wasn't—“
“You stopped being in my space,” she whispered, her voice finally trembling. “You didn't break up with me. You just... evaporated. I had to mourn a boy who was still sitting across from me at the lunch table.”
“You didn't break up with me,” she whispered, and the sound was more cutting than any scream. “You just... evaporated. I had to mourn a boy who was still sitting across from me at the lunch table. Do you have any idea what that does to a person? To be the girl who’s ‘too nice’ to get angry, so she just sits there and fades into the wallpaper while you look at Jane like she’s the sun?”
“I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought if I focused on the mission—on her—that everyone else would be safe. You would be safe!”
“Safe?” Y/N let out a sharp, breathless laugh that sounded like breaking glass. “I wasn't safe, Mike. I was lonely. You were so busy being a 'leader' that you forgot how to be a person you deserved!”
“You don't get to decide what I deserve!” Y/N stepped into his personal space now, her chest heaving. “You don't get to be the one who drifts away and then plays the martyr because you felt 'guilty.' Now you’re upset because I learned how to see without you?”
“I still see you!” Mike yelled, the words echoing off the rafters. “I see you every second of every day! I see you in the hallways, I see you in my sleep. I see the way you treat me like a stranger and it kills me. I have a box, Y/N. A box under my bed filled with letters I was too much of a coward to send because I didn't think I had the right to speak to you anymore. I’m an idiot, okay? I’m a selfish, arrogant, blind idiot!”
“Finally realized who you are,” she breathed, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
“Yeah, and I'll say it again!” Mike was mere inches from her now, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder, desperate to be firm, to pull her into him and swear he’d never let her go again—
CRACKLE.
The walkie-talkie on Mike’s belt exploded with static, cutting through the confession like a serrated blade.
“Mike! Mike, do you copy?!” Dustin’s voice was high-pitched, bordering on a scream. “The lights! They’re pulsing red! It’s not like before, it’s—it’s faster!”
“He’s here,” Jane’s voice broke through, hauntingly calm but strained. “Mike... he’s not going for the gates. He’s already inside.”
“We’ve got movement in the woods!” Steve’s voice barked over a cacophony of banging metal. “Nance, get back! Lucas, watch the flank! It’s a total cluster—“
The attic window shattered inward. Mike lunged for Y/N, shielding her as glass rained down. He scrambled for his walkie, his “leader” instinct kicking back in even as his heart was still bleeding out on the floor.
"Dustin! Report! Where is he?” Mike yelled into the device.
“He’s everywhere, Mike! He’s fast! The house is—“
Silence. Pure, terrifying silence filled the radio.
“Y/N, get behind me,” Mike said, his voice dropping into that protective, firm tone he used when the world was falling apart. He gripped his flashlight, swinging the beam toward the dark corners of the attic. “Y/N?”
He turned around.
She wasn't behind him. She was standing in the center of the room, her head tilted back slightly, her hands hanging limp at her sides. Her head tilted back slowly, and as Mike’s flashlight hit her face, he felt his soul leave his body.
Her eyes weren't her soft, gentle eyes anymore. They were clouded over, a milky, sightless white.
“No,” Mike choked out, his hands sliding from her shoulders to her face, cupping her cheeks. “No, no, no. I just got you back—Y/N! Look at me!”
The grandfather clock in the hallway below began to chime. One.
“Y/N!” Mike grabbed her shoulders, shaking her in unadulterated panic. “Not you! Don't you dare leave me again! Y/N!”
The attic around them began to stretch, the shadows lengthening into claw-like fingers.
The Creel House didn't just feel like a trap anymore—it felt alive. As the second chime of the clock faded, the front door and every window slammed shut with a force that shook the foundation. Heavy, black vines began to slither out from the floorboards, weaving across the exits like iron bars.
“Mike! The doors won't budge!” Dustin’s voice was barely audible through the screaming feedback of the walkies. “Steve’s trying the axe, but the wood is... it’s growing back! It’s like the house is breathing!”
In the attic, Mike didn't even look at his radio. He couldn't. His entire world was narrowed down to the girl in his arms whose feet were now inches off the ground.
Suddenly, the air didn't just feel cold—it felt wet. The walls of the attic began to throb with a rhythmic, fleshy sound.
“Michael...”
The voice didn't come from the room; it came from everywhere. It was deep, ancient, and layered with a thousand echoes. Mike’s grip tightened on Y/N’s waist, his knuckles white.
“Leave her alone!” Mike screamed at the ceiling, his eyes darting wildly. “Take me! You want a leader? You want someone who’s actually done things wrong? Take me!”
“You have already done my work for me, Michael,” Vecna’s voice rasped, sounding chillingly amused. “You built her prison of silence. You made her feel like a ghost long before I touched her. You let her drift into the shadows... and I simply found her there.”
“Shut up!” Mike barked, his voice breaking. He reached for the headphones hanging around his neck—his fail-safe—and tried to shove them over Y/N’s ears. “Y/N, listen to me. Listen to my voice. I’m right here. I’m not leaving!”
But as the headphones touched her, they crumbled into dust in his hands, turning into thousands of tiny, black spiders that skittered down her shoulders. He gasped, shaking them off, his heart plummeting. The illusions were starting.
Downstairs, the group was in a frenzy.
“Get to the attic!” Nancy screamed, firing her shotgun at a mass of vines blocking the staircase. The wood groaned, bleeding a thick, dark ichor, but it wouldn't break.
“We can't get through!” Lucas shouted, throwing his shoulder against the barricade. “Max, give me the backup tapes! We have to get music to her!”
“I can't!” Max cried out, her hands trembling as she fumbled with the Walkman. “The tapes... they're all blank! Every single one of them!”
Jane stood in the center of the foyer, her nose bleeding heavily from both nostrils. She was leaning against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut. “He’s... he’s blocking me out. He’s using Mike’s guilt. It’s too loud. I can't find her through Mike’s regret!”
Back in the attic, Mike was completely cut off. The stairs had vanished behind a wall of pulsing, red-veined flesh. He was alone with the girl he had ignored for years, and the monster who was currently feeding on that fact.
Y/N’s body began to tilt further back, her bones emitting a terrifying, slow creak.
“Y/N, please,” Mike sobbed, dropping the 'firm' act entirely. He grabbed her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers, trying to force her to feel his presence. “I know I made you feel invisible. I know I made you feel like you didn't matter. But you are the only reason I’m still standing! You’re the heart of this group, not me! I’m just the idiot who forgot to tell you!”
“She cannot hear you, Michael,” Vecna’s voice hissed, closer now, as if he were standing right behind Mike’s ear. “In her mind, she is already gone. She has accepted the silence you gave her.”
“No, she hasn't!” Mike roared, pulling her limp body flush against his chest, burying his face in her neck. He wasn't the leader right now. He was just Mike—the boy who had spent years writing letters he never sent. “She’s stronger than you. She’s better than me. Y/N, wake up! Walk back to me! I have a box under my bed... I have so much to show you! Please!”
The second chime of the clock rang out, vibrating through Mike’s very marrow.
He looked up, and the attic was gone. He was standing in a distorted version of his own basement, surrounded by thousands of floating, burnt envelopes. Each one was addressed to Y/N in his own handwriting.
And there, in the center of the wreckage, stood Y/N. She wasn't white-eyed here. She looked exactly as she had the day he started drifting away—sad, quiet, and waiting for a word he never said.
Bumps crawled on Mike’s body the moment the third chime of the clock rang out.
In the void, everything was a muffled, underwater blue. Y/N stood in a version of the Wheeler’s basement that felt miles long, the edges fraying into a thick, suffocating fog.
“He only calls for you when the world is ending,” Vecna’s voice drifted through the air, sounding like the scrape of bone on stone. “A convenient anchor. A quiet place to rest between his grander adventures.”
Y/N looked down. She was holding a tray of snacks—the ones she used to bring down for the boys during their marathon D&D sessions. She saw a memory playing out in the center of the room: Mike, laughing, his arm thrown around Jane’s chair, his back turned completely to Y/N.
In the memory, Y/N had stood there for three full minutes, waiting for him to notice she’d entered the room. He never did.
“I know,” Y/N whispered to the void, her voice sounding small and hollow.
Suddenly, the air rippled. A scrap of paper fluttered past her face. Then another. They were torn, charred at the edges, but she recognized the frantic, messy scrawl of Mike’s handwriting.
“...I hate that I’m the reason you have to be 'fine'...”
“…I never realized that you were the one flying with me...”
She reached out to touch one, but it dissolved into ash the moment her fingers grazed it.
“Lies born of panic,” Vecna hissed. The basement floor began to crack, and the memory shifted. Now, she saw the hints. She saw Mike looking at Jane with that awe-struck expression, the one that had shattered Y/N’s heart into a million jagged pieces. “He does not love you. He loves the safety you represent. He wants his 'gentle' girl back because the war has made him tired. You are a habit, Y/N. Nothing more.”
“That’s not true,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. The weight of years of being “the polite one,” the one who stepped aside so the heroes could lead, was pulling her down into the dark floor.
Outside the void, in the rotting attic of the Creel House, Mike was screaming. His voice was beginning to bleed into her consciousness, but it sounded distorted—like a radio station losing its signal.
“Y/N! I’m right here! I’m holding you! Feel my hand!”
In the void, Y/N felt a phantom pressure on her wrist. A firm, desperate grip. For a second, the blue fog cleared, and she saw a glimpse of the real Mike—not the hero, not the leader, but the boy who was terrified. His face was streaked with tears, his eyes red and raw.
“Mike?” she breathed.
“He is using you,” Vecna’s voice thundered, and the floor finally gave way. Y/N began to sink into a sea of black vines. “He wants to lead you. He wants to control the narrative of your grief. Stay in the silence, Y/N. There is no pain in the silence.”
Downstairs, the house screamed. A chandelier fell in the foyer, narrowly missing Nancy.
“The attic!” Nancy yelled, her voice hoarse from screaming. “He’s focusing everything on the attic! Get to them!”
Eddie grabbed a heavy iron fire poker, swinging it at the vines blocking the stairs with a manic energy. “Wheeler! If you can hear me, don't let her go! You hear me? Don't you dare let her go!”
Upstairs, Mike was on his knees, his body draped over Y/N’s floating form. He was losing his grip as the vines began to wrap around him too, trying to pull him away from her. Slowly, but dangerously.
“I don't care if you hate me!” Mike sobbed into her ear, his voice a raw, jagged edge. “I don't care if you never speak to me again! Just come back! I’ll stay in the basement forever, I’ll never lead another mission, I’ll be whatever you need—just don't leave me in this house without you!”
In the void, Y/N heard the word 'Selfish' echo in her mind. But this didn't feel like the old Mike. The old Mike was selfishly silent. This Mike was selfishly, violently loud.
She saw one last letter drift by. It wasn't burnt. It was fresh.
“…you are my life. And I was terrified I’d break you...”
“You already broke me, Mike,” Y/N whispered in the dark, her hand reaching up through the vines. “But you're the only one who knows where the pieces went.”
The fourth chime of the clock began to ring. It didn't just ring; it vibrated through the floorboards like a funeral bell, signaling the end.
The vines were no longer just slithering; they were a tidal wave of oily, black muscle. They wrapped around Mike’s waist, his chest, and his throat, dragging him backward toward the rotting walls of the attic. But Mike was a brat when he didn't get his way, and right now, he was refusing to let the universe win.
“I'm not... letting... go!” Mike choked out.
His boots skidded against the wood as the vines gave a violent yank. He was being pulled into the shadows, while Y/N remained suspended in the center of the room, her sightless white eyes staring at a ceiling only she could see.
“Y/N, listen to me!” Mike screamed, his voice raw and breaking. The leader was dead. There was no strategy left, only the truth. “Vecna is right! I did make you a ghost! I treated you like a secondary character in my own life because I was too scared to be the man you deserved!”
In the void, Y/N was sinking. The black water of the Mind Lair was at her chin.
“Listen to the silence, Y/N,” Vecna’s voice was a velvet caress, drowning out the world. “He is only screaming because he is afraid to be alone. He doesn't see you. He sees a mirror of his own guilt.”
“Maybe,” Y/N whispered, her eyes closing as the dark water touched her lips. “Maybe I'm just easier to lose than Jane.”
But then, Mike’s voice broke through—not as a leader, and not as a hero. It was raw, jagged, and utterly unpolished.
“I am a liar!” Mike’s scream echoed in her mind, shaking the very foundations of the void. “I told myself I was protecting you, but I was just protecting myself from how much I needed you! I was a brat, Y/N! I was firm and cold because if I let myself be soft, I knew I’d never be able to leave your side!”
Mike was fading. The vines were tightening around his throat, his face turning a dangerous shade of red, but he forced the words out. He had to say it all. If he died here, he wouldn't die with those letters under his bed.
“I have a box, Y/N! Three years of letters! I wrote to you about the move, about the dreams I had where we were just kids again, about the way the basement feels empty even when it's full of people! I love the way you breathe when you're thinking hard! I love that you're the only person who can tell me I'm being an idiot and actually make me listen!”
In the void, the water stopped rising. Y/N opened her eyes.
“I ignored you because I didn't think I was enough for you anymore!” Mike’s voice was sobbing now, a frantic, beautiful mess. “I thought you deserved a hero, and all I am is a boy with a plan that always fails! But please... if you can hear me... I don't want to be a hero. I just want to be Mike. Your Mike. Just for one more day.”
Mike managed to free one hand from the vines’ grip. He reached into his back pocket, his fingers trembling as they fumbled with his wallet. He pulled out the Polaroid—the one of her at the Snow Ball.
“Look at it!” he yelled, thrusting the photo toward her sightless face as he was dragged further away. “I carry you with me everywhere! You’re in my pocket, you’re under my bed, you’re in every breath I take! I never left you, Y/N! I just got lost in the dark and I was too proud to ask you to hold my hand!”
The blue fog of the memories evaporated, leaving Y/N standing in the true Abyss. It was a wasteland of broken pillars and red, lightning-streaked skies. In the distance, floating in the middle of the carnage, was a jagged, glowing window.
It was the portal. Through it, she could see the attic—distorted and flickering, but real. She saw Mike. He was unrecognizable, his face twisted in agony as the vines coiled around his throat. He was dying to keep her anchored, his lips moving in a silent, frantic prayer of her name.
“You think his love is a sanctuary?” The ground shook as Vecna materialized from the shadows, his heavy, wet footsteps echoing like a heartbeat. He raised a hand, and the ground beneath Y/N’s feet began to liquify into black sludge. “It is a weight. He will pull you down into his guilt until you both drown. Stay here, Y/N. In the Abyss, you are not a shadow. You are everything.”
“I'm not his weight,” Y/N hissed, her voice finding a sharp, crystalline edge it hadn't possessed in years. She looked at the portal, at Mike’s tear-streaked face. “And I'm not your trophy.”
She reached out and grips a broken piece of wood and collies it with his face.
Y/N ran with a desperation that burned in her lungs. Behind her, the landscape of the Abyss began to fold in on itself. Massive, clawed vines burst from the ground like spears, missing her heels by inches.
“You are weak! Gentle! Alone!” Vecna’s voice thundered, the very air vibrating with his rage.
“I'm not alone!” Y/N screamed back.
She could hear the physical world now. It was overlapping with the Abyss. She heard the crunch of the attic door finally splintering under Steve’s axe. She heard Dustin’s panicked sobbing. But loudest of all, she heard Mike.
“I have the box, Y/N! I have the letters! I have everything you think I threw away!”
The portal was closing. The jagged edges of the window were pulling inward, shrinking as the vines in the real world tightened their death grip on Mike’s throat.
Vecna lunged, his massive, vine-like hand reaching for her shoulder. The coldness that radiated from him was enough to stop her heart, but Y/N didn't flinch. She saw Mike’s hand in the portal—the hand that was reaching for her—and she reached out for it from the inside.
In the abyss, Y/N didn't just run; she fought through the sludge of her own doubts, spurred by the raw, broken honesty of Mike’s voice echoing from the portal. She leaped into the light just as Vecna’s cold fingers grazed her heel, choosing the pain of reality over the comfort of the dark.
In the attic, the change was instantaneous.
Y/N’s back slammed onto the floorboards as gravity reclaimed her. Her eyes snapped from a milky white to their deep, familiar colors, and she let out a jagged, soul-wrenching gasp. But she couldn't move. Her limbs felt like lead, her muscles screaming from the tension of the trance, and her head was ringing with a deafening, high-pitched frequency.
“Y/N!” Mike’s voice was a choked rasp.
He was pinned six feet away, his back pressed against the rotting wallpaper, vines coiled around his throat and chest like iron bands. He kicked and thrashed, his fingers clawing at the air toward her, but he was trapped. He had to watch her lay there, shivering and vulnerable on the cold wood, unable to go to her.
“Mike...” she managed to whisper, her vision swimming. She tried to push herself up, to crawl toward him, but her strength failed. She watched in horror as the vines around Mike’s neck tightened, his face darkening as he fought for breath.
CRACK.
The attic door didn't just open; it was annihilated. Steve and Eddie burst through, axes and heavy iron bars swinging.
“Get the girl!” Steve yelled to Nancy and Dustin, while he and Eddie lunged toward the walls. They hacked at the pulsing, sentient vines with a feral intensity. Eddie let out a primal scream as he severed the main root holding Mike’s right arm, the black ichor spraying across the floor.
As the vines withered and hissed, retreating into the shadows of the house, Mike didn't even wait to find his footing. The moment the pressure on his chest vanished, he practically fell out of his bindings and scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees.
He reached her in a second, his body sliding into the dust beside her.
“I've got you, I've got you,” Mike sobbed, his voice a wrecked, frantic mess. He didn't just pick her up; he enveloped her. He pulled her into his lap, his arms wrapping around her with a firm, possessive strength that felt like it was trying to fuse their souls back together.
Y/N collapsed into him, her head falling into the crook of his neck, finally let out a broken, relieved sob.
“You're okay,” Mike whispered into her hair, his eyes shut tight as he rocked her back and forth. He didn't care that the rest of the group was standing there, breathless and watching. He didn't care about the mission or the plan. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I let you get so far away. I'm right here. I'm never letting go. Never.”
Y/N reached up, her trembling hands clutching at the front of his jacket, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single inch of air between them. The ringing in her ears was finally fading, replaced by the heavy, thudding rhythm of Mike’s heart—a heart that, for the first time in years, was beating entirely for her.
“The letters,” she gasped out against his skin, her voice wet with tears. “You better not have been lying about those letters, Wheeler.”
Mike let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, burying his face deeper into her shoulder. “I’ll show you every single one. I’ll show you the box. Just... just stay. Stay in my space.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” she breathed.
Weeks later, the sterile, white walls of the Hawkins Hospital room had been thoroughly colonized by the chaos of a group that refused to let one of their own fade away.
The bedside table was a forest of “Get Well” cards from Dustin (filled with over-complicated scientific encouragement), hand-drawn D&D maps from Lucas, and a small, delicate vase of wildflowers Jane brought every two days. Max had left her favorite cassettes stacked neatly by the bed, and even Eddie had snuck in once to leave a “Membership Card” for a high-ranking position in Hellfire, scribbled on the back of a hospital menu.
But it was Mike who was the permanent fixture.
He didn't just visit; he lived there. He arrived every morning before the nurses did their rounds, and he stayed until the moonlight hit the linoleum.
Mike sat in the plastic chair pulled flush against the side of Y/N’s bed. He was currently balancing a Tupperware container of his mother’s homemade lasagna—the only thing he trusted to “put the color back in her cheeks,” as Karen Wheeler put it.
“Open up,” Mike said, his voice quiet and firm, but with an underlying tenderness that still made Y/N’s heart skip.
She looked at him, her eyes weary but bright with a life that Vecna hadn't been able to steal. The internal damage had been a slow mend—bruised ribs, a strained nervous system from the psychic tether—but the mental toll was the hardest to heal. Mike knew that. That was why he didn't just feed her body; he fed her the truth.
He blew on a small bite of lasagna before carefully feeding it to her. As she chewed, he reached into the battered shoebox sitting in his lap.
“Ready for today's?” he asked, his fingers tracing the edge of a yellowed envelope.
“Which year is this one from?” Y/N asked, her voice still a bit raspy but stronger than it had been a week ago.
"This one is from summer of last year," Mike said, pulling out a page filled with cramped, frantic handwriting. “I was sitting on the back porch watching you garden with my mom. I was too chicken to come out and talk to you because I'd spent the whole week being a brat about D&D.”
Mike cleared his throat, his ears turning a familiar shade of red. He began to read, his voice steadying as he fell into the words he’d kept locked away for so long.
“Dear Y/N,
I’m watching you right now. Not in a creepy way, I swear. You’re just... you’re the only thing that looks peaceful in this town. I wanted to come down and apologize for being an asshole yesterday, but I don't know how to say it without sounding like I’m making excuses. I’m scared that if I get too close, you’ll see that I’m actually falling apart. I think I’m losing my mind with all this Upside Down stuff, and the only time I feel like I have a grip on reality is when I hear you laugh. I hope I don't lose that. I hope I don't lose you.”
He stopped, his eyes drifting from the paper to her face. He reached out, his thumb gently wiping a stray crumb from the corner of her mouth. He didn't pull his hand away. He let his palm rest against her cheek, his touch firm and grounded.
“I almost did,” he whispered, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. “I almost lost it.”
Y/N leaned into his palm, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “You didn't. You held the door, Mike. You stayed in my space.”
“I'm never leaving it again,” he promised, setting the letter aside to pick up the fork again. “Now, three more bites of this lasagna or my mom will have both our heads. And after that, I have a letter from last October. It’s four pages long and mostly about how much I hated that I couldn't hold your hand at the cinema.”
Y/N let out a soft, genuine laugh—the sound Mike had literally fought a monster to hear again.
“Four pages?” she teased.
“I had a lot of feelings,” Mike muttered, a small, shy smile finally breaking through his moody exterior. “And you're going to hear every single one of them.”
summary: Behind a locked door, the “Princess” and the “Freak” trade the safety of their reputations for the thrill of the hidden, weaving a dangerous intimacy between the lines of their status. While Steve sleeps blissfully unaware of the “data” being collected under his own roof, the air in the room grows heavy with a devotion that is as tender as it is reckless—leaving behind a trail of wilted petals that threatens to bloom into a scandal the town isn't ready to face.
wc: 3,3 k
post contains: fem reader, established SECRET relationship, oblivious but up-to-something steve, fluff, no smut, emo bf and princess-like gf.
author’s note: can be read ingularly! this is an idea from one of my readers @wqndk tysm for ur idea! criticism and feedbacks are appreciated!
Pretty in Pink | Part 1
The Harrington house was unnaturally silent. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and Y/N was at a late cheer practice, leaving the echoing hallways to Steve and the distant hum of the refrigerator. Steve had been on a “good brother” kick lately, trying to keep up with the chores while their parents were away on yet another “business trip” that felt more like a permanent vacation.
Usually, the routine was simple: Y/N left her wicker laundry basket outside her door every Monday and Thursday. Steve would grab it, grumbling about how many delicate silk items required special care, and that was that.
But today, the hallway was empty.
“Y/N? You forget the basket again?” Steve muttered to himself, holding a pile of his own folded towels. He knocked once on her door—a polite, brief rap—and waited. No answer. He sighed and nudged the door open with his shoulder.
The room hit him with a wave of expensive vanilla and fresh laundry. It was a quintessential “Harrington” space: bright, airy, and impeccably curated. White furniture, pink accents, and a vanity covered in enough perfumes to scent a small country.
Steve stepped inside, his eyes scanning for the runaway basket. He found it near the closet, but as he moved toward it, his gaze caught on something that didn't quite fit the “Better Homes & Gardens” aesthetic of the rest of the room.
On her bedside table sat a heavy, crystal vase.
It was overflowing. But it wasn't a fresh bouquet from a florist. It was a dense, almost chaotic collection of carnations in varying stages of life. Some were vibrant pink and red, their petals still soft and fragrant. Others were in the middle of wilting, their edges curling like old parchment. And at the bottom, packed tightly together, was a thick layer of completely dried, brittle flowers—shadowy brown and deep burgundy.
Steve paused, the laundry basket forgotten in his hand. He stepped closer, his brow furrowing. It was... odd. Y/N was a perfectionist. She hated clutter, and she certainly hated things that were “dead” or “ugly.” If a single petal fell off a rose, she usually tossed it.
But this? This was a shrine. It looked like she had kept every single flower she’d been given for months.
“Carnations?” Steve whispered, reaching out to touch a particularly dried petal. He knew carnations. They were the “cheap” flowers—the kind kids bought at school fundraisers or picked up at the grocery store with pocket change. They weren't the long-stemmed roses or exotic lilies a girl like Y/N usually received from the guys on the basketball team.
He looked around the room again. Everything else was so bright, so polished. The vase of dying flowers stood out like a dark, sentimental bruise.
Steve didn't suspect a boyfriend—not yet. He just thought it was a weird, slightly morbid “girl thing.” Maybe she was into some new gothic trend? Or maybe she was drying them for a scrapbook?
But then, he noticed a tiny, crumpled scrap of paper tucked at the very base of the vase, partially hidden by a fallen, dried leaf. On it, in a messy, frantic scrawl that looked vaguely familiar, were three words:
“For the night.”
Steve’s heart did a strange little skip. He wasn’t foreign with that handwriting. He’d seen it on a thousand “lost” D&D character sheets and science fair posters. He stared at the messy ‘W’ and the looped ‘g’.
He looked at the vase again. Fresh, almost dried, completely dried.
The math started to whir in his head. If there were five hundred and seventy eight flowers, and they were given one at a time... that meant someone had been giving his sister one for five hundred and seventy eight nights.
Steve shook his head, physically tossing the suspicion out of his brain. “No,” he muttered to the empty room. “She’s just being a teenager. She’s probably... I don't know, making potpourri. Or it’s a craft project.”
He grabbed the laundry basket and retreated, choosing the blissful ignorance of a brother who didn't want to think about the logistics of his sister having a secret admirer.
An hour later, Steve was leaning over the counter at Family Video, half-heartedly alphabetizing the ‘S’ section while Robin leaned against the register and Dustin sat on a stool, fiddling with a walkie-talkie.
“I’m just saying,” Steve said, waving a copy of Sixteen Candles in the air. "Love is a disaster. It’s all grand gestures and then someone ends up crying in a gym. Take Wheeler, for example. The kid is still carrying a torch for my sister like it’s a holy relic. It’s hilarious. It’s like watching a puppy try to climb a mountain."
Robin snorted, popping a piece of gum. “Hey, leave the kid alone. Persistence is a virtue, Steve. Even if it’s directed at a Harrington who wouldn't look at him if he was on fire.”
“It’s cute, in a sad way,” Dustin added, not looking up from his wires.
Steve sighed, leaning his elbows on the glass counter of the register. He looked at Dustin, who was currently trying to see how many paperclips he could daisy-chain together while waiting for a ride.
“I’m just saying,” Steve said, picking up the conversation again. “The kid is dedicated. You gotta give Wheeler that. He’s been staring at the back of Y/N’s head since the third grade. It’s like a permanent fixture in his life. Like a mole you forget to get checked.”
Robin snorted, scanning a return. “He's not a mole, Steve. He’s a romantic. There's a difference. It’s a very classic, 'pining from the trenches' kind of vibe.”
“It’s not 'pining,' it’s a death wish,” Dustin piped up, finally snapping a paperclip. “I told him months ago that he should just move on to someone more... attainable. Someone who doesn't spend their weekends at country club brunches. But does he listen? No. He just gets that dreamy, vacant look in his eyes and starts humming.”
Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s harmless. I actually find it kind of funny. Y/N doesn't even know his name half the time. She calls him 'the tall one with the curls' when she's feeling generous.”
“Well, he’s definitely keeping busy,” Dustin said, stuffing his paperclip chain into his pocket. “He’s been going on his own missions.”
Steve tilted his head. “Missions? What, did he find a new map to a fictional kingdom?”
“Actually,” Dustin said, finally looking up with a look of mild annoyance. “He’s gone 'flower hunting.' He’s been obsessed with finding specific ones lately. He says Nancy needs them for some 'environmental journalism' piece she’s writing for the Hawkins Post. Something about the local flora of Indiana.”
Steve froze, his hand lingering on a VHS tape. Environmental journalism? “Nancy?” Steve asked, his voice a little higher than usual. “Nancy Wheeler is writing about... flowers? Since when does she care about anything that doesn't involve a conspiracy or a government cover-up?”
“Don't ask me,” Dustin shrugged, hopping off the stool and grabbing his backpack. “Mike’s the one doing the legwork. I told him I’d help him find some wild carnations near the old creek. Apparently, Nancy is 'very specific' about the color. Red or pink only.”
Steve’s eyebrows shot up. “What is he, her unpaid intern?”
“Basically. She’s doing this whole deep-dive for the Post. Some boring documentary-style series on 'The Vanishing Flora of the Rust Belt.' She needs physical samples for documentation or whatever. Something about the chemical composition of soil affecting petal pigments.”
Robin leaned in, looking genuinely confused. “Nancy 'The Investigative Hammer' Wheeler is writing about... pigments? Since when did she trade her press badge for a gardening hoe?”
Dustin shrugged. “Mike says she’s being a total drill sergeant about it. She only wants specific types. Carnations, mostly. Something about how they're 'hardy enough to withstand the local pollution.' He’s actually meeting me at the creek in ten minutes to look for wild ones. He says if he doesn't find a fresh red one by sunset, Nancy’s gonna have his head.”
Steve felt a strange, nagging sensation in the back of his mind. A memory of a crystal vase filled with those exact flowers—red, pink, dying, and dead. But he quickly shoved it aside. It was too ridiculous. Nancy was a perfectionist; of course she’d be demanding about her “research.”
“Man, Nancy really is a piece of work,” Steve said, laughing. “Making that poor kid trek through the mud for a journalism project. I almost feel bad for him. Almost.”
"Yeah, well, Mike takes it way too seriously," Dustin said, grabbing his cap. “He’s got this little notebook where he logs where he found them and what 'stage' they’re in. He says it’s for Nancy’s data, but I think he’s just trying to impress her so she’ll let him use her car.”
“Data. Right.” Steve nodded, his mind drifting. “Good for her. Taking the environment seriously. Very noble.”
“Anyway, I’m out,” Dustin said, standing up from the stool. “If you see Mike biking around with a bunch of weeds in his basket, don't tease him too hard. He’s already sensitive about the 'flower boy' nickname Eddie gave him.”
Dustin headed for the door, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Catch you later, Steve! Tell Robin to stop judging my 'science' talk!”
The bell chimed as Dustin left, leaving a heavy silence in the store. Steve stood perfectly still, his mind flashing back to the vase in Y/N’s room.
Fresh, almost dried, completely dried.
For the night.
Nancy’s journalism.
Steve just stared out the window, watching Dustin bike away. He thought about Mike Wheeler—the kid with the messy handwriting and the “puppy” crush—out in the woods right now, hunting for the exact same flowers that were currently wilting on his sister's nightstand.
Steve brushed the thought away before it could even take root. It was impossible.
“Hey, Robin?” Steve asked, his voice a bit more serious. “Does Nancy’s newspaper even have a nature column?”
“Nature column? Who knows,” Robin shrugged, popping a piece of bubblegum. “Nancy probably invented a nature column just to win another award. That girl is a machine.”
“Yeah, you're right,” Steve agreed, his shoulders relaxing. He felt a little stupid for even letting his mind go there.
After all, Y/N was Y/N. He’d seen her turn down the captain of the wrestling team without even looking up from her vanity mirror. He’d seen her laugh off a prom proposal from a guy who’d literally rented a billboard. She always told Steve the same thing: “They’re all so boring, Steve. They have zero personality beyond their varsity jackets.”
The idea of her dating Mike Wheeler—a kid who still thought capes were a viable fashion choice—wasn't just unlikely; it was a comedy of errors.
He arrived home later that evening, the sun dipping low and painting the Harrington foyer in deep oranges. He checked the porch—no laundry basket. She must have brought it in herself, he thought.
He walked upstairs and saw her door was slightly ajar. He could hear the muffled sound of a Madonna tape playing and the rhythmic thump-thump of her practicing a cheer routine.
“Hey,” he said, knocking on the doorframe.
Y/N stopped mid-spin, her hair in a high ponytail, looking perfectly flushed and energetic. “Hey! You’re home late. Did Robin make you count all the tapes again?”
“Something like that,” Steve leaned against the door, his eyes drifting—almost involuntarily—to the nightstand.
The vase was still there. But it looked different. Right at the very top, nestled against the fading pinks of yesterday, was a single, vibrant, deep-red carnation. It was so fresh it still had a bead of dew on the stem.
“More 'research'?” Steve asked, gesturing toward the flower with a casual tilt of his head.
Y/N didn't even blink. She grabbed a towel and wiped her forehead, her expression cool and indifferent. “Oh, that? Yeah. I found it near the driveway. I figured it would look good with the 'decaying' look I’ve got going on. It’s a vibe, Steve. Don't worry your pretty little head about it.”
“Right. A vibe,” Steve nodded. “Dustin was saying something about Nancy Wheeler doing a project on those. Weird coincidence, huh?”
Y/N paused for a fraction of a second—so short Steve almost missed it—before she let out a dry, melodic laugh. “Nancy Wheeler? Doing a project on weeds? God, she really is desperate for a headline, isn't she? I guess even the 'smart' girl runs out of ideas eventually.”
She turned back to her mirror, beginning to unbind her ponytail. “Anyway, can you make spaghetti for dinner? I'm starving, and I have a huge history test tomorrow I need to cram for.”
“Yeah, sure. Spaghetti. I'm on it,” Steve said, backing out of the room.
As he walked down the stairs, he felt a strange sense of relief. See? She thought the project was pathetic. There was no way she was involved in some secret flower-delivery scheme with a Wheeler. It was just a weird, random coincidence of the universe.
He started boiling the water, whistling a tune, completely unaware that upstairs, Y/N was leaning against her closed door, clutching the fresh red carnation to her chest and exhaling a breath she’d been holding for five minutes.
The moment Steve’s footsteps faded down the stairs and the sound of the kitchen faucet filled the house, the “History” cram session officially began.
Y/N didn't move from the door for a long minute, her ear pressed against the wood. Once she heard the rhythmic thump-thump of Steve chopping garlic, she turned the lock with a nearly silent click.
“Coast is clear,” she whispered to the seemingly empty room.
The heavy pink dust ruffle of her bed shifted. First, a pair of beat-up high-top sneakers poked out, followed by a lanky frame and a mop of dark, messy hair. Mike Wheeler emerged from under the bed, looking slightly dusty but wearing a triumphant, lop-sided grin.
“You're getting faster at the 'statue' act,” Y/N teased, crossing the room to help him up. She brushed a stray lint bunny off the shoulder of his jacket. “Steve was literally three feet away from your hiding spot.”
“I practiced my breathing,” Mike whispered, his voice still low out of habit. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly crumpled history textbook and a folded sheet of notes. “Besides, I had a motivation. I heard him mention spaghetti. If I stay long enough, do I get leftovers, or is that too 'risk-heavy' for the mission?”
“You get a granola bar from my nightstand and my undivided attention,” she countered, pulling him toward her desk. “Now sit. We actually have to study. If I fail this test, Steve will think I'm 'distracted' and start hovering even more.”
They settled into the familiar, cramped space of her desk nook. The room was bathed in the soft, warm glow of her bedside lamp, casting their shadows long against the floral wallpaper. To anyone looking through a crack in the door, it would look like Y/N was alone, surrounded by notebooks. In reality, Mike was tucked into the corner chair right beside her, their knees touching under the desk.
Mike opened his textbook to The Industrial Revolution, but his eyes kept drifting to the vase. The red carnation—the “signal”—sat proudly at the top.
“Dustin almost caught me, you know,” Mike murmured, leaning his head closer to hers so their hair brushed. “He thought I was looking for 'pigments' for Nancy. I think he actually felt sorry for me. He thinks I'm Nancy's botanical slave.”
“Good,” Y/N whispered, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Let them think you're the errand boy. It makes it much more fun when you're actually the one in here.”
For the next two hours, the only sounds were the scratching of pens and the low, hushed murmurs of Mike quizzing her on dates and treaties. Every time she got an answer right, he’d give her hand a squeeze under the table. Every time she got one wrong, he’d lean in and tap her somewhere on her, making her giggle.
“No, the Treaty of Versailles was 1919, not 1918,” he corrected, tapping her forehead with his pen, causing a small giggle out of his girl. “Focus, Harrington. Do you want to pass or do you want to keep staring at me?”
“1919,” Y/N whispered, but she wasn't looking at her notes anymore. She was looking at the way the warm lamp light caught the sharp angle of Mike’s cheekbone. “I heard you the first time, Wheeler. You don't have to be so firm about it.”
Mike looked over, his pen hovering over a diagram of a steam engine. “Someone has to be. If I’m not firm, you start talking about the history of Chanel instead of the history of the Western Front.”
“Maybe I just like the way you look when you're being a bossy nerd,” she teased, her voice dropping to a low, daring hum. She shifted in her chair, closing the small gap between them until her shoulder was pressed firmly against his chest.
Mike felt his pulse skip. He tried to focus on the page, but the scent of her vanilla perfume was clouding his brain. He turned his head to tell her to get back to work, but she was already there, her face inches from his.
“Y/N,” he breathed, a warning that held no weight. “Steve is literally right downstairs. He’s probably watching Magnum P.I. He has super-hearing when it comes to this hallway.”
“Then don't make any noise,” she whispered.
She reached out, her fingers tracing the hem of his hoodie before sliding up to the back of his neck, tugging him just a fraction closer. The “firm” tutor persona Mike had been maintaining crumbled instantly. He dropped his pen—it rolled off the desk and landed on the plush carpet with a dull thud—and he finally let his hand settle on her waist, pulling her into the space between his knees.
The kiss was slow and cautious at first, a silent conversation happening while the floorboards groaned downstairs. It was the kind of intimacy that felt amplified by the risk of it all. Mike’s hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, his touch grounding and steady, while Y/N’s hands tangled in his dark curls, pulling him into her with a quiet, needy sigh.
She felt him shift, his grip tightening just a bit as he leaned her back against the desk. For a moment, the Industrial Revolution was replaced by the heat of his skin and the way he moved with a confidence he only ever showed when they were behind this locked door.
“Wait,” Mike murmured against her lips, his breathing ragged. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and focused. “The floor... the chair creaked.”
They both froze, hearts hammering in synchronization. Downstairs, the muffled sound of the TV abruptly stopped. They held their breath, Y/N’s fingers still locked in his hair, Mike’s arm draped protectively over her.
They heard Steve’s heavy footsteps walk into the foyer. Then, the creak of the bottom step.
“Y/N?” Steve’s voice called out from the bottom of the stairs. “You still 'cramming' up there? It’s been like three hours. Don't fry your brain, you're gonna need it for the pep rally tomorrow!”
Y/N didn't miss a beat, though her heart was trying to kick its way out of her ribs. She leaned her head back and called out, her voice perfectly clear and annoyed. “I'm fine, Steve! I'm just on the 1920s! Go to sleep or something!”
“Alright, alright! Geez. Night, brat!”
They waited until they heard his bedroom door shut down the hall.
Mike let out a long, shaky exhale, his forehead resting against hers. “That was too close. Way too close.”
Y/N let out a tiny, breathless laugh, her hands sliding down to rest on his chest. “But you're still here.”
Mike looked at her—really looked at her—and the red carnation in the vase behind her. He leaned in again, his voice a low, gravelly promise. “I'm not going anywhere.”
Downstairs, Steve finished the spaghetti, blissfully unaware that the “mole” was currently helping his sister memorize the Triple Entente. He looked at the extra portion in the pan and shrugged. “More for me tomorrow,” he muttered, heading to the living room to watch TV, leaving the “environmentalist” upstairs to his “research.”
summary: Behind the closed doors of the Wheeler basement, he belongs to the girl with the Harrington smile and a penchant for pink. Everyone thinks he’s still the hopeless nerd crushing on the school’s sweetheart, but the truth is tucked away in a hidden bouquet of dried flowers. In a town built on secrets, this is the one that could finally break Steve Harrington—because if the King finds out another Wheeler had stolen the heart of another Harrington, there won't be enough hairspray in Indiana to fix the fallout.
wc: 2,7 k
post contains: fem reader, emo bf x princess-like gf, fluff, established SECRET relationship, down bad mike, mike is a sweetheart, hints of sub mike, no smut, trying makeup on mike 👅👅
author’s note: can be read singularly ^_^ criticism and feedbacks are appreciated!
Crimson and Love | Part 2
The hallways of Hawkins High in 1986 were a battlefield of hairspray, denim, and social hierarchies that Steve Harrington had spent years building. But as the bell rang for lunch, the undisputed Queen of the corridor wasn’t a cheerleader or a jock—it was Y/N Harrington.
She moved through the crowd like a vision in bubblegum pink, her hair a gravity-defying masterpiece that would have made her brother weep with pride. With a stack of textbooks tucked under one arm and a mischievous glint in her eyes, she was the “It Girl” of the sophomore class. And she knew exactly how to use it.
Across the hall, tucked near the trophy case, the Party was in the middle of a heated debate about Eddie’s next D&D campaign.
“I'm telling you, Dustin, if we don't have a cleric, we’re toast,” Lucas argued, leaning against a locker.
“We have Mike! Mike's the Paladin!” Dustin countered, gesturing wildly.
Mike Wheeler, however, wasn't listening. He was leaning against the wall, dressed in a black oversized sweater and ripped jeans—the quintessential 1986 “emo” look before there was even a word for it. His dark hair was shaggy, casting shadows over his eyes, but those eyes were currently locked on a specific shade of pink moving toward them.
“Oh boy,” Will whispered, noticing Mike’s sudden rigidity. “Here she comes.”
The air in the hallway seemed to shift as Y/N approached the group of nerds. The jocks by the gym doors stopped mid-laugh, expecting her to walk right past the “Freak Circus,” but Y/N had other plans. She slowed her pace as she reached Mike, a slow, cat-like smirk spreading across her face.
“Move it, Wheeler,” she purred, her voice dripping with that signature charisma. She didn't just walk past him; she leaned in, her shoulder brushing his chest, her perfume—something sweet and floral—filling his lungs and making his head spin.
She paused, her hand trailing briefly, almost imperceptibly, against the fabric of his black sweater. “You’re blocking my locker. Again.”
Mike’s face went from pale to a deep, agonizing crimson in three seconds flat. “I—uh—sorry. Sorry, Y/N.”
She caught his gaze for a fraction of a second—a secret, searing look that said I love it when you stutter—before she winked at a stunned Dustin and sashayed away, the heels of her boots clicking a rhythmic taunt against the linoleum.
“Dude,” Dustin breathed, staring after her. “She is terrifying. I think she actually looked at me. Did she look at me Wait, she winked! Oh my gosh-“
“Mike, you okay? You look like you’re having a stroke…” Max eyed her friend’s incredible stiff stance.
Mike swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Underneath the sleeve of his sweater, his wrist still felt the ghost of her touch. “I'm fine,” he croaked, adjusting his backpack. "She’s just... she’s hot… I mean, she’s a lot!”
“She’s a Harrington,” Lucas noted, shaking his head. “Steve with long hair and a skirt. God help us all.”
Little did they know, tucked into the back of Mike’s history notebook was a pressed carnation from their two-year anniversary, and later that night, that same “terrifying” girl would be opening her bedroom window to let him in and spenf the night compare notes on her favorite bands with him.
But for now, Mike had to play the part: the pining nerd and the girl who was out of everyone's league.
At the “freak” table, the Party was huddled over a map of Mirkwood, but Mike’s attention was exactly three tables away.
Y/N was leaning against a laminate tabletop, surrounded by a gaggle of girls in high-waisted denim and neon sweaters. She was the center of the orbit, twirling a strand of that perfect, voluminous hair around a finger polished in a shade called Electric Rose. She laughed at something a cheerleader said—a bright, musical sound that cut right through the cafeteria noise and hit Mike straight in the chest.
Mike didn't realize he’d stopped breathing. He was leaning his chin on his hand, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth, his dark, moody aesthetic completely betrayed by the soft, longing gaze he was directing at the girl in pink.
“Earth to Wheeler,” Lucas said, snapping his fingers in front of Mike’s face.
Mike didn't blink.
“He’s gone,” Dustin sighed, poking at his mystery meat. “Total system failure. We’ve lost him to the Harrington Void.”
“It’s actually kind of tragic,” Will added softly, looking at Mike with genuine pity. “He’s liked her since we were twelve. It’s been four years, Mike. At some point, the crush has to reach its expiration date, right?”
“It’s not a crush,” Mike muttered, finally snapping back to reality and dropping his fork with a loud clatter. “And I was just... looking at the clock. Behind her.”
“Right. The clock,” Max snorted, leaning back in her chair and popping a piece of gum. “The clock that happens to have perfectly styled hair and taste in pink. Sure, Wheeler.”
Just then, the “Populars” began to migrate. Y/N started walking toward the exit, flanked by her entourage. As she approached the Party’s table, the boys instinctively stiffened—except for Mike, who tried to look incredibly fascinated by his carton of chocolate milk.
Y/N slowed down. She didn't stop—that would be too obvious—but as she swept past, she leaned down just enough to let her pink silk scarf brush against Mike’s shoulder.
“Nice sweater, Michael,” she said, her voice a low, teasing hum that only their table could hear. “Very... broody.”
She didn't wait for an answer. She just kept walking, throwing a wink over her shoulder that was meant for the room, but her eyes locked onto Mike’s for a fraction of a second, burning with a secret fire that said: I'm wearing the locket you gave me under this sweater.
“See?” Dustin whispered harshly the moment she was out of earshot. “She’s mocking you! 'Very broody'? She’s literally Steve in a skirt, Mike. She’s playing with her prey. You’ve gotta move on before she eats you alive.”
Mike looked down at his milk, a tiny, lopsided smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that he fought to hide. “Yeah,” he murmured, his heart racing. “Terrifying.”
“If Steve ever caught you looking at her like that,” Lucas added, miming a throat-cutting motion, “he’d bury you under the gym floor. For your own safety, man, stop staring.”
The bell had finally signaled the end of the school day, liberating Mike from the suffocating pressure of his friends' pitying stares and the heavy secret weighing down his backpack. While the rest of the Party pedaled toward the sanctuary of the Wheeler basement, Mike had detoured, weaving his bike through the back alleys of Hawkins until the sun began to dip.
By the time he reached the familiar, manicured lawn of the Harrington estate, the neighborhood was settling into a deceptive suburban quiet. He waited in the shadows of the tree line, watching Steve’s BMW roar out of the driveway—likely headed to the Family Video to “mentor” Robin or hunt for a date—before he finally made his move toward the side of the house.
The Harrington household was uncharacteristically quiet, the kind of silence that only happened when Steve was out playing “Babysitter Prime” or chasing some lead with Robin. The BMW wasn't in the driveway, and the porch light was dimmed—the universal signal for the coast is clear.
Mike Wheeler didn't use the front door. He wasn't that suicidal.
Instead, he was currently scaling the trellis on the side of the house, his black combat boots slipping slightly against the wood. He hauled himself up to the second-story ledge, his oversized sweater snagging on a rogue rosebush. With a practiced hand, he tapped a rhythmic code against the glass of the window adorned with lace curtains.
The latch clicked. The window slid up with a smooth, silent groan, and a wave of floral perfume and hairspray hit Mike square in the face.
“You’re late, Wheeler,” a voice purred from the shadows.
Mike tumbled inside, landing in a heap on the plush, cream-colored carpet. He looked up to see Y/N leaning against her vanity, bathed in the soft, rosy glow of a neon heart sign on her wall. She had discarded her school clothes for a silk pink robe, her hair brushed out into soft, voluminous waves that caught the light.
“The Party wouldn't stop talking about the campaign,” Mike breathed, pushing his dark hair out of his eyes as he stood up. “Dustin thinks you’re ‘predatory.’ He spent twenty minutes warning me to stay away from the ‘Harrington Trap.’”
Y/N laughed, a low, melodic sound as she crossed the room. She reached out, her manicured fingers catching the collar of his black sweater and pulling him close. “The Harrington Trap, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“It’s working,” Mike murmured, his “broody” persona melting the second her hands touched him. “I’m officially caught.”
She tilted her head, her eyes scanning his face with that flirtatious intensity that usually made the jocks at school stumble over their own feet. But with Mike, it was different. There was a softness there, a genuine heat that she saved only for the boy who had given her a bouquet of supermarket flowers three years ago.
“Steve almost stayed in tonight,” she whispered, her nose brushing against his. “He wanted to ‘bond.’ He actually suggested we watch Top Gun and talk about our feelings. I had to pretend I had a massive headache just to get him out of the house.”
Mike winced, a flash of guilt crossing his face. “He’s going to kill me one day, Y/N. You know that, right?”
“Then we’ll just have to make sure he doesn't find out,” she said, her voice dropping to a teasing hum. She reached up, trailing a thumb over his lower lip, enjoying the way his breath hitched. “Besides, you like the danger, don't you, Michael? The big, scary popular girl and her secret nerd?”
Mike wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The contrast was ridiculous—his dark, moody aesthetic against her bright, feminine elegance—but as he leaned down to finally kiss her, it felt like the only thing in Hawkins that actually made sense.
“I like the girl,” he corrected softly. “The rest is just... logistics.”
The moment their lips met, the high-stakes tension of the school day vanished. There were no “King Steves,” no “Freaks,” and no social hierarchies—just the quiet hum of 1986 and the secret they were determined to keep.
The kiss was everything the school day wasn’t—private, warm, and real. Mike’s hands, usually restless and fidgety when he was around the Party, found their place perfectly at the small of her back. He could feel the silk of her robe under his palms, a texture so different from his own rough, oversized thrift-store find.
Y/N pulled back just an inch, her eyes sparkling with that mischief that usually intimidated every guy in the gym. But here, in the rosy glow of her room, it just felt like home.
“You're shaking,” she whispered, her hands sliding up to cup his face, her thumbs tracing his cheekbones. “Is the big, bad ‘broody’ Mike Wheeler actually nervous?”
“You know you're the only one who can do that to me,” Mike admitted, his voice a low rasp. “At school, I have to act like I'm barely holding it together because you're ‘terrifying.’ Here? I’m just... yours.”
She grinned, leaning her forehead against his. “I like that. But I also like the way your face turns that specific shade of red when I wink at you in the cafeteria. It’s a very good look for you, Michael.”
“It’s humiliating,” he groaned, though he was smiling. “Dustin spent ten minutes telling me I have 'Harrington Syndrome.' He thinks I’m a lost cause.”
“Well,” she said, spinning him around and pushing him gently toward her bed, “Dustin isn't wrong. You are a lost cause. But only for me.”
She hopped up onto the edge of the mattress, patting the spot next to her. The room was filled with the sounds of 1986—the distant hum of a neighbor's lawnmower and a soft cassette tape playing The Cure in the background. It was the “happy version” of Hawkins they had fought so hard for, and sitting here like this, it felt like they’d actually won.
“So,” Y/N said, her eyes softening as she looked at him. “What did you bring me? I know you didn't just climb a trellis for the cardio.”
Mike reached into the pocket of his dark sweater and pulled out a small, slightly crumpled paper bag. Inside was a single, perfect pink carnation—a silent tradition they’d kept since that first confession years ago.
“I had to hide it under my physics homework,” Mike said, handing it to her. “If Steve saw me carrying this, he would have started an interrogation.”
Y/N took the flower, her expression shifting from flirtatious to genuinely touched. She tucked it into a vase on her nightstand that was already filled with dried petals from their previous secret nights.
“One of these days,” she murmured, leaning her head on his shoulder, “we won't have to hide the flowers, Mike.”
“I know,” he said, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close. “But until then, I’m okay with being your favorite secret.”
The room smelled of hairspray and expensive vanilla, a stark contrast to the damp basement air Mike usually breathed. He was laid back against Y/N’s silk pillows, his dark, “emo” aesthetic looking completely out of place against her floral duvet.
Y/N was straddling his lap, her knees tucked into his sides, leaning in with a focus that could rival a surgeon's. In her hand, she held a shimmering palette of pinks and purples, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she worked a brush over his eyelid. Mike’s hands are resting on each side of her thighs, his thumb brushing against her skin every once in a while.
“Hold still, Michael,” she murmured, her free hand gently cupping his jaw to keep him in place. “If I poke you in the eye, Steve’s going to ask why you’re crying at school tomorrow, and I won't be there to save you.”
“I’m trying,” Mike croaked, his heart doing that familiar stutter. It was hard to stay still when she was this close, the soft glow of her neon heart sign reflecting in her eyes. “But I think the ‘broody’ look is officially compromised if I walk out of here with glitter on my face.”
“Consider it an upgrade,” she teased, swiping a dusty rose shadow across his lid. “Besides, you’re my best muse. The jocks have too much brow bone, and Dustin would never stop talking long enough for me to blend. I have to make sure I have the perfect muse to try these out.”
She started into a story about Stacey from the cheer team—apparently, Stacey had tried to perm her own hair and it ended up looking like a “fried poodle”—and Mike just listened. He didn't care about Stacey, or the drama in the girl's locker room, or who was dating who in the senior class.
He just liked the sound of Y/N's voice. He liked the way she got animated when she gossiped, her hands waving around until she remembered she was holding a makeup brush and had to settle back down to finish his “look.”
“And then,” she continued, leaning in even closer to apply a tiny bit of shimmer to the inner corner of his eye, “she had the audacity to ask me if Steve was single. Like, gross? He’s my brother, and also, he’s currently obsessed with that new hair cream he found at the mall. He doesn't have time for a girlfriend.”
Mike chuckled, the vibration rumbling in his chest. “Steve’s love affair with his own hair is the greatest romance in Hawkins. It’s a tragedy, really.”
Y/N laughed, a bright, genuine sound that wasn't for the popular crowd—it was just for him. She pulled back to admire her handiwork, her hands still resting on his shoulders.
“There,” she whispered, looking at him with a gaze that was far softer than any ‘flirtatious’ look she gave the nerds at school. “The prettiest emo in Indiana.”
Mike reached up, his fingers tangling in the silk of her robe as he pulled her down toward him. “You’re a brat, you know that?”
She leaned down, her lips hovering just an inch from his. “Yeah, but I’m your brat. And you love it.”
summary: In the quiet of Hawkins, indifference finally shattered under the weight of a midnight slip-up and a father's sharpened instincts. What began as a secret refuge for a “gentle ninja” and her firm protector is now a matter of public record, leaving the Party curious and the Chief of Police standing guard. The owls have stopped flying, the hidden Polaroids are out of the dark. The true challenge isn't surviving a monster—it's surviving the light.
wc: 5 k
post contains: fem reader, fluff, established SECRET relationship, window escape, he knows how to handle her, protective dad hopper, implied that mike taught her how to ride a bike.
author’s note: a little bit of rebel bf mike doing the most just to be with his gf mwahahahah criticism and feedbacks are appreciated!
The Hopper cabin was unusually quiet. Jim was pulling a late shift at the station, and Jane was already fast asleep, her breathing deep and rhythmic on the couch with the TV on.
Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, the scent of chlorine still faintly clinging to her skin despite her shower. She was staring at her window, waiting. Then, the familiar thud-tap-thud sounded against the glass—the rhythm of a Paladin who had spent too much time climbing trellises.
She slid the window up, and Mike scrambled inside, looking slightly disheveled and out of breath. He didn't say a word at first; he just closed the window behind him and turned to look at her.
“You're a maniac,” she whispered, a small smile tugging at her lips. “If my dad saw your bike in the bushes, he’d have your head on a stake.”
“I hid it under the porch. I’m not an idiot,” Mike countered, crossing his arms. He walked over to her, his presence suddenly filling the small room. The “annoyed friend” mask he’d worn all day at the pool was gone, replaced by that grounded, slightly firm look that always made her stomach flip. “Are you actually okay? You were shaking pretty hard back there.”
Y/N looked down at her lap, her inner “brat” surfacing to hide the lingering embarrassment. “I was fine, Mike. You were just being dramatic with the whole 'look at me' routine. Let me ride the bike on my own.”
Mike sighed, stepping into her space and placing a hand on her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “Is that right? Because from where I was standing, you were about two seconds away from a meltdown. You were being stubborn and difficult, and you almost took Lucas’s arm off.”
“I was not—“
“You were,” he interrupted, his voice low and steady. “And you’re being a brat about it now because you hate that I saw you scared. But I told you I had you, didn't I?”
Y/N huffed, trying to look annoyed, but her hands instinctively found the hem of his shirt. “You’re so bossy. It’s annoying.”
“Yeah, well, someone has to handle you,” Mike murmured. He sat down on the bed beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. The secrecy of the moment—the dark woods outside, the silent house—made the air feel heavy. “Max was practically burning a hole through us with her eyes. She knows, Y/N. Or she’s close.”
“Let her wonder,” Y/N whispered, leaning her head against his shoulder. “It’s more fun this way. Watching Dustin try to 'math' it out while you’re standing right here.”
Mike shifted, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her closer. He let out a dry laugh. “It’s a miracle we haven't been caught yet. Especially with your dad’s 'dad-dar' constantly tuned to my frequency.”
“He likes you, Mike. Deep, deep, deep down,” she teased, poking his ribs.
Mike caught her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers—the same way they had when they intertwined behind closed doors. “He likes me as a 'stable influence.' If he knew I was sneaking through your window at eleven on a Tuesday, I’d be buried in the woods by midnight.”
He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. “But it's worth it.”
The cabin felt like its own little fortress, isolated by the heavy, damp woods of Hawkins. Outside, the crickets were a steady hum, but inside, the silence was thick and velvety.
Mike kicked off his shoes and leaned back against the headboard, pulling Y/N into the crook of his arm. She didn't hesitate, tucking her head under his chin and draping her legs over his. This was the only time they could truly relax—no performance, no “unbothered” glares, just the quiet weight of each other.
“I still can't believe you made me ride it,” she murmured into his chest, her voice muffled and soft. “I had a perfectly good cup of ramen, Mike. It was spicy. It was comforting. And you traded it for two wheels and trauma.”
Mike let out a huff of a laugh, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns over her arm. “You’re still on the ramen? You’re so dramatic. You actually did great, you know. Even when you were calling me every name in the book.”
“I meant most of them,” she teased, shifting her weight to look up at him. The moonlight filtered through the trees outside, casting long, silver shadows across the bed. “You get this look when you’re being bossy. Your eyebrows do this little 'V' thing.”
“My eyebrows do not do a 'V' thing,” Mike countered, though his grip on her tightened slightly.
“They do. It’s your 'I’m in charge' face,” she said, poking his cheek. “It makes me want to do the exact opposite of whatever you're saying just to see if your head will actually explode.”
Mike looked down at her, his expression shifting into that firm, grounded stare she had mentioned. “You try that, and we'll see who wins. I’ve had years of practice dealing with your stubbornness, Hopper. I’m not exactly a pushover.”
Y/N felt that familiar thrill—the one that came from pushing him just far enough to see him push back. She gave him a little defiant tilt of her chin, her inner brat refusing to back down even in the quiet of the night. “Is that a challenge, Wheeler?”
“It's a fact,” he whispered, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned in closer. “Now, stop talking and just stay still. You’ve had a long day of 'fighting for your life' on two wheels. You need the rest.”
She opened her mouth to argue—to tell him she wasn't tired and that he wasn't the boss of her bedtime—but the way he pulled the quilt up around her shoulders was so tender it stole the words right out of her mouth. She let out a contented sigh, sinking into him as the tension from the pool finally fully dissolved.
They stayed like that for a long time, the only sound the steady rhythm of Mike’s heart under her ear. He listened as she drifted from teasing him to talking about more serious things—her worries about Jane fitting in at school, her Dad's stress at the station, and the lingering fear that the peace in Hawkins might be too good to be true.
Mike didn't interrupt. He just listened, his presence a solid, unchanging anchor in the dark.
“We're okay,” he whispered eventually, kissing the top of her head. “No more monsters. Just us. And maybe a few more bike rides until you stop trying to strangle me.”
“Don't push your luck, Mike,” she breathed, her eyes finally fluttering shut.
The rhythmic rise and fall of Y/N’s chest against him acted like a sedative. Mike had intended to stay awake—to be the sentry, the one to keep an eye on the door and an ear out for the low rumble of Hopper’s Blazer—but the warmth of the cabin and the softness of her hair against his cheek were winning the battle.
He stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, his mind drifting through those possibilities he always carried with him. The “bad” was easy to find: the fear of another rift opening, the terror of Hopper catching him and ending his life before he could explain, or the secret of their relationship leaking and changing the dynamic of the Party forever.
But then he looked down at Y/N.
She looked so peaceful, her hand still loosely clutching his shirt, the “bratty” defiance of the afternoon completely smoothed away by sleep. He thought about the “good”: more nights like this, the thrill of their shared glances in the hallway, and the way they had become each other's quiet refuge in a world that had tried so hard to break them.
The good is better, he decided, his own eyelids growing heavy. The good is worth the risk.
He adjusted his position slightly, making sure he wouldn't crush her arm, and let his head sink back into the pillow. He breathed in the scent of her shampoo—a mix of floral notes and a lingering, faint hint of pool chlorine—and let his eyes close.
For the first time in a long time, the Paladin wasn't on guard. He was just a boy, deeply in love, falling asleep in the one place he wasn't supposed to be, but the only place he wanted to stay.
This is high-stakes territory. Hopper in the kitchen with a spatula is almost as dangerous as Hopper with a shotgun when it comes to Mike Wheeler’s life expectancy.
The smell of sizzling bacon and coffee began to waft through the cabin, a peaceful morning ritual that stood in stark contrast to the disaster waiting behind Y/N’s bedroom door.
In the kitchen, Jim Hopper was hummed a tuneless song, flipping eggs with practiced ease. He looked over at the couch, where Jane was blinking herself awake, her hair a messy bird's nest. She had fallen asleep halfway through a nature documentary the night before.
“Morning, kid,” Hopper said, gesturing with his spatula toward the hallway. “Go wake your sister. Breakfast is almost up, and if she stays in bed any longer, she’s going to be late for school. And tell her if she’s 'not hungry' again, I’m eating her portion.”
Jane nodded sleepily, rubbed her eyes, and padded down the hallway.
Inside the room, the morning light was soft and golden. Mike and Y/N were still tangled together, a messy heap of blankets and limbs. Mike’s head was buried in her neck, and Y/N had one arm draped protectively over his chest. They looked perfectly content—and perfectly doomed.
The door creaked open.
Jane stepped inside, her mouth opening to call out her sister's name, but the words died in her throat. Her head tilted to the side, her large eyes widening as they landed on the lanky, dark-haired boy currently snoring softly in her sister's bed.
She stood frozen for a long second. She looked back toward the kitchen, where she could hear the scrape of the spatula against the pan, then back at the bed.
“Y/N,” Jane whispered, her voice like a tiny bell.
No response.
“Y/N,” she tried again, a little louder.
Mike stirred first. He let out a long, sleepy groan, his fingers tightening on Y/N’s waist. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled into her skin, his voice thick with sleep. “Close the curtains, Hopper...”
Wait. Hopper.
The name acted like a bucket of ice water. Mike’s eyes snapped open. He didn't move at first, his brain trying to process why he was seeing Jane standing at the foot of the bed with an unreadable expression.
Y/N shifted beside him, blinking awake. “Jane?” she murmured, her voice raspy. She felt the weight of Mike next to her and the blood drained from her face instantly.
“Jane,” Y/N hissed, bolting upright and nearly head-butting Mike in the process. “Jane, it’s—it’s not what it looks like!”
“Mike is in your bed,” Jane observed flatly, her voice devoid of judgment but full of curiosity.
“Everything okay in there?” Hopper’s voice boomed from the kitchen, followed by the heavy thud of his boots stepping away from the stove. “Is she getting up or do I need to come in there with a bucket of water?”
Mike’s soul practically left his body. He looked at the window, then at the closet, then back at Jane.
The heavy thud of Hopper’s boots approached the door. “Y/N? I’m serious, the eggs are getting cold!”
Mike scrambled, his limbs flailing like a panicked spider, but there was nowhere to go. The window was locked, and the closet was full of noisy hangers. Just as Hopper’s hand gripped the brass doorknob, Jane’s eyes narrowed and her head snapped.
Click.
The lock engaged from the inside with a sharp metallic snap. Hopper rattled the handle, his brow furrowing. “Locked? Since when do we lock doors in this house?”
“I'm—I'm changing, Dad!” Y/N yelled, her voice pitching up an octave into a frantic, ridiculous squeak. “And... and I have a giant zit! A massive, radioactive one! It’s disgusting! If you see it, you’ll be scarred for life! Go away!”
On the other side of the wood, Hopper paused. He let out a long, weary sigh—the kind only a father of teenage girls can produce. “A zit? Really? Kid, I’ve seen things in the Upside Down that would make your skin crawl. I think I can handle a blemish.”
“No! It has a pulse, Dad! Go! Eat your eggs!”
“Fine, fine,” Hopper grumbled, his footsteps receding back toward the kitchen. “Don't take all day. And Jane, get out of there and let her wallow in peace.”
The moment the kitchen chair screeched across the floor, signalling Hopper was sat down, Mike collapsed back against the pillows, clutching his heart. “I’m dead. I’m actually dead. This is my ghost talking to you.”
Jane didn't move. She remained at the foot of the bed, her head tilted at that sharp, 45-degree angle. She looked at Mike’s messy hair, then at Y/N’s flushed face, and then at the way their hands were still tangled in the sheets.
“The zit is a lie,” Jane stated. It wasn't a question.
“Yes, Jane, the zit is a lie,” Y/N whispered, sliding out of bed and rushing to her sister. She grabbed Jane’s hands, her expression pleading. “Please. You can’t tell him. He’ll send Mike to the moon. Or worse, off the cliffs of the Quarry.”
Jane looked back at Mike. “You are dating.”
“Yeah,” Mike said, finally sitting up and trying to look dignified despite his sleep-wrinkled shirt. He tried to summon a bit of that firm “leader” energy, but it faltered under Jane's intense stare. “We’ve been dating for a year, Jane. We just... we didn't want everyone making it a big deal. You know how the guys are. And your dad...”
“Jim would be... loud,” Jane agreed, her eyes flickering with a tiny, rare spark of amusement.
“Very loud,” Y/N added. She leaned in, her gentle nature taking over as she tried to coax her sister into the secret. “It’s our special thing, Jane. Like you and your Eggos. Can you keep it for us?”
Jane was silent for a long moment, looking between the two of them. She reached out and patted Y/N’s arm. “I will keep it. But,” she looked at Mike, her gaze turning suddenly stern—a look she’d definitely picked up from Hopper. “If you make her cry, I will lock you in the shed. With my mind.”
Mike swallowed hard. “Understood. Loud and clear.”
Mike managed to execute a moderately graceful tumble out the window, landing in the damp ferns with a muffled “oomph.” He didn't stop to check for bruises; he grabbed his bike from under the porch and pedaled like the Mind Flayer was nipping at his heels.
When he finally skidded into the Wheeler driveway, he was sweaty, disheveled, and trailing a few stray leaves. He tried to sneak through the kitchen to get to the stairs, but Karen Wheeler was already there, nursing a mug of coffee and looking unimpressed.
“Michael? Where on earth have you been?” she asked, setting her mug down with a pointed clack. “I checked your room at midnight. Your bed was empty.”
Mike froze. His brain scrambled for a lie—something plausible, something normal. Instead, he panicked.
“I was... I was at the park!” he blurted out.
Karen blinked. “At the park? At midnight?”
“Yeah. I, uh... I heard there was a rare nocturnal owl. A—a Great Horned Hawkins Owl. Very rare. I wanted to see it for my science report,” Mike lied, his voice climbing an octave. “I got lost in the woods. I fell asleep under a tree. It was very educational.”
Karen stared at him for a long, agonizing beat. She clearly didn't believe a word of it, but “studying owls” was a far cry from what she probably suspected.
“One week, Michael,” she said, crossing her arms. “Grounded. Home immediately after school, no D&D, and no bike. If I see you near a 'nocturnal owl' again, it'll be a month.”
That same day in the afternoon, Mike was slumped against his locker, looking like he’d been through a war, when Y/N and Jane walked up. Jane looked perfectly calm, while Y/N looked anxious.
“Did you make it?” Y/N whispered, leaning in under the guise of grabbing a textbook.
“I made it,” Mike muttered, his eyes darting around to make sure Dustin wasn't eavesdropping. “But I'm grounded. My mom thinks I'm an amateur birdwatcher now. I told her I was looking for owls.”
Y/N bit her lip to keep from laughing. “Owls, Mike? That’s the best you could do?”
“I was under pressure!” Mike hissed, his gaze turning firm as he looked at her. “And whose fault is it that I stayed so late? You’re the one who wouldn't stop talking.”
“Me? You’re the one who fell asleep first, Wheeler,” she teased, her streak returning now that she knew he was safe. She stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his. “So, no hanging out after school for a week? How am I supposed to survive without you bossing me around?”
“You'll manage,” Mike said, his voice dropping. He looked over at Jane, who was standing a few feet away, watching a locker door swing shut with her mind just for fun. “Is she... is she really going to keep it?”
Jane looked over, a tiny, knowing smirk on her face. “The owl is a good lie,” she noted quietly. “But Jim would know. You don’t kiss owls, do you?”
Mike sighed, rubbing his face. “Great. Even she thinks I'm an idiot.”
Jane caught the shift in Y/N’s energy immediately. The “brave” Hopper mask was slipping, replaced by the quiet, heavy sadness that usually only came out when things were truly wrong. With a sharp look at Dustin and Lucas, who were wandering nearby, Jane gestured vaguely toward the cafeteria.
“Lunch. Now,” Jane commanded.
“But Mike was just about to tell us about—“ Dustin started, but one look at Jane’s intense stare made him shut his mouth.
“Lunch,” she repeated. She gave Y/N’s hand a supportive squeeze before leading the confused boys away, leaving Mike and Y/N in the shadows of the nearly empty hallway.
The silence that followed was heavy. Y/N leaned her back against the cool metal of the lockers, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.
“A week, Mike? Really?” she murmured, her voice tilting into that whiny tone she used when she felt overwhelmed. “That’s practically forever. And for an owl? You couldn't have picked a better bird? Or like... told her you were at Steve’s.”
Mike stepped closer, boxing her in against the lockers so no one passing by could see the look in his eyes. “Steve’s place was too easy to check, Y/N. My mom would have called him in a heartbeat. The owl was the only thing I could think of that didn't involve a phone call.”
“It's stupid,” she huffed, crossing her arms and looking anywhere but at him. “It’s unfair. I finally get a day where you're being halfway decent to me with your bike, and now I have to go home to a cabin and eat dinner with my dad while you’re stuck in your room. I’m going to be bored out of my mind.”
Mike let out a soft sigh, his expression hardening into that firm, grounded look. He reached out, his hand hovering near her waist before he thought better of it and settled for leaning his arm on the locker next to her head.
“Stop it,” he said, his voice low and authoritative. “You’re being a brat. It’s one week. We’ve survived literal inter-dimensional monsters; I think you can handle seven days without me bossing you around in person.”
“I don't want to handle it,” she whispered, finally looking up at him. Her eyes were glassy, her gentle nature warring with her stubbornness. “I feel like it’s my fault. If I hadn't let you stay, or if I’d woken up earlier...”
“Hey,” Mike’s voice softened instantly, though he kept his gaze steady. “Look at me. It's not your fault. I chose to stay. I wanted to stay. And I’d do the 'owl' lie a hundred more times if it meant I got to wake up next to you again.”
He leaned in just a fraction closer, the scent of his laundry detergent mixing with the sterile smell of the school. “We have the walkie-talkies. Channel six. Every night at nine. My parents won't check that. It’s not the same, but it’s something.”
Y/N let out a shaky breath, her defiance melting into a small, sad smile. “Channel six? That’s for emergencies, Mike.”
“This is an emergency,” he countered with a faint smirk. “Now, go to class. Before I get grounded for another week for making you late.”
Later that day, Mike’s room felt like a prison cell. He’d spent the last four hours staring at his D&D manuals and trying to make “The Great Horned Hawkins Owl” sound like a real thing in case his mom decided to quiz him.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his walkie-talkie clutched in his hand, thumb hovering over the talk button. It was 8:58 PM. He was just waiting for the clock to hit nine so he could hear her voice.
Thump.
Mike nearly jumped out of his skin, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked at his bedroom door, expecting his mom to burst in. But the sound hadn't come from the hallway. It had come from the window.
He turned just in time to see a familiar pair of hands gripping the windowsill. A moment later, Y/N scrambled inside, looking breathless and triumphant, her hair a mess from the climb and the night wind.
“Are you insane?” Mike hissed, though he was already moving toward her, his face lit up with a relief he couldn't hide. “You’re supposed to be at the cabin! If your dad finds out you’re gone—“
“He’s watching a baseball game with the volume up way too loud,” Y/N whispered, leaning against his desk to catch her breath. She looked at him, her eyes dancing with that stubborn, bratty light he’d missed all afternoon. “And besides, you said a week was nothing. But then I realized I was the one who was bored, so I decided the rules didn't apply to me tonight.”
Mike reached her, his hands catching her waist as he looked her over. He tried to summon his “firm” voice, the one that reminded her of the risks, but it was hard when she was standing right there in front of him.
“You’re stubborn,” he murmured, his grip tightening just a little. “A reckless, impulsive girl. Do you have any idea what happens to me if my mom walks in here and sees the chief’s daughter in my bedroom while I'm grounded for birdwatching?”
“She won't,” Y/N said, reaching up to fix his collar, her fingers lingering against his neck. “I was very quiet. I’m a ninja. A gentle, quiet ninja.”
“You’re a menace,” Mike corrected, but he was smiling now, a real, unguarded smile. He pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers. The walkie-talkie sat forgotten on the bed, still tuned to channel six. “You really couldn't wait until nine o'clock for the radio?”
“No,” she whispered, her voice losing its edge and becoming soft. “I wanted to see the 'V' in your eyebrows in person.”
Mike let out a huff of laughter, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “Well, you saw it. Happy now?”
“Almost,” she teased, tilting her head. “Now you have to tell me more about this owl. I want to know exactly what kind of 'educational' night you had under that tree.”
Mike rolled his eyes, but he led her over to the bed, the two of them sinking onto the mattress and speaking in hushed, urgent kisses. For a week that was supposed to be spent apart, they had lasted less than twelve hours—and as Mike looked at her, he realized he wouldn't have had it any other way.
While Mike and Y/N were tucked away in the safety of his bed, the atmosphere at the Hopper cabin had shifted from “peaceful evening” to “Chief of Police crime scene.”
The baseball game had ended. Jim Hopper had stretched, groaned at the stiffness in his back, and decided to do one last sweep of the house before hitting the hay. He’d checked on Jane first; she was sound asleep on the couch again, her breathing deep and even.
Then, he moved to his daughters’ shared room door. He knocked softly—just a polite “goodnight” tap.
“Hey, kid. Turning in. You need anything?”
Silence.
Jim frowned. Usually, he’d get a muffled “Night, Dad” or the sound of a page turning. He waited a beat, then pushed the door open. “Y/N?”
The room was empty. The bed was made—a little too neatly, like she’d tried to make it look occupied from a distance. The window was cracked open just an inch, the cool night air fluttering the lace curtains.
Jim’s blood didn't just boil; it turned to ice. He stepped into the room, his eyes scanning every inch like he was looking for a perp. He walked over to her desk, and that’s when he saw it.
It wasn't a sweatshirt. It wasn't a D&D book.
It was a small, hand-drawn map tucked under her lamp. It wasn't a map of Hawkins, but a very specific, very detailed drawing of the woods—highlighting a path that avoided the main roads and led directly toward the neighborhood where the Wheelers lived. At the end of the path, there was a tiny, scribbled heart and a single word in handwriting that Jim recognized all too well from years of permission slips and school projects.
“WEST SIDE TREE.”
Jim picked up the paper, his jaw tightening so hard it hurt. It wasn't just a map; it was a blueprint for a secret. Beside it sat a small, Polaroid photo he hadn't seen before. It was Y/N and Mike at the Quarry from a few months ago. They weren't just “hanging out.” Mike had his arm draped firmly around her, and Y/N was looking up at him with a look of pure, stubborn adoration that she usually reserved for... well, her dad.
Jim stood in the center of the girls' room, the floorboards silent under his weight. His gaze drifted to the wall beside Y/N’s bed. It was a collage of their lives since the move—photos of the cabin, Jane’s first day of school, and a few of Jim himself looking grumpier than he remembered.
He smiled faintly, reaching out to straighten a crooked photo of Jane eating a triple-decker Eggo. But as his hand moved, his eyes caught a row of Polaroids tucked partially behind a larger shot of the whole Party at the arcade.
He leaned in, his brow furrowing.
The first photo was of Y/N laughing, her head thrown back, but there was a lanky arm draped over her shoulder. Just an arm. The sleeve was a familiar striped pattern.
He moved to the next one. It was a “candid” shot. Y/N was sitting on a park bench, and a boy was leaning over her, pointing at something in a book. Their heads were touching. The boy's face was partially obscured by dark, curly hair, but the posture was unmistakable. It wasn't just “hanging out.” It was intimate. It was protective.
Jim’s heart began to thud a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. He pulled the third photo from the clip.
This one was the smoking gun. It was a selfie Y/N had clearly taken herself. She was smirking at the camera, looking particularly bratty, while Mike Wheeler—very clearly, undeniably Mike Wheeler—was looking at her with an expression so tender and “firm” it made Jim’s stomach do a somersault. Mike’s hand was resting on her cheek, his thumb catching the light.
Jim stared at the photo. He looked at Mike’s face, then at his daughter’s. He remembered all the times Mike had been “just checking in” or why the two of them always seemed to be “arguing” at the Byers-Hopper Sunday dinners.
It wasn't a rivalry. It was a cover.
“Wheeler,” Jim growled under his breath, the word sounding like a death sentence.
He didn't yell. He didn't roar. He just stood in the center of the dark room, the silence of the cabin suddenly feeling very, very dangerous. He looked at the cracked window, then back at the map.
He knew exactly where she was. And more importantly, he knew exactly who was responsible for his daughter sneaking out into the dark.
Jim looked back at the empty bed. The window was open. The bird-watching story Mike’s mom had mentioned on the phone earlier that day suddenly clicked into place. The owls. The midnight walks.
Jim didn't grab his hat. He didn't grab his keys. He just walked over to the nightstand and picked up the walkie-talkie. He knew Mike’s frequency. Everyone in this town knew Mike was always on channel six.
He keyed the mic, his eyes fixed on the Polaroid of Mike touching his daughter’s face.
Mike and Y/N were still sitting on the bed, blissfully unaware that the “Chief of Police” had just turned into “The Tracker.”
“You should probably go,” Mike whispered, his voice soft as he checked his watch. “It’s almost midnight. If you're not back by the time he wakes up for his morning coffee...”
“I'll be fine, Mike,” Y/N said, giving him one last bratty poke to the chest. “I told you, I’m a ninja. He has no idea I’m even gone.”
Just then, the walkie-talkie on the nightstand crackled to life. It wasn't the static of a distant signal. It was a heavy, rhythmic breathing that sent a chill straight down Mike’s spine.
Then, a voice boomed through the speaker—low, gravelly, and vibrating with parental fury.
“Mike Wheeler. I’m looking at a very interesting collection of photographs. If you don't have my daughter back in this room in ten minutes, I’m going to come over there and show your mother exactly what kind of 'owls' you’ve been looking at and turn your basement into a crime scene. And Mike? Put your mother on the phone.”
summary: The monsters are gone, and for the first time in years, Hawkins is quiet—except for the deafening noise of Mike Wheeler’s heart. But as the town heals, a new kind of frustration takes root. She won't notice the fire he’s been carrying for her, he might just have to let her get burned by the truth.
wc: 13,1 k
post contains: fem reader, spin the bottle, hurt/comfort, cupid in action, mike almost fumbles, gentle mike, fluff, no mileven, she mistaken his gestures for kindness, reader has a fear of water/swimming, slow burn.
author’s note: ehehehhAhahahhaHAHAHHA i live for this im so normal anw enjoy :] not proofread :/ criticism and feedbacks are appreciated!
The air in the Wheeler basement smelled like stale popcorn and Eddie Munson’s cheap cigarettes—a scent that, a year ago, would have been a luxury. Now, it was just the backdrop to Mike Wheeler’s slow-motion descent into madness.
Mike sat on the edge of the couch, his knees inches away from Y/N’s. He wasn't looking at the Dungeons & Dragons map spread out on the table; he was looking at her. He’d been looking at her since the third grade, but lately, the look had changed. It was sharper. Focused. It was the look of a person who had survived an apocalypse only to find themselves trapped in a different kind of hell: the friendzone.
“I’m just saying,” Y/N said, leaning over the table to move her miniature, her hair brushing against Mike’s shoulder. “If we’re going by the rules, Mike is being way too nice to my character. Are you feeling okay, Wheeler? You haven't tried to kill me once this session.”
Across the table, Dustin let out a sound that was half-choke, half-sob. Lucas buried his face in his hands, while Max slowly banged her head against the wood of the table. Even El, usually minded her own business, was staring at the ceiling as if asking for a sign.
“I'm not being nice,” Mike said, his voice dropping an octave, his tone firm. He didn't pull away when her hair tickled his neck. If anything, he leaned in closer, his dark eyes fixed on hers. “I'm being strategic. There’s a difference.”
“Right, 'strategic,'” Eddie chimed in from the head of the table, tossing a d20 into the air and catching it with a theatrical flourish. “The kind of strategy where the Paladin gives his only healing potion to the Rogue for a scratch on her finger. Very tactical, Wheeler. Very... selfless.”
Y/N laughed, a bright, clear sound that made Mike’s jaw tighten. She punched Mike lightly on the arm. “See? Even Eddie thinks you’re being a softie. You’re such a good friend, Mike. Seriously, what would I do without you?”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Mike didn't laugh. He didn't punch her back. He just stared at her, his lips pressed into a thin line, his patience finally snapping like a dry twig. He reached out, his hand closing around her wrist—not roughly, but with a sudden, grounding firmness that stopped her laughter in its tracks.
“Stop calling me that,” Mike said, his voice quiet but echoing in the cramped basement.
Mike’s hand lingered on her wrist for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The air in the basement felt suddenly thin.
Then, Y/N’s eyes softened, but not with romantic realization. She reached her free hand up and pressed her palm to Mike’s forehead.
“Oh, man,” she muttered, her face full of genuine concern. “You're getting that 'leader stress' again, aren't you? You get so moody when you've been DMing for too long. You’re right, I’ll stop teasing. You’re not just a good friend, Mike. You’re the most reliable person I know.”
She patted his cheek—two light, platonic taps—and turned back to the map. “Anyway, I move my Rogue to the hidden corridor.”
Dustin let out a long, wheezing hiss of air. Max leaned over and whispered to Lucas, “I owe you five dollars. She’s actually hopeless.”
Mike sat there, his hand still hovering in mid-air where her wrist had been. He felt like he’d just run a marathon only to find out the finish line had been moved to another state. He took a slow, steadying breath, trying to regain his composure. He was a “mature teenager” now. He could handle this.
“Right,” Mike said, his voice a bit strained. “Reliable. Thanks.”
As the game continued, the “slow burn” intensified. It was in the way Y/N naturally gravitated toward him. When Eddie described a particularly gruesome monster, she didn't shrink away; she unconsciously leaned her weight against Mike’s side.
Mike went rigid. He could feel the heat radiating from her through his thin t-shirt. He knew he should probably move, or at least say something, but he found himself subtly shifting his arm so she could lean more comfortably.
He looked down at her. She was chewing the end of her pencil, completely focused on Eddie’s narration. She had no idea that her proximity was making Mike’s heart beat like a trapped bird.
“Wheeler,” Eddie’s voice cut through the fog. Mike looked up to see Eddie smirking at him from behind the DM screen. Eddie tapped his own temple and mouthed, ‘Patience, Grasshopper.’
Mike shot him a look that could have killed a Mind Flayer.
The air in the Wheeler basement was heavy with the scent of stale popcorn and the rhythmic thump-thump of Will’s nervous leg. It had been a year since the gates of the Upside Down were sealed for good, and life in Hawkins had returned to a dull, peaceful roar. But for Mike Wheeler, peace was a myth.
He sat on the edge of the worn-out sofa, his posture straighter than it used to be, his shoulders broader. He was a “mature teenager” now, as Nancy liked to mockingly put it, but sitting next to Y/N Hopper made him feel like he was constantly walking a tightrope.
“I’m just saying,” Y/N said, her voice bright as she leaned over the Dungeons & Dragons map. She didn't notice the way Mike’s breath hitched when her elbow brushed his. “If we’re going to survive the cave, Mike needs to stop being so overprotective of my Rogue. I can handle a few goblins, Wheeler.”
Mike didn't look at the map. He looked at her profile—the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating, a habit she’d had since they were ten. “It’s called a formation, Y/N,” he said, his voice dropping into that lower, firmer register he’d developed lately. “I’m the Paladin. It’s my job to make sure you don't get hit.”
“But you’ve literally blocked every attack aimed at me for the last three hours,” she laughed, turning to face him. Her eyes were inches from his. “You’re such a good friend, Mike. Seriously. Best protector ever.”
Behind them, the sound of a plastic die hitting the floor was followed by Will’s muffled groan.
“I can't do this anymore,” Dustin whispered, loud enough for everyone but Y/N to hear. El reached over and patted Dustin’s arm, her eyes fixed on the ceiling in silent prayer.
Mike didn't flinch, even though the ‘friend’ comment felt like a physical weight in his chest. He just held her gaze, his dark eyes intense. He wanted to tell her that he didn't care about the formation. He wanted to tell her that he’d block every hit for her for the rest of his life if she’d just look at him differently.
“I'm just doing what needs to be done,” Mike said, his tone steady and strangely commanding.
“See?” Y/N chirped, turning back to the group, completely missing the heat in his stare. “So reliable. Right, El?”
Jane, sitting on the floor, looked from her sister to Mike. She saw the way Mike’s knuckles were white as he gripped his character sheet. She saw the way Y/N was already reaching for a bowl of pretzels, totally unaffected. El sighed, a long, weary sound. “Yes. Very... reliable.”
Eddie, leaning back in his "throne" at the head of the table, watched the exchange with a mixture of pity and amusement. He’d seen Mike development at school, seen him get firmer, seen him try to navigate the minefield of being Jim Hopper’s favorite target—but watching him get friendzoned by the girl he’d clearly die for was the greatest tragedy Eddie had ever witnessed.
“Alright, alright,” Eddie intervened, sensing the atmospheric pressure in the room was reaching a breaking point. “Before our Paladin here bursts a blood vessel being 'reliable,' let’s take a ten-minute break. I need a smoke, and Wheeler looks like he needs to put his head in a bucket of ice.”
Y/N stood up, stretching her arms over her head. “Good idea. Mike, you want to help me find those extra sodas your mom hidden in the garage? I bet I can find them faster than you.”
Mike stood up, his height now towering over her just enough to be noticeable. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable but definitely not “platonic.”
“You're on,” he said, his voice firm.
As they headed for the stairs, Eddie leaned over to Dustin and Lucas. “Five bucks says she thinks he’s helping her with the soda just because he’s 'helpful' and not because he wants five minutes alone with her.”
“No, thanks,” Lucas muttered. "I like my money."
Eddie threw his head back against his chair with a groan that sounded like he was in physical pain. “I can’t do it,” he announced to the ceiling. “I am a man of great resolve, but I cannot witness another 'you’re such a good friend' comment without actually losing my mind. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion for three years straight.”
Max took off her headphones, rubbing her temples. “She’s not even doing it on purpose. That’s the worst part. She genuinely thinks he’s just being 'reliable.' He caught her from falling earlier and I’m pretty sure she thought he was just practicing his 'Paladin' moves.”
“It is... painful,” El added softly. She loved her sister, but even she was starting to feel the secondary embarrassment. “Mike’s heart is very loud. Y/N is very deaf.”
“We have to do something,” Dustin said, slamming his hand on the table, making the miniatures rattle. “Mike is becoming a shell of a man. Did you see his face when she patted his cheek? He looked like he wanted to walk back into the Upside Down and stay there.”
Lucas leaned forward, lowering his voice. “We can’t just tell her. Mike would kill us. He wants her to 'realize it on her own' because he’s a romantic idiot.”
“He's trying to be 'firm' now,” Max noted with a smirk. “Have you noticed? The deeper voice, the staring, the whole 'I'm a mature teenager' act. It’s actually working on everyone except the person it’s intended for. Hopper looks like he wants to reload his shotgun every time Mike breathes in Y/N’s direction, so clearly he gets it.”
“Exactly!” Dustin pointed at Max. “Even the Chief sees it! If we don't intervene, Mike is going to try some 'firm' move, Y/N is going to mistake it for a sibling argument, and Mike is going to move to Alaska out of shame.”
Eddie leaned in, a devious glint in his eyes. “What if we create a situation? Something she can't interpret as platonic. A little pressure. A little... atmosphere.”
“No,” El said firmly. “They need to talk. Mike needs to use his words.”
“Mike’s 'words' currently consist of staring at her like a kicked puppy,” Lucas pointed out.
The garage was cool and dim, smelling of motor oil and the lingering scent of autumn air pushing through the cracks in the door. It was a sharp contrast to the chaotic energy of the basement, and for Mike, the silence was almost worse. It made every rustle of Y/N’s jacket sound like a landslide.
Y/N was already humming to herself, scanning the shelves with a flashlight. “I’m telling you, Mike, Karen definitely hid the root beer behind the Christmas decorations. It’s her classic move.”
Mike didn't answer. He stood by the workbench, watching the way the flashlight beam danced across her face. He was trying to practice “the look”—the one Eddie told him made him look like a “leading man” and not a “scrawny squire.” He kept his posture relaxed but firm, leaning back against the wood, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Found them!” she exclaimed, hoisting a heavy plastic-wrapped flat of soda. She turned around, beaming, and immediately tripped over a stray garden rake.
Before she could even gasp, Mike was there. He moved with a coordination he definitely hadn't possessed at twelve. He caught her by the waist, his large hands steadying her instantly. The soda flat stayed balanced against his chest as he pulled her upright, keeping her flushed against him to ensure she had her footing.
The air in the garage suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.
“Careful,” Mike murmured. His voice was low, vibrating right near her ear. He didn't let go immediately. In fact, his grip tightened just a fraction, his thumbs brushing against the fabric of her shirt. He was being firm, grounding her, waiting for the “lightbulb” moment to finally flicker on in her eyes.
Y/N looked up at him, her breath hitching. Her hands were resting on his forearms, feeling the lean muscle there. For a second, she just stared, her eyes wide.
This is it, Mike thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. She has to feel this. She has to.
“Whoa,” Y/N breathed. A small smile broke across her face. “Your reflexes are getting insane, Mike! Is that from all the basketball you've been playing with Lucas? Or is it like... a nerd thing?”
Mike’s soul practically left his body. He slowly closed his eyes, letting out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a growl.
“It’s not a nerd thing, Y/N,” he said, his voice strained. He finally released her, though he took the heavy soda flat from her arms with one hand as if it weighed nothing.
“Well, whatever it is, keep it up,” she said, completely oblivious to the internal crisis he was having. She reached up and playfully ruffled his hair—the ultimate "best friend" move. “You’re like a human safety net. I’m lucky to have a best friend who’s so fast.”
She grabbed a few loose cans and headed back toward the basement door, leaving Mike standing in the shadows of the garage.
“Best friend,” Mike repeated to the empty room, his voice flat. He looked down at his hands, which were still tingling from the feeling of holding her waist. “Reliable. A safety net.”
By the time the basement door creaked open and Mike stepped through, holding a flat of soda with an expression of grim determination, the group was perfectly, suspiciously silent.
From the top of the stairs, he heard the basement door open and Dustin’s muffled voice ask, “Did anyone die in the garage? Is there a body?”
Mike straightened his shirt, set his jaw, and began the long walk back down to the “miserable” audience waiting for him.
Mike stopped at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing them all. “Why are you all staring at me like I just grew a second head?”
“We aren't!” Lucas squeaked, his voice two octaves too high. “We were just... discussing the... political climate of the Underdark. Right, Max?”
“So political,” Max agreed, nodding aggressively.
Y/N hopped down the last few steps, clutching two cold cans. “You guys are weird. Mike, give them the drinks before they start vibrating out of their seats.”
As Mike handed out the sodas, he caught Eddie’s eye. Eddie gave him a slow, pitying thumbs-up. Mike just sighed, feeling the weight of the “friendship” harder than the crate of soda.
When the session finally ended, Y/N stood up and stretched, her shirt riding up just a fraction. Mike immediately looked at the floor, his ears turning a bright, traitorous red.
“Hey, Mike?” Y/N asked, grabbing her jacket. “My dad’s picking me and El up in ten, but I forgot my bike at the library earlier. Can I hitch a ride on your handlebars to the end of the block so I can meet him there? It’ll save him the U-turn.”
“Yeah,”Mike said, grabbing his keys with a bit more force than necessary. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”
“Come on, El!”
As they headed for the stairs, Dustin leaned over to the rest of the group. “Place your bets now. Does he try to hold her hand on the bike, or does he just suffer in silence for another three years?”
The Palace Arcade was a neon-soaked fever dream of synthesized music and the frantic clicking of joysticks. It was the perfect place for a “setup”—or so the group thought.
Eddie had cornered everyone earlier that day with a plan he called “Operation: Space Out.” The goal was simple: isolate Mike and Y/N in a cramped space and wait for the proximity to do the work.
“The Dragon’s Lair cabinet is in the back corner,” Eddie had whispered. “The screen is glitchy, the lighting is dim, and there’s barely enough room for one person, let alone two. It’s a pressure cooker, boys. A pressure cooker.”
There’s progress.
“It’s definitely the wiring,” Y/N said, squinting at the flickering screen of the Dragon's Lair machine. “If I just jiggle the joystick while you hold the cabinet steady, I bet we can get the colors to stop bleeding.”
Mike didn't need to be told twice. He stepped into the narrow gap between the machine and the wall, effectively boxing Y/N in. He leaned his weight against the side of the cabinet, his arm extending over her head to grip the top.
From the safety of the Dig Dug machine across the room, Dustin and Lucas were “playing,” but their eyes were glued to the back corner.
“Look at the height difference,” Dustin whispered, frantically moving the joystick on his game, yet the game still displayed the same screen. “He’s doing the 'wall-lean.' That’s a classic move. He’s basically hovering over her.”
“And it’s not even a part of our plan. It’s just the way they are—well, the way Mike is,” Max muttered, not looking up from her own game.
Back in the corner, Mike was trying to stay focused. But with the arcade's crowded Saturday night rush, people kept pushing past, forcing him to step even closer to Y/N. Their shoulders were pinned together. He could smell the strawberry lip gloss she’d applied earlier and the faint scent of the laundry detergent she used.
“Mike, look!” Y/N pointed at the screen, her hand accidentally brushing his chest. “The colors stabilized! Quick, put a quarter in.”
Mike didn't reach for his pocket. He just looked down at her, his expression uncharacteristically stern. He was tired of being the “reliable friend” who fixed her games. He wanted to be the guy who made her breath catch.
“I’m out of quarters,” Mike lied, his voice low and steady. He didn't move an inch, keeping her trapped in the small space he’d created.
“Oh, I have one!” Y/N started to dig into her pocket, but because the space was so tight, her hand got stuck against his hip. She laughed, looking up at him with that wide, innocent grin. “Oops. Little cramped in here, huh?”
“Yeah,” Mike said, his gaze dropping to her lips for a second before snapping back to her eyes. He didn't pull back to give her room. Instead, he leaned in a fraction more, his voice dropping to a firm, quiet command. “Stay still. You’re going to trip again.”
Y/N froze, her hand still resting near his pocket. For the first time, her smile wavered. She noticed the way his jaw was set, the way he wasn't looking at the game at all, but at her—with an intensity that made her stomach do a weird, fluttering flip she usually only felt on a roller coaster.
“Mike?” she whispered, her voice losing its playful edge. “You okay? You’re acting kind of... intense tonight.”
“I'm fine,” Mike said, his heart hammering so hard he was sure she could feel it through his shirt. “I'm just tired of playing games, Y/N.”
Max, Lucas, and Dustin, across the arcade, are losing their minds and slapped each other’s hand excitedly.
The moment was shattered as Eddie swung by, draped in his leather jacket, eyeing the two of them with a grin. “Everything alright in the 'Tension Nook'? Or should I bring you two some oxygen?”
Y/N blinked, the spell breaking as she stepped out from under Mike’s arm, laughing nervously. “Mike’s just being a grump because we’re out of quarters. Come on, Wheeler, let’s go see if El won that giant stuffed bear at the crane machine.”
She grabbed Mike’s hand—not a romantic lace of fingers, but a quick, “come on” tug—and pulled him toward the exit.
Mike followed, his shoulders sagging as he walked past the group. Max had her mouth open, in disbelief, while the other two silently cursed Eddie from across the room.
The “flutter” in the arcade didn't go away. It stayed with Y/N all the way to the walk home, sitting in her chest like a stray spark from a fire. But because she was a Hopper, her first instinct wasn't “romance”—it was “medical emergency.”
“Maybe I’m getting a cold,” she muttered to herself as she sat on her bed later that night, El watching her from the desk.
“You are not sick,” El said, tilting her head. “Your heart is just... loud. Like Mike’s.”
Y/N laughed it off, but the next Friday, the group decided to turn up the heat. Eddie had “acquired” a key to the community pool for a late-night, after-hours swim. “No monsters, no gates, just vibes,” he had promised.
The Hawkins public pool was closed to the community, but Steve had the keys, and the “Party” had the snacks. The neon blue of the underwater lights hummed, casting dancing reflections against the concrete. It was supposed to be the perfect summer night. But for Y/N, the pool wasn't a playground; it was a vast, shimmering void waiting to swallow her.
Max and Lucas were splashing each other near the shallow end, while Eddie was busy trying to convince Dustin that he could do a backflip off the diving board without dying.
Mike was already in the water, his damp hair pushed back, revealing the sharp lines of his face. His white, damp shirt sticking to his body, highlighting every curse of his body. He looked... different in the moonlight. Leaner. More solid.
The pool was a shimmering expanse of deep, shadowed blue, illuminated only by the underwater lights. To the rest of the group, it was a playground. To Y/N, it was a void.
She sat on the concrete edge, her toes curled tightly over the water. She could hear Eddie’s laughter and the splash of Dustin hitting the water, but it all sounded like it was happening behind a thick pane of glass. Her breathing was becoming shallow, her heart racing—not with a “flutter” this time, but with cold, sharp anxiety.
“Hey.”
The voice was low and grounding. Mike was already in the water, but he wasn't splashing around with the others. He was right there, positioned at the edge of the pool directly in front of her.
Y/N sat on the edge, shivering slightly in the night air. “Is it freezing?”
“Only if you're a wimp,” Mike challenged. He swam over to the edge where she sat, looking up at her. The water beaded on his shoulders, reflecting the blue light. “Jump in. I'll catch you.”
“I can swim, Mike,” she lied, her heart did that annoying flutter again.
“I know you can,” Mike said, his voice dropping into that firm, no-nonsense tone. He reached up, his large hands gripping the edge of the pool on either side of her thighs, effectively anchoring her there. “But I said I’d catch you.”
She looked pale, her confidence replaced by a rigid, silent tremor.
Mike was already in the water, chest-deep. He wasn't splashing or playing. He was standing perfectly still, his eyes locked on her. He reached out his hands, palms up.
“I'm not jumping, Mike,” she whispered, her voice trembling just enough for him to hear. “I can't. I told you, I don't like not being able to feel the ground.”
Mike’s expression shifted instantly. The teasing smirk vanished, replaced by a look of intense, focused care. He swam even closer, reaching up to rest his large hands on the concrete on either side of her thighs again. He didn't look at the pool; he looked only at her.
“Look at me, Y/N,” he commanded. It wasn't a suggestion. It was that firm, “leader” voice, the one that made her feel safe even when the world was ending.
She forced her eyes down to meet his.
“I’m right here,” Mike said, his voice dropping to a soothing, steady register. “I’m six-foot-something. My feet are on the floor. The water is only at my chest. If you step in, you aren't going under. You’re coming straight to me.”
“It’s too much, Mike,” she whispered, her breath coming in shallow hitches. “It feels like... like there’s nothing underneath.”
“There's me,” Mike countered firmly. “I’m right here. I’m not going to let your head go under. Not even for a second. Trust my hands. Trust me. I’ve got you.“
Y/N took a shaky breath. Slowly, she reached down and took his hands. Slowly, painfully, she sat on the edge and slid in.
The moment the cool water hit her waist, she gasped, her fingers digging into Mike’s shoulders so hard her knuckles turned white. He didn't flinch.
Immediately, Mike’s hands moved from her fingers to her waist. He stepped forward, closing the distance until there wasn't an inch of space between them. He pulled her flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around her like a vice.
He just stepped closer, his arms wrapping fully around her waist, pulling her flush against him so she could feel his heartbeat.
His grip was warm and incredibly solid. She eased herself off the edge, and the moment the cool water hit her waist, she let out a small, panicked gasp.
“See? You're okay,” he murmured. “You're okay. I'm the anchor, remember?”
Y/N buried her face in the crook of his neck, her fingers clutching the damp fabric of his shirt. She was shaking, but the solidity of him—the way his heartbeat was steady against her own—began to pull her back from the ledge of panic, her legs instinctively brushing against his as they treading water.
“See?” Mike murmured, his face inches from hers. “Not cold.”
“Yeah,” Y/N whispered, her hands resting on his shoulders to stay afloat. “Not cold at all.”
For a long moment, the rest of the world disappeared. The splashing from the others felt miles away. Mike’s grip on her waist was firm, steady, and entirely un-platonic. He didn't move away. He waited, his eyes searching hers, practically begging her to finally put the pieces together.
“You're standing?” she whispered into his skin.
“Firm on the ground,” Mike promised. He shifted his grip, one hand staying on her waist while the other moved to the back of her head, shielding her, holding her close. “You’re safe. I’m not letting go.”
Across the pool, the splashing had stopped. Dustin, Lucas, and Max were staring in stunned silence. Even Eddie had gone quiet. They were seeing a young man who looked like he would burn the whole world down before he let a single drop of water frighten her.
“He's literally holding her like she’s the only thing keeping him afloat,” Max whispered, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
Y/N didn’t even register the weight of Mike’s words, but before she could process the intensity behind it, a small wave from Eddie splashing nearby sent a spray of water toward her face.
The sensation of water over her nose and eyes triggered a primal panic. Her breathing hitched into a sob, and she started to scramble, her hands splashing wildly as she tried to climb him, her eyes blown wide with terror.
She let out a tiny, startled sound and squeezed her eyes shut, burying her face back into Mike’s chest. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn't a breath of air between them.
“Hey, hey,” Mike whispered, his voice softening instantly. He turned his back to the rest of the pool, using his body as a literal shield to block any more splashes. “It was just a little water, Y/N. I’ve still got you. I’m not moving.”
“You are breathing,” he assured, his tone incredibly calm, steady, and unyielding. “Your face is dry. You’re standing on the bottom. Feel the floor. Put your feet down.”
“I... I can't,” she whimpered, her body still shaking.
“Yes, you can. I’m holding you. I’m not letting go.” He shifted his grip, one hand on the back of her head, the other pressing into the small of her back, holding her together. He leaned in until their foreheads touched. “Close your eyes. Just listen to me.”
He stayed true to his word. While the others eventually went back to their chaos—Dustin trying to prove he could hold his breath for three minutes while Lucas timed him—Mike remained an island of stillness in the shallow end.
Slowly, Y/N’s grip relaxed from a panicked squeeze to something softer, though she didn’t pull away. She felt the cool water swaying around her waist and the contrasting heat of Mike’s skin. She realized, in a hazy, distant way, that Mike was incredibly warm. And solid. And he smelled like chlorine and the peppermint gum he always chewed.
“You did it,” he said, a small, proud smile finally breaking through his serious expression. “You went in. That’s a win.”
Y/N let out a long, shaky breath, her "bratty" edge returning just a tiny bit as the terror faded. “I hated every second of it. I’m never doing that again. You're a jerk for making me go that deep.”
Mike let out a huff of a laugh, reaching up to wipe a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb. “There she is. I was wondering when you'd start complaining again.” He had shifted his hands so they were resting firmly on her hips, keeping her steady as the water bobbed around them.
“Better?” Mike asked after a few minutes.
Y/N finally peeked up at him. She was still close enough to see the individual droplets of water clinging to his hair to his forehead. “Yeah. Sorry. I know I’m being a brat about the water. I’m probably ruining the hangout for you.”
Mike’s expression went uncharacteristically soft, a small, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned down just a fraction, his gaze flicking over her face with a gentleness that would have made the rest of the group fall over in shock.
“You aren't ruining anything,” he said firmly. He reached up with one hand, his thumb catching a stray drop of water on her cheek and brushing it away with agonizing slowness. “I’d stand here all night if it meant you weren't scared.”
Y/N felt that flutter again, but she pushed it down, chalking it up to the adrenaline of the pool. “You’re too nice to me, Wheeler. Seriously. If I were you, I would’ve pushed me in the deep end by now.”
Mike let out a short, huffed laugh, his fingers lingering on her jaw for a second too long before he dropped his hand back to her waist. “Yeah, well. You aren't me.”
“True,” she teased, starting to feel a bit more like herself. She gave his shoulders a playful little squeeze. “I’m much shorter. And I have better hair.”
“Debatable,” Mike countered, his dark eyes sparkling with a mix of frustration and genuine affection.
The moment was pure, sugary fluff—the two of them swaying slightly in the blue-lit water, Mike being the perfect, protective anchor while Y/N slowly found her courage again. She didn't notice the way Lucas and Max were watching them from the steps, whispering to each other about how “disgustingly domestic” they looked
“Okay,” Y/N said, taking a deep breath. “I think I can try to stand on my own now. But don't go far.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mike said, his voice back to that low, firm tone. He slowly loosened his grip, but kept his hands hovering just inches from her sides, ready to catch her the second she wavered.
As she tested her footing, she beamed at him, a bright, triumphant smile. “See? Teamwork!”
Mike just sighed, a fond, tired sound. “Yeah. Teamwork.”
Y/N went back to his arms slowly, her eyes searching Mike’s. The fear was receding, replaced by that confusing, warm heat. She noticed the way he was looking at her—not with the “reliable” look of a best friend, but with a raw, desperate tenderness that felt... heavy.
“You really are a good friend, Mike,” she whispered, her voice hitching. “You always save me.”
Mike’s jaw tightened. For a second, his eyes darkened, and he looked like he was finally going to say it. He leaned in, his forehead almost touching hers.
“Y/N?” he said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet air.
“Yeah?”
“Are you still going to tell me tomorrow that we're just 'good friends'?”
The question was direct. It was the firmest he’d ever been. Y/N opened her mouth to give her usual cheerful response, but the words died in her throat. She looked at the way his wet lashes framed his eyes, the way his jaw was set with a desperate kind of courage.
Before she could answer, a loud SMACK echoed across the pool.
“MY BACK! EDDIE, I THINK I BROKE MY ENTIRE BACK!” Dustin yelled from the diving board area.
The spell broke. Y/N blinked, the “oblivious”mask sliding back into place, though it looked a little shakier than before. “Oh my god, Dustin!”She paddled back, slipping out of Mike’s arms. “Mike, go help him! You're strong!”
Mike stood in the chest-deep water, his hands empty and his head tilted back toward the stars. He let out a long, frustrated groan that was lost in the chaos of Dustin’s “injury.”
Across the pool, Max looked at Lucas and shook her head. “We’re going to be sixty years old and she’s still going to be calling him 'strong' and 'reliable' while he carries her groceries.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Eddie muttered, helping a groaning Dustin out of the water. “Next Friday. The Byers’ flat. We’re playing Spin the Bottle. I don't care if it’s cliché. We are ending this.”
While the neon lights of the pool were miles away, the Hopper cabin was silent, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
Jim Hopper sat at the kitchen table, a lukewarm cup of coffee in front of him. He was trying to be “the cool dad.” He was trying to respect Y/N’s “post-Vecna freedom.” But he was also a cop, a father, and a man who had seen Mike Wheeler’s face every time Y/N walked into a room for the last seven years. He didn't trust it.
“El?” Hopper called out, glancing toward the living room.
Jand was sitting on the floor, the static of the TV acting as a soft white noise. She had the blindfold on, her head tilted back. She was “observing.”
“Is she okay?” Hopper asked, his voice a mix of genuine concern and protective suspicion. “She’s not... crying? No monsters?”
In the void of her mind, she saw them. She saw the blue water of the pool. She saw her sister, Y/N, clinging to Mike like he was the only solid thing in a liquid world. She saw the way Mike’s hands were clamped onto Y/N’s hips—not as a friend, but as someone who never wanted to let go. She saw the way Mike was looking at her sister, his expression so raw and full of pining that it made El’s heart ache.
She saw Mike lean in. She saw the firm way he held her. She saw the sheer, unadulterated romance of the moment.
A single bead of blood trickled from her nose. She pulled the blindfold off, blinking back into the dimly lit cabin.
Hopper was standing over her now, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed. “Well? Is she safe? What’s the Wheeler kid doing?”
She wiped the blood with her sleeve. She looked at him—who was currently vibrating with 'protective-dad' energy—and then she thought of Mike’s desperate face in the pool. If she told the truth, Mike would be banned from the house until the year 2099.
“She is safe,” El said, her voice steady. “They are... playing.”
“Playing?” Hopper repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Playing what? Marco Polo? Grab-the-Wheeler’s-Neck?”
“They are swimming,” she lied, picking her words carefully. “Y/N is afraid of the water. Mike is helping her stand. Like a... coach. Very professional.”
Hopper exhaled a long breath, his shoulders dropping about an inch. “A coach. Right. Useful. Good. As long as he’s keeping his distance.”
“Yes,” El said, her eyes flickering toward the TV static. “Much distance. They are like... two poles. Far apart.”
“Good,” Hopper grunted, heading back to the kitchen. “If I find out he’s being a 'brat' or getting too close, I'm gonna start making him do push-ups every time he rings the doorbell.”
El waited until he was gone before she let out a long, heavy sigh. She looked at the blank TV screen. She felt bad for lying, but she felt worse for Mike. Her sister was protected by a wall of obliviousness that even a psychic couldn't break through, and Mike was currently fighting a war on two fronts: Y/N’s heart and Hopper’s shotgun.
“Mike,” El whispered to the empty room, “you are in trouble.”
A BBQ at the Byers’ house was the closest thing to a “peace treaty” Hawkins could offer. The air was thick with the smell of charbroiled burgers, Joyce’s famous potato salad, and the sweet, heavy scent of summer grass.
It was supposed to be relaxing, but for the “Miserable Group,” it was just another chance to watch the Mike-and-Y/N tragedy unfold in real-time.
Mike was stationed at the grill with Jonathan, trying to look busy so he wouldn't have to endure more of Eddie’s “romantic advice.” He looked good—tshirt sleeves rolled up, a bit of soot on his cheek, and that firm, focused expression he wore whenever he was trying to prove he was useful.
“Hey, Wheeler,” Jonathan murmured, flipping a patty. “You’ve been staring at that one burger for five minutes. I think it’s dead.”
Mike snapped out of it, his eyes darting to the picnic table where Y/N was laughing at something Max had said. “I'm just... making sure it's medium-well. That’s how she likes it.”
Jonathan chuckled. “Of course. God forbid the girl gets a burger that isn't perfect.”
Across the yard, Y/N was holding court. She was wearing one of Mike's old flannels over a tank top—a fact she’d brushed off as “just grabbing the first thing I saw”—and she looked perfectly at home.
“You're wearing his clothes again,” Max whispered, leaning in close to Y/N.
“It was cold! And Mike doesn't mind,” Y/N said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s like a brother, Max. A very tall, very grumpy, very warm brother.”
Max made a sound like she was choking on a grape. “A brother. Right. Because brothers look at their sisters the way Mike is looking at you right now.”
Y/N turned her head. At the grill, Mike had stopped talking to Jonathan. He was standing there, tongs in hand, his gaze fixed on Y/N with an intensity that could have cooked the burgers without the charcoal. When their eyes met, he didn't look away. He didn't do the shy wave. He just gave her a slow, firm nod, his eyes trailing over the flannel she was wearing—his flannel.
Y/N’s face heated up. She turned back to the table, her heart doing that weird, frantic skip again. “He’s probably just making sure I don't spill mustard on it. He’s very protective of his stuff.”
“He’s protective of you, you idiot,” Max muttered, but Y/N was already distracted by Hopper walking over.
Hopper was the human equivalent of a thundercloud. He walked up to the grill, eyeing the way Mike was handling the meat. “Wheeler. You're overcooking that. Give it here.”
“I've got it, Chief,” Mike said, his voice surprisingly steady. He didn't back down. He stood his ground, maintaining eye contact with the man who could legally end him. “Y/N likes them this way. I’m handling it.”
The table went silent. Dustin stopped mid-bite. Lucas held his breath.
Hopper squinted, his mustache twitching. He looked at Mike, then at his daughter, then back at Mike. “Handling it, huh?”
“Yes,” Mike said firmly.
Hopper grunted, a sound that could have meant anything from ‘I respect your initiative’ to ‘I'm burying you in the woods later.’ He stomped away toward Joyce, leaving Mike standing there, slightly breathless but victorious.
“Whoa,” Dustin whispered as Mike walked over to the table a few minutes later, placing the perfect burger in front of Y/N. “The Paladin just stood up to the Final Boss.”
“Here,” Mike said to Y/N, ignoring Dustin. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear—a gesture so natural and yet so intimate that Max actually had to look away to keep from smiling. “Eat before it gets cold.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Y/N said, her voice a little softer than usual. She looked up at him, and for a fleeting second, the platonic label felt incredibly wrong. She felt like a brat for how much she enjoyed him taking charge like that. “You're... really good at this.”
“I know,” Mike said, his voice a low, confident rumble. He sat down right next to her—not across, not at the end, but so close their shoulders were pressed together.
The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the Indiana sky in bruised purples and burnt oranges. The fire pit was crackling now, the sharp scent of woodsmoke replacing the smell of charred meat. This was the “found family” at its best—a circle of survivors who had traded trauma for toasted marshmallows.
But even in the peace, the Mike-and-Y/N magnet was pulling harder than ever.
As the evening chill set in, the group migrated toward the fire. Eddie had produced an acoustic guitar from the trunk of his car and was strumming something low and melodic, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like a slowed-down version of a Metallica song.
Y/N was huddled on a log, still wearing Mike’s flannel, which she had now buttoned all the way up to her chin. She looked small against the backdrop of the flickering flames, her eyes bright and reflective.
Mike didn't even ask. He simply moved a stray cooler out of the way and sat down on the log next to her. Because the log was uneven, they were forced to sit flush against one another. Mike draped a heavy arm across the back of her shoulders—not quite touching her yet, but creating a barrier between her and the rest of the world.
“You’re shivering,” Mike noted. It wasn't a question; it was an observation made with that new, protective firmness.
“I’m fine, Mike. It’s just the wind,” she insisted, though a traitorous chill shook her shoulders right as she said it.
Without a word, Mike shifted. He didn't just put his arm around her; he pulled her firmly into his side, tucking her head under his chin. His hand came down to rest on her upper arm, rubbing circles through the thick flannel to warm her up.
Across the fire, Joyce Byers leaned her head on Hopper’s shoulder, watching the two teenagers with a knowing, maternal smile. Hopper, on the other hand, was staring into the fire, his jaw working as he gripped his beer can a little too tight.
“Hop,” Joyce whispered, nudging him. “Look at them. They’re happy.”
“He’s too close,” Hopper grunted, though there was less bite in it than usual. “He's within the six-inch radius. He knows the rules.”
“He's keeping her warm,” Jane added from Hopper's other side, her voice calm and factual. “She is cold. He is a heater. It is logical.”
Hopper sighed, a long, defeated sound. He didn't get up to separate them. He just took another sip of his drink and looked away.
Back on the log, Y/N felt like her brain was melting. Usually, she’d make a joke about Mike being a “human space heater,” but she couldn't find the words. The way his chest rose and fell against her temple was rhythmic and grounding.
“Mike?” she whispered, so low only he could hear.
“Yeah?”
“Everyone is looking at us.”
Mike didn't pull away. If anything, he tightened his grip, his fingers digging slightly into her shoulder in a way that felt possessive and certain. “Let them look. Are you warm?”
“…Yeah,” she breathed. “I'm warm.”
“Good. Then stay put.”
Dustin leaned over to Lucas, his face illuminated by the fire like a conspiratorial goblin. “Look at Wheeler’s face. He looks like he just won the lottery. He’s actually doing it. He’s being... bold.”
“He can’t let go of her for one second,” Max whispered, a smirk playing on her lips. “She tries to act like it’s nothing, and he just leans in harder. It’s hilarious. She has no idea what to do when she can't laugh it off.”
As Eddie started playing a softer, more recognizable ballad, the chatter died down. For a moment, the “miserable group” wasn't miserable. They were just kids who had survived the dark, watching their two best friends finally—finally—occupying the same space without a monster between them.
Y/N closed her eyes, letting the heat of the fire and the heat of Mike Wheeler lull her into a sense of perfect safety. She still told herself it was “just Mike.” But as he rested his cheek against the top of her head, she found herself hoping the fire would never go out.
The transition from the backyard to the living room was seamless. As the fire died down, the air got just chilly enough that the lure of the Byers’ cramped, warm living room became irresistible.
They settled into a circle on the floor, the yellow light of the lamps casting long, flickering shadows. Hopper and Joyce had retreated to the porch with a bottle of wine, their muffled laughter a distant safety net.
“We’ve spent the last three years fighting monsters, literal and metaphorical. I think we’ve earned a night of complete, childish, idiotic fun. No world-ending stakes. Just a game.”
Y/N leaned back against the sofa, her legs stretched out near Mike’s. “What kind of game, Munson? If you say Truth or Dare, I’m going to bed.”
“Better,” Eddie smirked, reaching behind a stack of records and pulling out an empty glass bottle. “Spin the bottle. Old school. But with a twist—the 'Heaven' closet is the hall one. Seven minutes.”
A chorus of groans and nervous laughs went around. Mike sat perfectly still. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips. He glanced at Dustin, who gave him a thumbs-up so frantic it looked like he was having a spasm.
He produced an empty glass Coke bottle with the flourish of a magician. “The rules are simple. Spin the bottle. Whoever it lands on, you and the spinner get seven minutes in the hall closet. No talking about D&D, no talking about the Upside Down. Just... seven minutes of heaven.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, leaning back on her elbows. She was still wearing Mike’s flannel, looking comfortable and entirely unaware that she was the target of a high-level tactical operation. “Eddie, this is so cliché. We aren't twelve.”
“Cliché is a classic for a reason, Hopper!” Dustin chimed in, far too quickly.
Mike sat directly across from Y/N, his face a mask of practiced calm, though his pulse was visible in his neck. He caught Lucas’s eye, who gave him a sharp, subtle nod.
“I'll go first,” Max said, giving the bottle a casual flick. It landed on Lucas. They both shrugged and disappeared into the hallway. They retreated to the closet with a chorus of “Get a room!” from Dustin.
When they returned seven minutes later—Max looking smug and Lucas looking a little dazed—the air in the room had shifted. It was Y/N’s turn.
“Your go, Rogue,” Eddie said, his grin widening.
Y/N reached out and gave the bottle a healthy shove. It hissed against the hardwood floor, spinning in a blur of green glass. As it started to slow, it was pointed directly at Dustin.
Dustin’s eyes went wide with horror. He looked at Jane.
Jane sat perfectly still, her gaze fixed on the bottle. She didn't move a muscle, but her brow furrowed in concentration. Just as the bottle was about to click to a stop in front of Dustin, it suddenly—and impossibly—shuddered. It jerked a full forty-five degrees to the right, sliding against the friction of the floor until the neck was pointing straight at Mike Wheeler.
A single, tiny drop of blood escaped her nose. She wiped it away by pretending to stretch.
“Oh!” Dustin shouted, sounding way too relieved. “Would you look at that! Mike! What are the odds?”
“The bottle has spoken,” Eddie declared, standing up and sweeping a hand toward the hallway. “Seven minutes. Don’t have too much fun.”
Y/N stared at the bottle, then at Mike. Her heart gave a violent, panicked thud. “That... that didn't look like it was going to land on him.”
“Physics is a mystery,” Lucas said solemnly.
“Statistically improbable,” Will added, hiding a smile behind his hand.
“Gravity is weird in this house,” Eddie said with a wink, standing up to open the closet door. “The bottle doesn't lie, Rogue. Wheeler, take her away.”
Mike stood up first. He didn't wait for her to make a joke or a protest. He stepped toward her and offered his hand, his fingers steady. “Rules are rules, Y/N. Unless you're scared?”
That did it. Y/N’s pride flared up. She took his hand—finding it much sticky with sweat, and more solid than she expected—and stood up. “I'm not scared of a closet, Wheeler.”
“Good,” Mike said, his voice dropping into that low, firm register. “Because it's a small closet.”
The group watched in breathless silence as Mike led her down the hall. The door clicked shut, the sound echoing in the quiet house.
“Go,” Dustin whispered the second they were out of sight. "Everyone, to the door. Quietly!"
Y/N took his hand, her fingers trembling slightly, and let him lead her into the cramped, dark closet.
The door clicked shut, plunging them into darkness.
The closet was small, filled with the scent of Joyce’s winter coats and cedar. It was so tight that Y/N had to step between Mike’s feet just to fit. She could feel his warmth radiating off him, more intense than the bonfire.
The darkness in the closet was so thick it felt like a physical weight. Every sound was magnified: the muffled laughter of the group in the other room, the ticking of a clock somewhere in the hall, and, most prominently, the sound of Mike’s breathing.
“Mike?” Y/N whispered. She shifted her feet, her sneakers squeaking against the hardwood. “Can you move your arm? You’re kind of... squishing a parka into my head.”
She heard a faint, huffed sound—the ghost of a laugh. “Sorry,” he murmured.
She felt him shift, but he didn't move away. Instead, he moved his arm higher, his hand resting on the top shelf of the closet. The movement brought his body even closer, the front of his shirt now brushing against the flannel she was wearing. His flannel.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yeah. Better.”
The silence returned, but it wasn't the comfortable silence they usually shared while watching movies or biking to the quarry. It was charged. It felt like the static electricity that builds up before a lightning strike.
Y/N’s hand was still resting on his chest, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. She realized she should probably move it, but her arm felt heavy, and the steady, rapid thump-thump of his heart under her palm was strangely grounding.
“It’s really dark in here,” she said, her voice barely a breath. It was a stupid thing to say—obviously it was dark—but she needed to break the tension before she did something impulsive, like lean into him.
“I don't mind the dark,” Mike said. His voice was low, vibrating through his chest and into her hand. “Do you?”
“No. It’s just... quiet.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Mike asked. He moved his other hand, the one that had been at his side. Slowly, as if giving her every chance to pull away, he reached out. His fingers found her chin, his touch light but firm, tilting her face up just a fraction.
Y/N’s breath hitched. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel him looking at her. The retort she had prepared—something about him being a ‘bossy coach’—died in her throat.
“You're usually so loud,” Mike noted, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Always talking. Always making jokes. You're never this quiet.”
“Well, you're usually not this... close,” she countered, her voice trembling slightly.
“Maybe I should be,” Mike murmured.
He didn't lean in for a kiss. He just stood there, holding her face in the dark, his thumb brushing slowly against the line of her jaw. It was a terrifyingly intimate gesture, one that didn't fit into the “best friend” box she had kept him in for years.
“Mike,” she whispered, her heart doing a frantic somersault. “What are we doing?”
“I don’t know about you, but I'm waiting,” Mike said, his tone shifting into that firm, certain register.
“Waiting for what?”
“For you to stop pretending,” he said quietly. “For you to realize that I didn't land on this spot because of the bottle. I've been standing in this spot for years, Y/N. Just waiting for you to notice.”
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the sound of their shallow breathing. Y/N felt like she was standing on the edge of a cliff. Part of her wanted to crack a joke, to call him a “drama queen” and laugh it off so they could go back to the way things were—safe, easy, and platonic.
But the way his thumb was tracing her jawline made it impossible to laugh. It was too deliberate. Too firm.
“I'm not... I'm not pretending,” Y/N whispered, though even to her own ears, the words sounded weak. “We're just... we're Mike and Y/N. We’re the duo. You’re the one who keeps me from doing stupid things, and I’m the one who makes sure you don't take everything so seriously.”
“Maybe I want to be serious,” Mike countered. He leaned in just an inch more, his forehead almost touching hers. “Did you ever think about that? That maybe I’m tired of being the ‘duo’ if it means I have to pretend I don't feel like my lungs are failing every time you smile at me?”
Y/N’s fingers tightened on his shirt, bunching the fabric. “Mike...”
“You’re a brat, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, affectionate growl that sent a shiver straight down her spine. “You’re stubborn, and you’re oblivious, and you treat me like a piece of furniture you can just lean on whenever you’re tired. And the worst part is? I let you. I let you because I’d rather be something to you than nothing at all.”
He let out a shaky breath, his resolve wavering for just a second before it hardened again. “But I'm done being a ‘good friend’ today. Just for seven minutes. I want to know if you actually don't see it... or if you're just scared.”
Y/N felt a lump in her throat. For the first time, she couldn't hide behind her obliviousness. He had stripped it away, leaving her exposed in the dark. “I'm not scared,” she lied, her voice cracking.
“Liar,” Mike whispered.
He didn't kiss her. Instead, he tilted his head down, resting his forehead against hers. It was a grounding, heavy pressure. In the pitch black of the closet, with only the scent of cedar and Mike surrounding her, Y/N finally let herself feel it—the way her heart hammered when he was near, the way she constantly sought him out in a crowded room, the way his flannel felt more like home than her own clothes.
Suddenly, a muffled thud came from the other side of the door, followed by a frantic “Shhh!” and the sound of someone’s sneakers scuffing the floor.
“Dustin, you're on my foot!” Will’s hissed whisper was unmistakable through the wood.
“I can't hear anything! Are they even talking?” Max’s voice was a low thread of frustration.
The spell didn't break, but it shifted. Mike didn't jump back. He didn't even flinch. He just stayed there, his forehead against hers, his hand still firm on her jaw. He was waiting for her move.
“They're going to open the door in about sixty seconds,” Mike murmured, his breath warm against her lips. “Seven minutes is almost up.”
Y/N looked up, even though she could only see the faint outline of his eyes. “And then what?”
“And then,” Mike said, his voice regaining that steady, protective firmness, “you have to decide if you're going to walk out that door as my best friend... or if you're finally going to let me be honest with you and accept it.”
The air in the closet was vibrating. Y/N’s heart was drumming against her ribs, and Mike was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. She opened her mouth, her pulse thundering in her ears—maybe to say his name, maybe to finally close the gap—but the choice was stolen from her.
CRASH.
The closet door didn't just open; it groaned under the weight of three teenagers who had been leaning far too hard against the wood. Dustin tumbled in first, landing on his hands and knees, followed by Lucas, who narrowly avoided stepping on him. Max managed to stay upright, but she was clutching the doorframe, her face flushed with a mix of excitement and “caught-red-handed” guilt.
“Uh... hi!” Dustin squeaked, looking up from the floor at Mike’s shoes. “The seven minutes... it felt like ten? Time is a flat circle, right?”
The yellow light from the hallway flooded in, blinding and harsh.
Mike didn't move immediately. He stood there, his hand slowly dropping from Y/N’s jaw, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. The look on his face wasn't embarrassed; it was devastating. He looked like a man who had just watched his entire world crumble inches before the finish line.
Y/N felt the sudden light like a slap. The realization of where she was, who was watching, and what Mike had just said hit her all at once. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her chest.
“Y/N?” Mike whispered, his voice low and searching, ignoring the trio on the floor.
She couldn't look at him. If she looked at him, she’d cry, or scream, or kiss him—and with her friends staring and her dad just through those walls, she couldn't do any of it. Her confidence had completely evaporated, replaced by a raw, suffocating fear.
“I... I can't,” she murmured, her voice barely a thread. She didn't look up, her eyes fixed on the hem of his shirt. “I’m sorry, Mike. I’m sorry.”
Before he could reach for her, before he could say another word, she stepped over the group, her foot almost catching on Dustin’s as she practically sprinted down the hallway.
“Wait, Y/N!” Lucas called out, but she didn't stop.
She burst into the porch, her eyes darting the familiar, towering silhouette of Jim Hopper by the door, talking to Joyce. He looked up, his protective instincts flaring instantly at the sight of his daughter’s pale face and wide eyes.
“Hey, kid? What’s wrong?” Hopper asked, his voice dropping into that low, rumble of concern. He stepped toward her, his eyes already flicking toward the hallway to see if Mike was behind her.
“Dad,” Y/N said, her voice trembling. She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, her fingers shaking. “I'm tired. I... I want to go home. Please. Can we just go home?”
Hopper’s gaze sharpened. He saw the way she was vibrating with tension, the way she refused to look back at the “miserable” group now standing awkwardly in the hallway. He looked over her head and caught Mike’s eye.
Mike was standing at the end of the hall, half-hidden in the shadows, looking like he’d been struck by lightning.
“Yeah,” Hopper said, his voice unusually soft as he put a heavy, protective arm around Y/N’s shoulders. He shot Mike one last, warning glance—not one of anger, but of deep, suspicious curiosity. “Yeah, let's get out of here. El! Get your shoes. We're leaving.”
Y/N didn't say goodbye to anyone. She didn't look back as the front door clicked shut behind them, leaving the “miserable group” standing in a silence that felt heavier than any monster they had ever fought.
The car ride back to the cabin was suffocating. The only sound was the low rumble of the Blazer’s engine and the occasional click of Hopper’s turn signal. Hopper kept glancing in the rearview mirror, his eyes shifting between Y/N’s ghost-pale face and El, who was staring out the window with a look of deep, quiet guilt.
Hopper knew better than to push right then—he could feel the ozone in the air, the kind that preceded a total meltdown.
The moment they crossed the threshold of the cabin, Y/N didn't even take off her shoes. She bolted for the bedroom she shared with El, the door closed shut with a finality that made Hopper pause in the hallway, hand hovering over the wood before he ultimately sighed and let it go.
Inside, the room was dim. Y/N collapsed onto her bed, still wrapped in that oversized flannel—Mike’s flannel—and pulled her knees to her chest. A moment later, the door creaked open. El slipped in, moving like a shadow, and sat on the edge of the mattress.
“Y/N,” El said softly. She reached out, her hand hovering before resting on Y/N’s trembling shoulder. “Are you... hurt?”
“I'm fine,” Y/N choked out, but her voice betrayed her. She sat up abruptly, her hair a mess, her eyes red-rimmed. “No, I'm not fine. I'm a mess, El. Everything is a mess.”
El tilted her head, her dark eyes filled with a wisdom that far outstripped her years. “The bottle... it was not an accident. I moved it. I am sorry.”
Y/N froze, her breath hitching. “You... you did that? Why?”
“Because Mike's heart is so loud,” El explained simply, her voice dropping. “And because I thought you knew. I thought you were just... waiting.”
“I wasn't waiting! I was breathing!” Y/N suddenly stood up, pacing the small square of floor. “In that closet... it was so small, El. And he was so close. He wasn't being 'good old Mike.' He was being... firm. He was so sure of his words, and it was so much. It was too much.”
She stopped, leaning her forehead against her knees. “He told me he was tired of being my friend. He told me I was a brat for not noticing. And the worst part is, I wanted to say something back. I wanted to tell him that I think I’ve been scared of this for years because if I lose him as a friend, I have nothing. But then the door opened, and everyone was staring, and I just... I couldn't breathe. I felt so pressured to have the 'perfect' answer, and all I had was panic.”
She turned back to El, her voice dropping to a broken whisper. “I said I was sorry and I ran away. I left him standing there in the dark, El. He looked like I’d just kicked him in the chest. How am I supposed to ever look at him again?”
El stood up and walked over, pulling her sister into a steady, grounding hug. “Mike is the Paladin,” she murmured. “He is stubborn. He will wait. But you must be honest. Not with him... with yourself.”
Y/N clung to her sister, the weight of the night finally crashing down. The obliviousness was gone, replaced by a terrifying, beautiful clarity that she wasn't ready for.
The next few days were a masterclass in avoidance. Y/N had mastered the art of the “Hopper Exit”—slipping out of the back of the arcade the moment she saw a lanky silhouette at the front door, or suddenly having “too much homework” the second a walkie-talkie crackled with Mike’s voice.
But Mike wasn't the only one feeling the heat. The “Miserable Group” was currently operating under a cloud of intense, collective guilt.
“We are the worst friends in the history of Hawkins,” Dustin lamented, slumped over a booth at Benny’s Burgers. “Actually, scratch that. We are the worst friends in the history of the Tri-State area.”
“I told you the door was unstable,” Lucas muttered, staring miserably at his fries. “But no, you had to lean in for the ‘prime acoustic’ position.”
Max didn't even argue. She just stared at the entrance, waiting. When Mike finally walked in, he looked like he hadn't slept since the 1980s began. His eyes were shadowed, his jaw was tight, and he moved with a grim, focused energy. He didn't even look at them as he slid into the booth.
“She's still not answering the walkie,” Mike said, his voice flat. He didn't ask for a burger. He didn't ask how they were. “I went to the cabin. Hopper told me if I stepped on the porch again, he’d make sure I spent the rest of my life in a cast.”
“Mike, look,” Dustin started, his voice cracking with sincerity. “We blew it. We know we blew it. We owe you. Big time.”
Mike finally looked up, his dark eyes flashing with a spark of that new, firm intensity. “You don't owe me an apology. You owe me a chance to talk to her without three idiots falling through a door.”
“Consider it done,” Eddie said, sliding into the booth next to Mike with a determined look. “The Party has reached a consensus. We’ve been ‘observing’ her habits. She’s avoiding the arcade, the basement, and your house. But she still goes to the library on Tuesdays to return her sister’s books.”
“The library,” Mike repeated, his mind already working. “There’s only one exit.”
“And we,” Lucas said, pulling out a set of walkies, “will be the perimeter. No one gets in or out of that aisle until you’ve said what you need to say. Not even the librarian.”
The Hawkins Library was a tomb of hushed whispers and the smell of old paper. Y/N moved through the stacks like a ghost, her hood pulled up, eyes darting around. She felt like a fugitive. Every time someone cleared their throat, she expected it to be Mike.
She reached the back of the “Science Fiction” section—the quietest corner of the building—and let out a shaky breath. She just needed to drop off the books and get back to the safety of the Blazer.
Click.
The sound of a door locking echoed from the end of the aisle. Y/N spun around, her heart jumping into her throat.
There, standing at the end of the narrow row of bookshelves, was Mike. He wasn't leaning. He wasn't hiding. He was standing dead center, his arms crossed, his expression incredibly firm. Behind him, she could just see the top of Dustin’s curly hair through the glass of the door, holding a “Section Closed for Maintenance” sign.
“You've been fast, Y/N,” Mike said, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet. He started walking toward her, his boots thudding softly on the carpet. “But I can handle your pace.”
“Mike, please,” Y/N whispered, backing away until her heels hit the base of the bookshelf. “I told you... I’m sorry. I can't do this right now.”
“You've been saying ‘I can’t’for three days,” Mike said. He didn't stop until he was standing directly in front of her, so close she had to tilt her head back to see his face.
“I'm not letting you run away this time,” he said, his voice a low, steady command. “The group is guarding the door. Your dad is at the station. It's just us. No pressure, no audience. Just tell me why you're running.”
Y/N looked up at him, her eyes welling with frustrated, panicked tears. “Because I don't know the answer, Mike! Because everything was fine, and now I can't even breathe without thinking about what you said in that closet! You’re my best friend, and I’m terrified that if I say the wrong thing, I’ll lose the only person who actually handles me.”
“Hate me, shoot me, hit me,” Mike murmured, his gaze softening but his stance remaining unyielding. He leaned in, his nose inches from hers. “But don’t avoid me. You’re never going to lose me. Do you really think I'd walk away after seven years just because you're scared?”
He reached out one hand, his fingers gently catching her chin to keep her from looking away. “Be honest with me, Y/N. For once. Forget the group, forget your dad. When I held you in the water... when I held you in the closet... did you really feel nothing?”
The silence of the library felt heavy, but for the first time, it didn't feel like it was suffocating her. It felt like a shield.
Y/N looked at Mike—really looked at him—and saw the way his eyes were searched hers, full of a terrifying amount of hope and that stubborn, firm resolve. She let out a shaky, frustrated breath, her shoulders finally dropping.
“You're so annoying,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You know that? You're bossy, and you're intense, and you've spent the last week making me feel like my heart is going to explode.”
Mike didn't flinch. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Is that a yes or a no?”
“It's a 'shut up,'” she muttered. She reached up, grabbing the collar of his jacket and pulling him down that last inch.
The kiss wasn't like a movie. It was slightly clumsy, smelling of old library books and Mike’s peppermint gum, but it was certain. It was the answer to seven years of pining, and the moment their lips met, the panic that had been living in Y/N’s chest for days finally vanished.
Mike’s hand moved from her chin to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair as he held her there, deepening the kiss with a possessive, firm hunger that made her knees feel like they were made of jelly.
From behind the glass door of the science fiction section, a muffled, high-pitched “YES!” erupted, followed by the sound of Dustin, Eddie, and Lucas being aggressively shushed by Will, Jane, and Max.
Y/N pulled back just a fraction, resting her forehead against Mike's, both of them breathing hard. She couldn't help it—the spark in her came right back to the surface the moment she felt safe again.
“Okay, okay,” she breathed, patting his chest playfully. “Don't get ahead of yourself, Wheeler.”
Mike blinked, looking slightly dazed but blissfully happy. “What?”
“I mean, that was... fine,” she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “But you can't just corner me in a library and expect to be my boyfriend with zero effort. No flowers? No dinner? You haven't even taken me on a real date yet, and you're already acting like the Paladin who rescued the Rogue.”
Mike let out a genuine, loud laugh—the first one in days. He didn't pull away, though. He kept his arms looped loosely around her waist, keeping her in his space.
“A date?” he repeated, his voice dropping back into that low, confident tone. “Fine. Friday night. I'll pick you up. I’ll even wear a tie if it makes you happy.”
“And you have to ask my dad,” she added, her grin widening. “Formally. In person.”
Mike’s face went slightly pale at the mention of Hopper, but he didn't back down. He stood tall, his grip on her waist tightening just enough to show he wasn't going anywhere.
“I can handle the Chief,” Mike said firmly. “As long as I get to take you home after.”
“We'll see,” Y/N chirped, finally slipping out from his arms and heading toward the door. She stopped, looking back over her shoulder with a wink. “Better start practicing those push-ups, Mike. I think you're gonna need 'em.”
As she pushed past the cheering group, Mike stood in the aisle for a moment, a goofy, triumphant grin plastered on his face. He had her. She was his. And for Mike Wheeler, that was the greatest high score he’d ever achieved.
Friday night arrived with the kind of atmospheric tension usually reserved for a gate opening.
In the Wheeler driveway, Mike stood frozen next to Steve’s BMW that he borrowed, staring at his reflection in the chrome of the mirror. He was wearing a crisp button-down tucked into dark slacks.
“Confidence, Wheeler,” Steve’s voice echoed in his head. “And for the love of God, don't mention the words 'sub-level' or 'dungeon.' It’s a restaurant. With forks.”
The Hopper cabin sat at the end of the long, dark driveway like a final boss arena. Mike climbed the porch steps, his loafers clicking unnervingly loud. He stopped at the door, taking a deep breath and mentally scrolling through Nancy’s frantic checklist:
Eye contact. Firm handshake (but don't squeeze, he'll think you're challenging him). Compliment the house? No, that’s weird. Compliment the food. Be home by 10:00 PM. Not 10:01. 10:00.
He knocked. Three firm raps.
The door didn't just open; it swung wide to reveal Jim Hopper in all his flannel-clad, broad-shouldered glory. He was holding a glass of juice, but he held it like it was a weapon. He looked Mike up and down—slowly—focusing on the Steve-inspired hair.
“Wheeler,” Hopper grunted.
“Chief,” Mike said. His voice cracked slightly, but he cleared his throat and stood his ground, chin up. He extended a hand. “I’m here to take Y/N to dinner. Sir.”
Hopper stared at the hand for three very long seconds before giving it a single, bone-crushing squeeze. “You look like you're going to a funeral. Or a job interview.”
“It's a date,” Mike corrected, his voice regaining that low, firm edge. “I will treat her right.”
Hopper’s eyes narrowed. He stepped back, allowing Mike into the living room. “El! Get out here and tell your sister the suit is here!”
Jane emerged from the hallway, wearing a small, secretive smile. She looked at Mike, nodded once in approval of the outfit, and then looked at her dad. “He is nervous. His heart is fast.”
“I can hear it from here,” Hopper muttered. He turned back to Mike, leaning his weight against the kitchen counter. “Listen to me. She’s had a rough year. We’ve all had a rough year. If she comes back even a second late, or if she looks like she’s been crying, I won't need a warrant to find where you live.”
“She’ll be home at ten,” Mike promised, his gaze unwavering. “And she’ll be happy. I'll make sure of it.”
Before Hopper could offer another threat, the hallway door opened. Y/N stepped out, and Mike actually forgot how to breathe for a second. She wasn't wearing his flannel. She was in a dress that made her look older, her hair styled just enough to show she’d tried, but she still had that smirk on her face the moment she saw Mike’s polished look.
“Whoa,” Y/N teased, walking over and smoothing out a wrinkle on his lapel. “Who are you and what have you done with my scrawny best friend?”
“He's in here somewhere,” Mike murmured, his hand instinctively finding the small of her back—firmly, but gently.
“You look nice, Mike,” she whispered, her eyes softening in a way that made Hopper clear his throat loudly.
“Alright, alright,” Hopper interrupted, stepping between them to hand Y/N a ten-dollar bill 'just in case.' “Go. Eat. Ten o'clock. Wheeler, I'm counting the minutes.”
“Goodnight, Dad! Love you, El!” Y/N called out, grabbing Mike’s hand and pulling him toward the door before Hopper could change his mind.
As they stepped out into the cool night air, the porch light illuminating them, Mike felt the tension finally break. He led her toward the car he’d borrowed from Steve, opening the passenger door for her with a flourish that was half-sincere, half-teasing.
“So,” Y/N said as he got into the driver's seat. “Steve helped with the hair and car, and Nancy helped with the clothes... did Dustin help with the conversation starters?”
Mike laughed, reaching across the center console to take her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “No. I think I can handle the talking on my own from here.”
“Yeah?” she asked, leaning in.
“Yeah,” Mike said, his voice low and certain as he started the engine. “I’ve had seven years to practice.”
Mike froze as her hand reached up, his eyes widening. He’d spent forty-five minutes and half a can of Nancy’s strongest hairspray trying to achieve the “Harrington Sweep,” but as her fingers dove into the locks, he didn't pull away.
With a few playful tugs and a vigorous tousle, Y/N dismantled Steve’s hard work, leaving Mike’s hair falling back into its usual, messy dark mop over his forehead.
“There,” she said, leaning back with a satisfied grin, her eyes bright and fond. “Much better. You look like Mike again. I like you that way.”
Mike looked at himself in the rearview mirror, then back at her. The rigid, nervous “leading man” posture he’d been holding since he stepped onto the porch finally dissolved. He let out a long, relieved sigh, a genuine smile breaking across his face.
“Steve is going to be devastated,” Mike teased, though his voice was thick with affection. He reached out, catching her hand before she could pull it away and bringing it to his lips for a soft, lingering kiss on her knuckles. “But if you like it... I guess I can live with it.”
“Good,” she chirped, settling into the seat. “Now, let’s go. I’m starving, and we have exactly two hours and forty-two minutes before my dad starts pacing the driveway with a flashlight.”
Mike shifted the car into gear, feeling lighter than he had in years. He didn't need the suit, the hair, or the script. He just needed to be the guy who held her in the pool—the one who was never going to let go.
pairings: mike wheeler x cheerleader!harrington!reader
summary: After the wreckage of secrets and the heat, the Quarry's silence finally became a sanctuary rather than a grave. The ghosts that once haunted Mike’s letters were traded seat at a table that belonged only to them. No longer a mystery to be solved or a secret to be kept, they carved a quiet peace out of the noise of Hawkins High. The scars of the past remain, but they are finally eclipsed by the steady, sun-drenched reality of a hand held in the dark.
wc: 13,4 k
post contains: fem reader, cupid in action, idiot mike, nervous mike, #makeitright, mike’s letters, confession, jealousy, will & jane mentioned.
author’s note: LAST PARTTT are we ready yes no yes or what !!! u guys deserve this tysm for appreciating my works so far ^^ criticism and feedbacks are appreciated! not proofread
All to Ourselves Masterlist
The bedroom is cold, the air smelling of damp concrete and the lingering scent of last night’s pepperoni pizza. Mike is sitting at his desk, his desk lamp the only source of light in the room. In front of him is a fresh sheet of yellow legal paper and his favorite fountain pen.
Usually, the words to Will came easily. But tonight, the pen hovered an inch above the paper, trembling slightly.
“Dear Will,
Things are... different here. The Party is fine. Dustin is still loud. Lucas is still obsessed with his free-throw percentage. And I hung out with Y/N today. She’s smart, Will. And she actually listens. We went to the Quarry again. Just us. Well, until the guys crashed it to save me from Steve. I haven't told her about the world or... El. Every time I try, the words get stuck. It’s like if I tell her, the version of her who likes me just for being me, will disappear. I don't want her to see the that version of us yet.”
Mike stares at the word El. He’s not in love with her anymore; that fire had cooled into a deep, protective friendship long ago. But to an outsider—to someone like Y/N—how did “brave legendary girl I write to every week” sound?
He crumples the paper into a tight ball and throws it toward the trash can. He missed.
The next morning at Hawkins High is a cacophony of locker slams and shouting. Mike is trying to find his bike when he feels a heavy, unmistakable hand drop onto his shoulder.
“Wheeler. A word.”
Steve Harrington didn't dress look like a "parent" today. He’s dressed like a man who had spent the night reading Psychology Today and is now convinced he is a master of interrogation. He leans against the brick wall, trying to look casual, but his eyes were are around like he was expecting an ambush.
“I saw the way you were looking at the rocks yesterday,” Steve says, his voice low. “Very intense. Very... focused.”
“I like rocks, Steve,” Mike says, trying to move past him.
“Don't play games with me, man! I’ve been there!” Steve hisses, stepping in front of him.
“With my sister? Yeah, don’t remind me.”
“I know your moves. They’re classics. But here’s the thing... a birdie told me something. Said that you're a 'loyal' guy. That you write a lot of letters to… California?”
Mike’s stomach does a slow, sickening roll.
Yesterday…
It was the closing hour at Family Video. The overhead fluorescent lights hummed with a depressing buzz, and the store is empty except for Steve, who was aggressively sweeping the floor, and Dustin, who was sitting on the counter eating a bag of Steve’s personal stash of gummy bears.
“You're eating the red ones again, Henderson,” Steve muttered, not looking up. “Those are the only ones I like. Eat the greens. They taste like grass.”
“I need the glucose, Steve. My brain is working at triple capacity trying to figure out how to keep you from ruining Mike’s life after you hunt us down three hours ago,” Dustin said, popping a red bear into his mouth.
Steve stopped rewinding. He leaned his elbows on the counter, his face dropping the 'cool' act. He looked tired. “I’m not trying to ruin his life. I’m just... I'm looking at her, Dustin. I'm looking at Y/N, and she’s actually smiling. Not the 'I'm-the-cheer-captain' smile. A real one. It’s terrifying.”
“Why is it terrifying? Mike is a great guy!“
“He’s a Wheeler!” Steve interrupted, his voice hushed but intense. “And Wheelers are... they're intense. They're all-in. Look at Nancy. She went from being a princess to a girl who hunts monsters with a shotgun in six months. I don't want Y/N to change because of something she thinks it’s real, Dustin. I don't want her to have a 'bat with nails' in her car in two years.”
Dustin softened. He saw the real fear in Steve's eyes—the fear of his sister losing her innocence to the darkness they all lived through.
“She’s not going to end up like that, Steve,” Dustin said gently. “Mike is careful. Maybe too careful. That’s actually the problem.”
“What do you mean 'the problem'?”
Dustin sighed, leaning in closer. “He hasn't told her about Eleven. Not the real El. He talks about her like she’s just some brave girl, but... you know. You were there, Steve. You know what they were. You know how hard he fell for her.”
Steve’s brow furrowed. “He’s still hung up on the girl?”
“No! No, he’s not,” Dustin insisted, waving his hands. “He's moved on. I see the way he looks at Y/N—it’s different. It’s more... grounded. But Mike feels like if he tells Y/N the truth, he’ll open that world for her. And if he doesn't tell Y/N, he’s lying to her. He’s stuck in a loop.”
Steve processed this, his mind racing. He didn't see the nuance Dustin saw. He heard one thing: Mike Wheeler has a secret girl in California that he’s 'loyal' to, and he’s not telling my sister.
“So, he's keeping her as a backup,” Steve whispered, his voice turning cold.
“No! Steve, that is literally the opposite of what I just said!” Dustin groaned, hitting his forehead against the counter. “I'm saying he’s scared. He wants to work it out with Y/N, but he doesn't know how to bridge the gap between 'Normal Girl' and 'Our Weird Life.'”
Steve stood up straight, his jaw set. “If he wants to work it out, he needs to be honest. Because Y/N? She’s amazing. She’s not a secret. She’s not a second choice. And if he treats her like one because he’s 'scared'...” Steve trailed off, but the look in his eyes was dead serious.
“Steve, don't do anything stupid,” Dustin warned, pointing a gummy bear at him. “I'm telling you this so you understand him, not so you can go 'Hulk Hogan' on him at school.”
“I’m not going to do anything stupid,” Steve said. “I’m going to do something… something.”
Steve’s BMW is idling in the back corner of the school parking lot, the engine a low, expensive hum. Mike is sitting in the passenger seat.
The silence is deafening. Steve is staring straight ahead, his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, his knuckles a pale white.
“You know, Wheeler,” Steve says, his voice unusually steady. “Dustin talks a lot. Especially when there are gummy bears involved. He thinks he’s being helpful. He thinks he’s 'building bridges' or whatever nerd-metaphor he’s using this week.”
Mike feels a cold spike of dread. Dustin. Of course. “Steve, whatever he told you—“
“He told me about the letters, Mike. He told me your loyalty for Eleven,” Steve finally turns his head. His eyes aren’t angry—they are tired. “And look, I get it. You went through some... stuff. We all did. You survived a literal nightmare with her. That kind of bond? It doesn't just go away.”
“My sister... she’s never really let anyone in. Not like this. If you’re just killing time until your 'powerful girl' comes back for the summer... don't. Just don't. Y/N doesn't do 'second place.' She’s my sister. We’re... we’re a lot, but we don't settle.”
“It’s not like that,” Mike insists, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears. “It’s not romantic. Not anymore.”
“Then why is it a secret?” Steve leans in, his gaze piercing. “I’m not just some babysitter anymore, Mike. I’m looking at my sister, and for the first time in her life, she’s not looking at her feet or her textbooks. She’s looking at you. She thinks she’s finally found someone who doesn't see the 'Harrington' name as a trophy.”
Steve grips the wheel tighter. “If you’re still in love with a ghost in California, that’s your business. But the second you make it Y/N’s business—the second you make her feel like she’s just a placeholder until your 'legendary' girl comes back—that’s when we have a problem.”
“I care about her, Steve! I really do!” Mike shouts, the honesty bursting out of him. “That’s why I haven't told her. How do I explain Eleven? How do I explain that my ex-girlfriend can move things with her mind and saved the world? Y/N lives in a world of pep rallies and honor rolls. If I bring the 'freak' stuff into her life, I ruin it. I’m trying to protect her!”
Steve is silent for a long moment. He looks out the windshield at the high school—a building that seems so small and fragile compared to what they had seen in the woods.
“You think you're protecting her by lying?” Steve asks quietly. “That’s what I thought, too. I thought if I just kept the monsters away, everything would be fine. But secrets are just monsters you keep in your pocket, Mike. Eventually, they get too big and they bite.”
Steve reaches over and unlocked the door. “But if I find out she’s crying because she thinks she isn't enough for you... you won't have to worry about the Upside Down. You'll have to worry about me.”
Mike stumbles out of the car, his head spinning. He walks into his house like a man walking towards a firing squad.
Next day comes by quickly, much to his dismay. He sees Y/N at her table. She looks up, her eyes bright and expectant, waiting for their usual “subtle” wave.
But Mike doesn’t wave. He looks at her and sees Steve’s words: She doesn't do second place. He panicked. To “protect” her from the truth of his past, he did the one thing that would hurt her more: he overcompensated. He stands up and marches past the Hellfire table—ignoring Dustin’s frantic “What happened?” look—and walks straight toward the popular table.
“Hey,” Mike says, his voice a bit too loud, his movements jerky. “Y/N. I... uh... I got you this.”
He slides a small, crumpled bag of candy onto the table—her favorite, which he’d remembered from the Quarry.
The entire cheer squad goes silent. Heather looks at Mike like he was a bug that had just learned to speak. Y/N’s smile flickers, turning into something confused and slightly embarrassed.
“Mike?” she whispers, her cheeks flushing. “What are you doing? Everyone’s looking.”
“I just wanted to say... you know. That I’m glad we’re friends,” Mike says, the word friends sounding forced and clunky. “Only friends. The best ones. No secrets!”
He gives a thumbs-up. A literal, shaky thumbs-up, and walks away.
Y/N’s heart sinks. In her mind, the “No secrets!” comment felt like a guilty man shouting his innocence. She looks at the candy, then back at Mike. She sees the sweat on his forehead and the way his eyes darts toward the exit.
“Thanks, Mike,” she whispers into the air, her voice dropping all its warmth.
Mike didn't even make it to the next period. He storms into an empty classroom, the heavy door slamming against the wall with a bang. Dustin is right on his heels, his backpack swinging wildly.
“Are you insane?!” Dustin yells, not even bothering to lower his voice. “A thumbs-up, Mike? A literal thumbs-up? You looked like a nervous informant in a bad spy movie! 'No secrets'? You might as well have worn a sandwich board that said 'I Am Hiding Something'!”
“This is your fault!” Mike spins around, his finger trembling as he points it at Dustin’s chest. “Steve cornered me in his car, Dustin! He knew about the letters! He knew about El! He knew everything because you can't keep your mouth shut for five minutes if there's sugar involved!”
“He deserved to know!” Dustin shouts back, his voice hitting that high-pitched frequency it only reaches during emergencies. “Steve was going to kill you, Mike! He was going to banish you to the Shadow Realm! I had to explain that you weren't some player, that you were just... complicated! I was trying to humanize you!”
“You didn't humanize me, you profiled me! He thinks I'm using his sister as a 'placeholder' while I wait for El to come back! And now Y/N thinks I'm a freak because I just walked up to her in front of the entire school and acted like a total weirdo!”
Dustin stops. He takes a deep breath, his anger cooling into something sharper and more painful. He steps closer to Mike, his expression unusually grim.
“You want to talk about being a freak, Mike? Fine. But don't you dare blame me for the fact that Y/N is the only girl in this entire school who actually sees you.”
Mike freezes.
“She looks at you and she doesn't see a 'loser' or a 'nerd.' She sees Mike Wheeler,” Dustin says, his voice dropping. “And the only reason she does that is because she thinks you're the one person who isn't going to lie to her. But you are lying. Every time you talk about El and Will like they're just 'kids in California,' you're lying by omission. I didn't mess this up, Mike. You did. You're so scared of her seeing the 'real' Hawkins that you're letting her fall in love with a version of you that doesn't exist.”
Mike feels the air leave his lungs. He slumps against one of the tables, the cold metal biting into his back. “I'm not lying to her to hurt her, Dustin. I'm trying to keep her safe. If she knows about El, she has to know about the Lab. If she knows about the Lab... I can't... I can't lose someone else.”
“That world’s gone, Mike,” Dustin says softly. “You can’t talk about being safe when you’re associated with danger herself. She’s a Harrington. The 'safe' route is gone. It’s been gone since she sat down at our table.”
While the boys are tearing each other apart, Y/N is sitting in the back of her History class, her notebook open to a blank page.
She isn’t crying. She is just... numb. The nagging feeling in her gut—the one that had started at the Quarry—is now a dull roar.
He doesn’t owe her anything, right? But as a good friend, she’s worried. The secret hang outs, their spot, and the shared glances. Were those not enough?
No secrets. Why would he say that? Why would a “friend” feel the need to announce that there are no secrets right after a private conversation?
She looks at the bag of candy on her desk. It is a peace offering, but it feels like a distraction. She wants to believe Mike. She wants to believe that the way he looked at her at the Quarry was real.
She doesn’t want to talk to Steve—he’d just say “I told you so.” She doesn’t want to talk to her friends—they don’t even know Mike’s last name.
She looks out the window, watching a stray dog wonders across the football field. She feels like she is standing on the edge of a map, and the only person who has the directions was refusing to show her the paper.
Back in the empty classroom, Mike looks up at Dustin. “What am I supposed to do? Go to her and say, 'Hey, sorry I acted weird, my ex-girlfriend is a psychic superhero and you’re not a second choice, but I can’t say that because we’re friends but just letting you know'?”
“No,” Dustin says, grabbing his backpack. “But you could start by being the guy she actually likes. The one who isn't afraid to stand his ground. Because right now? You’re acting like the guy Steve thinks you are. And that guy doesn't deserve her.”
Dustin walks out, the door swinging shut with a heavy thud, leaving Mike alone with the hum of the monitors and the crushing weight of his own silence.
The week following the “The Paladain’s Bravery Incident” is a slow-motion car crash.
Mike didn’t avoid Y/N entirely—that would have been too easy. Instead, he was there, but he wasn't there. He would catch her eye in the hallway and start to walk toward her, only to pause, adjust his backpack, and turn into a different corridor at the last second. He was overthinking every syllable, every gesture, every breath.
Their meetup at their place became dull and less pleasant. It only lasts for minutes. Never staying late and thrives for the risks.
In Mike’s head, he wasn't just Mike Wheeler anymore. He was a guy trying to outrun a shadow. He looked at the guys Y/N usually talked to—the varsity athletes, the guys who didn't have nightmares about clock chimes or vines—and he felt like he was losing a race they didn't even know they were running.
They don't have secrets, Mike thought bitterly. They can tell her their whole life story without sounding like a lunatic.
One afternoon, Mike stands by the gym doors, watching Y/N talk to a senior named Brian. Brian is a “normal.” He is tall, he has a nice smile, and he is currently making Y/N laugh.
Mike grips the strap of his bag until his knuckles turns white. He wants to march over there and be “better.” He wants to be charming, confident, and smooth. But then he remembers the “Elephant”—the secrets of the Lab, the letters to El, the fact that he’d seen the world almost end.
He turns and walks away before she can see him.
He felt like a damaged goods version of a boyfriend. He isn’t competing with Brian for Y/N’s attention; he is competing with his own belief that he was too “broken” for her “normalcy.”
While Mike is fighting a war in his head, Y/N is simply living in the fallout.
She sits at her lunch table, her chin in her hand. She feels a cold, hollow ache in her chest.
What did I do? That was the question on a loop in her brain. Was it what I said? Was it because I mentioned Jane? Maybe she had been too forward. Maybe she had assumed the “Quarry vibe” meant more than it did.
“You're doing it again,” Heather whispers, nudging her. “Let it go, Y/N. He’s a freak, remember? He’s probably just busy with his... gnome games.”
“He's not a freak,” Y/N says, but her voice lacks its usual bite.
She looks over at the Hellfire table. Dustin is glaring at Mike. Lucas looks disappointed. And Mike... Mike is staring at his tray like it contained the secrets to the universe, his shoulders hunch, looking smaller than she’d ever seen him.
She realizes then that they are drifting. It wasn’t a sudden break; it was a slow pull of the tide. Every time he hesitated, every time he looked at her and then looked away, a little more of the bridge they’d built at the Quarry crumbled into the water.
Late that night, Y/N is in her room, trying to study. She pulls out the History textbook Mike had lent her weeks ago. As she flips to the chapter on the Civil War, a small, loose scrap of paper fluttered out.
It’s not a note for her.
It’s a piece of scratch paper with several crossed-out lines in Mike’s messy scrawl. A letter. Her eyes squints at a specific paragraph.
...and El, I hope you’re doing okay in California. I try to tell her about you, but I don't know how to start. Everything feels so complicated now that the world is quiet. I feel like I'm living a double life. I want to be honest with her, but I’m scared—
The note ended there. It’s like he had wrote his feelings and stopped because he knew it was wrong.
Y/N stared at the name El. So, this is the “Jane” he is so loyal to? She feels a lump form in her throat. She doesn’t know Jane was a psychic hero. She didn't know the Upside Down was over. All she see is a guy who is so hung up on a girl named Jane, or El if he’s so comfortable, that he feels like he is "living a double life" just by being with Y/N.
She closes the book and pushes it to the far edge of her desk. The “Subtle Wave” is officially dead. Y/N realizes something that’s not even true. One thing that is true is that Mike Wheeler is a coward.
The Harrington kitchen is sterile and quiet, save for the sound of Steve aggressively stabbing a frozen bag of peas with a butter knife. He is trying to fix a “mystery bruise” on his hand from a Family Video mishap, but his real pain is purely fraternal.
Y/N is sitting at the kitchen island, staring into a bowl of cereal she hasn’t touch. “You can stop with the 'Told You So' face, Steve. I can feel it from across the room.”
“I’m not doing a face,” Steve lies, finally giving up on the peas and slamming them onto the counter. “I’m doing a 'I-am-concerned-for-the-future-of-my-bloodline' face. What happened, Y/N? Last week, you were sneaking out to have ‘group projects’, and now you look like you’re auditioning for a funeral.”
The air in the Harrington house is thick with the scent of floor wax and Steve’s mounting frustration. He is trying to “multitask” by making a sandwich and “fixing” his sister’s life. It’s going poorly for everyone involved.
“Look, all I’m saying is that you haven't left the house in three days unless it was to go to school,” Steve says, slamming a jar of mustard onto the counter. “You’re moping. You’re a moper. You’re like a Victorian orphan.”
“I am not moping, Steve. I am existing. There is a difference,” Y/N snaps, staring intensely at the back of a cereal box.
“You’re staring at the ingredients of Froot Loops like they’re the Dead Sea Scrolls! You’re moping!” Steve waves a butter knife at her. “Is it Mike? Did he do something? Because I will go to his house. I will park on his lawn. I'll make things very uncomfortable for his parents.”
“Don't you dare,” Y/N groans, finally looking up with a look of pure loathing. “And no, he didn't do anything. That’s the problem! He’s just... weird. He’s obsessed with some girl in California, and he acts like talking to me is a chore he forgot to do. I’m over it. I’ve decided he’s a weirdo and you were right, okay? Are you happy now? King Steve was right!”
“I don't want to be right!” Steve shouts, throwing his hands up. “Being right is boring! I want you to go outside so I can have the TV to myself! And don't give me that 'California' crap. Mike Wheeler couldn't handle a long-distance relationship with a goldfish. He’s just... he’s a nerd! He’s probably overthinking the 'geometry' of your face or something!”
“Shut up, Steve!” Y/N stood up, her chair screeching against the tile. “Go fix your hair or go to work! Just stop talking!”
“I'm trying to be a mentor!” Steve yells at her retreating back. “This is mentorship, Y/N! It’s supposed to be helpful!”
Meanwhile, Nancy has cornered Mike in the basement.
“You're glitching, Mike,” Nancy said calmly. “The table is shaking. Stop.”
“I’m fine, Nancy! I’m just... optimizing the layout!”
Nancy has been standing in the basement for ten minutes, and Mike hasn’t acknowledge her existence once. He is currently hunched over his D&D table, using a pair of tweezers to glue a tiny shield onto a tiny man.
“You're going to go blind doing that,” Nancy says.
“Then I'll be a blind genius. Go away, Nancy,” Mike mutters.
“I talked to Robin. She said Y/N looks like she wants to jump into a volcano. And you look like you already did.”
Mike slams the tweezers down. “Oh, did Robin say that? Did the 'Older Sibling Network' have a meeting? Did you guys vote on my social life between renting out copies of Caddyshack?”
“Mike, don't be a brat,” Nancy says, crossing her arms. “You’re clearly miserable. Just tell her the truth. Tell her you aren't obsessed with El. It’s not that hard. Use your words. You have so many of them.”
“I can't just 'use my words'! That’s easy for you to say!” Mike explodes, spinning around in his chair. “You have Jonathan! You guys have this... this 'epic' thing where you take photos of monsters and pine for each other across state lines. I don't know how to do 'normal'! I don't know how to tell a girl I like her without it sounding like a confession of a crime! Every time I see her, I feel like I’m about to fail a test I didn't study for!”
“So your plan is to just... stop talking to her?” Nancy asks, raising an eyebrow. “That’s your big man move? Ghosting?”
“It’s not ghosting! It’s... strategic withdrawal!” Mike yells. “And what do you know anyway? You and Jonathan spend half your time staring at the ceiling and writing poetry! At least I’m... I’m...”
“You're what? Dying alone in a basement?”
“Get out, Nance!” Mike points at the stairs.
“Fine! Enjoy your tiny shield! I hope it protects you from the crushing loneliness!” Nancy turns and marches up the stairs, slamming the door behind her.
Both siblings ended their “consultations” feeling significantly worse than when they started.
In the Harrington house, Y/N is aggressively organizing her closet to avoid thinking about Mike’s “double life.” In the Wheeler house, Mike is staring at his miniature paladin, wondering if it was too late to live in a hole in the ground.
The school days turns into a blur of avoiding eye contact. Y/N developes a new habit of staring intently at her locker combination, pretending the numbers were the most fascinating things on earth whenever she sees a lanky figure in a Hellfire shirt approaching.
Mike, for his part, was doing a terrible job of “staying cool.” He would linger near the water fountain by her History class, but the second she walked out, he’d suddenly become incredibly interested in his own shoelaces or start a frantic, fake conversation with a passing freshman.
She sat in English class, doodling in the margins of her notebook. Do I even like him? she wondered. He was a nerd. He was awkward. He had a basement that smelled like old paper and dice. But then she remembered the way he looked at her at the Quarry—like she was a person, not a Harrington.
His avoidance felt like a slow-motion rejection. It wasn't a “breakup” because there was nothing to break, which somehow made it worse. It felt like she was being “demoted” back to being just another girl in the hallway, and the space he used to fill in her day was now just a cold, empty gap.
The closest they came to “bursting” was in the library stacks. Y/N was reaching for a book on the top shelf when a hand reached up and grabbed it for her. For a split second, her heart soared. She thought it was Mike. She thought he was finally going to say something real.
She turned, a smile already forming—only to see it was just some guy from her AP Calc class.
“Here you go, Y/N,” he said with a grin.
“Thanks,” she muttered, the disappointment hitting her like a physical blow.
She walked toward the exit and passed Mike, who was hidden behind a display of encyclopedias. They were two feet apart. The air between them practically hummed with everything they weren't saying. Mike opened his mouth, his “first love” nerves paralyzing his throat. He wanted to say, 'I'm sorry I'm a mess.' Y/N waited. She slowed her pace, her heart hammering against her ribs. Say something. Anything. Even a bad joke about gnomes.
Mike let out a small, weird squeak, panicked, and dove into the next aisle.
Y/N’s face went hot with embarrassment. Fine, she thought, her eyes stinging as she pushed through the library doors. If he wants to be a ghost, I’ll let him haunt someone else.
They are both miserable. Mike is competing with “competitors” who don’t even know he existed, and Y/N is convincing herself that she is a "second-best" option to a girl named Jane.
The social geography of the cafeteria is shifting. Y/N has stop sitting with her back to the Hellfire table. She sits facing away now, surrounded by the chatter of the cheer squad, but she can’t hear a word they were saying.
“He’s staring again,” Heather whispers, leaning in. “Your little friend. He’s looking at you like he lost his puppy.”
Thanks to Mike’s brave act, everyone within the circle seems to be aware of the captain’s new friend.
Y/N doesn’t turn around. She grips her apple so hard her knuckles turns white. “I don't care, Heather. Let him stare.”
But she does care. She feels the weight of his gaze like a physical heat on her back. Across the room, Mike is indeed staring. He has a sandwich halfway to his mouth, but he hasn’t take a bite in three minutes.
“Mike, you're doing the thing again,” Lucas mutters, nudging him. “Eat your food.”
“I was going to go over there,” Mike whispers, his voice cracking. “I had a whole opening line about the biology test. It was solid. It was educational.”
“And then?” Dustin asks, unimpressed.
“And then Brian from the swim team sat down next to her and I realized I don't know anything about swimming! I’d look like a fool! A biology-obsessed fool!”
“You're already a fool, Mike,” Max sighs, not looking up from her book. “Just a lonely one.”
The Party is sitting at their usual table, but the energy is catatonic. Mike is sitting at the very end of the bench, his head resting on his hand, using a plastic fork to methodically shred a paper napkin into a pile of confetti. He isn’t eating. He isn’t talking. He is just... vibrating with repressed anxiety.
“Look at him,” Dustin whispers, leaning over his tray to Lucas and Max. “He’s been shredding that napkin for twelve minutes. He’s reached 'Level Four Mope.' If he hits 'Level Five,' he’s going to start reciting bad poetry.”
“It’s not just him,” Max says, jerking her chin toward the other side of the room.
Y/N is sitting with the cheerleaders, but she is a million miles away. Brian from the swim team is leaning in, laughing and showing her something on his watch. Usually, Y/N would have a sharp comeback or a polite smile, but she just nods vacantly, her eyes drifting toward the Hellfire table for a split second before she caught herself and snaps her gaze back to her tray.
“She looks like she’s underwater,” Lucas notes, shaking his head.
“Yeah, and Brian’s the one pushing her down,” Max rolls her eyes.
“And Mike looks like he’s the anchor. They’re both miserable, and it’s making me miserable. I can't even enjoy my tater tots with this much angst in the room. We have to do something,” Dustin declares, slamming his hand on the table. “They’re both too stubborn to blink. Mike thinks he’s being 'noble' by lying, and Y/N thinks she’s a rebound. It’s a classic failure of communication! As his Party, it is our moral and ethical obligation to intervene.”
“Or,” Max counters, “we could let them figure it out like adults.”
They all look at Mike, who had just dropped his fork and is now staring blankly at a puddle of spilled chocolate milk.
“Right,” Max sighs. “Adults. Okay, fine. What’s the plan?”
The Strategy: High-Stakes Meddling
They met behind the gym after the bell rang, huddled in a tight circle.
“The janitor’s closet,” Dustin says, his eyes glinting with a mix of genius and madness. “It’s soundproof-ish. It’s private. And I have the key. If we lure them there, they have to talk. There’s no lockers to hide behind. No 'strategic withdrawals.' Just two people and the truth.”
“How are we going to get Y/N there?” Lucas asks. “She’s avoided Mike like he’s a leper for three days.”
“Lies,” Max says simply. “I’ll tell her Steve is in there and he’s 'having a breakdown' or something. She’ll run for him. Harrington loyalty, remember?”
“And Mike?”
“I'll tell him I found a piece of 'lost' equipment from the Lab,” Dustin says, a bit of guilt flickering in his voice. “He’ll come running because he’s terrified and curious. It’s perfect.”
“It's unethical,” Lucas points out.
“It's necessary,” Dustin corrects. “We are the healers of this Party. Sometimes you have to reset the bone before it can knit back together. It’s going to hurt, sure, but then they’ll be better.”
Two hours before the trap is set, Dustin, Lucas, and Max were huddled around a whiteboard like they were planning the heist of the century.
The three had spent three days planning “Operation: Iron Maiden.” The goal: Force the Paladin and the Rogue into a small space until the tension snapped.
“Okay, look,” Dustin says, tapping a highlighter against the blueprints. “The tension is reaching critical mass. If Mike sighs one more time during D&D, I’m going to throw myself into the quarry. He’s pathetic. He’s moping. He’s basically a human rain cloud.”
“And Y/N is worse,” Max adds. “She’s been doing this thing where she walks ten times faster whenever she sees a mop of black hair. She’s not sad; she’s simmering. Harrington anger is like a slow-cooker. If we don't let the steam out, she’s going to explode and take Mike’s head off.”
“So, we lock them in,” Lucas summarizes, though he looked skeptical. “That’s the plan? Total incarceration?”
“It’s called Forced Proximity, Lucas! It’s a classic trope!” Dustin insist. “They’re both stubborn teenagers. They need to be in a space where they can't 'strategic withdrawal' their way out of a conversation.”
“I have the key to the janitor’s closet,” Dustin continues, holding it up like a holy relic. “I 'borrowed' it from Mr. Clarke’s desk. We lure Mike with the radio part. Max, you lure Y/N with the 'Steve is here' lie. We lock 'em in, we wait thirty minutes for the screaming to turn into crying, and then another thirty for the crying to turn into kissing. It’s science.”
“It’s a disaster,” Max mutters, but she stands up anyway. “But watching them fail is better than watching them mope. Let’s go.”
Mike had been lured to the small space with the promise of a “new radio part.” Y/N had been told by Max—in a very convincing, fake-panicked voice—that Steve was looking for her and was “hiding in the small space full of mops and sweeps.”
The actual luring went surprisingly well. Mike was so desperate for a distraction that he practically ran when Dustin mentioned a “dual-frequency transmitter.” Y/N was so stressed about Steve’s constant hovering that she followed Max into the trap without a single question.
The second Y/N stepped into the darkened room, the door slammed shut. The sound of a deadbolt clicking echoed through the hallway.
“Hey!” Mike shouts.
“Max? This isn't funny!” Y/N yells, rattling the handle.
From the other side of the door, Dustin’s muffled voice booms: “You two aren't leaving until you fix your 'vibe'! You’re making the whole school gloomy! Talk it out! Use your mouth-parts!”
“We’re doing this for your own good!” Lucas adds. Then, silence.
Dustin presses his ear to the wood, a manic grin on his face. “Phase One: Complete. Now, we wait for the magic.”
Inside the small space, he looks at Y/N, and his heart does that familiar, painful twist—but the light he usually sees in her eyes ks gone. She looks exhausted.
“Y/N, look, I—“
“Shut up, Mike,” she says, her voice sharp and cold. She doesn’t even look at him; she just stares at the door. “Save the 'Wheeler stutter' for someone else. I’m not in the mood.”
“I was just trying to... I didn't know they were going to do this!” Mike protests, his stubbornness flares up. “I’m not the one who locked us in here!”
“No, you're just the one who’s been treating me like a contagious disease for two weeks,” she snaps, finally turning to face him. Her eyes were bright with anger. “Why are you even acting like this? We aren't dating, Mike. We never were. You don't owe me anything. So why do you look so guilty every time I walk by?”
“I don't look guilty!” Mike shouts, his face reddening.
“You do! You look like a guy who’s been caught stealing!” She steps into his space, the Harrington fire in full force. “Is it because of the letters? Is it because you’re so busy pining for 'El' that you can't handle a 'normal' girl being around? Because if that’s the case, just say it! Stop the 'subtle' waves and the 'No Secrets' candy and just be a man for five seconds!”
“They're shouting,” Lucas whispers, crouching next to Dustin. “Is shouting part of the magic?”
“It’s the prelude to the magic,” Dustin assures him, though he looked slightly concerned. “It’s the 'Passionate Argument' phase. Very common in French cinema.”
Mike flinches as if she’d slapped him. The mention of the letters—and the name El—sends him into a defensive spiral. He is a Wheeler; when he felt cornered, he became a wall.
“You don't know what you're talking about,” Mike says, his voice dropping to a low, icy tremor. “You don't know her. You don't know what we went through. It’s... it’s platonic, okay? She’s my friend.”
“Friends send each other letters every week?” Y/N asks, her voice cracking for the first time. “I have friends, Mike. I write letters, too. But I don't hide them like they're a crime. I don't act like my 'past' is a wall I have to keep my 'present' away from. You make me feel like I’m a distraction. Like I’m just someone to kill time with until she comes back.”
“That's not true!”
“Then why can't you tell me the truth?” she challenges.
Mike opens his mouth. He thought about the Upside Down. He thought about the Lab. He thought about Steve’s warning. 'If I tell her, I ruin her.' His stubbornness won. His fear won.
“Because it’s none of your business!”
The silence that follow is heavy enough to crush them. Y/N’s face goes pale. She nods slowly, a bitter, hollow smile touching her lips.
The shouting had turned into a cold, biting silence that even leaked through the heavy door. Max leans against the opposite wall, her arms crossed. “That doesn't sound like French cinema, Dustin. That sounds like a divorce.”
“Give it time!” Dustin hisses. “Mike just needs to find his courage. He’s going to realize she’s his 'North Star' or whatever.”
Inside the room, the moment Mike uttered those four words, the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees.
Mike didn't even realize he had said it until it was hanging in the air, cold and jagged. He saw Y/N’s face shift. It wasn't just anger anymore; it was a total shutdown. She looked at him not as a friend, or a crush, or even a person she knew—but as a stranger who had just proven every one of her insecurities right.
To Y/N, that sentence was a confirmation. It meant Jane wasn't just a "brave friend." It meant Kane was a part of Mike’s heart that had a "No Trespassing" sign on it. It meant Mike was willing to let Y/N in for the snacks, the laughs, and the Quarry views, but the second things got real, he was slamming the door in her face.
“You're right,” she says quietly. “It’s not. Like I said... we aren't dating. We aren't even really friends, are we? We’re just two people who sat on a rock once.”
She walks back to the door and kicks it—hard. “DUSTIN! OPEN THE DOOR NOW OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL TELL STEVE YOU BURNED HIS HAIR IN BED!”
The door flew open ten seconds later. They are standing there, grins ready, expecting to see a blushing couple. Instead, Y/N pushes past them without a word, her shoulder clipping Dustin’s so hard he spins around.
“Whoa, Y/N—“ Dustin starts.
“Don't talk to me, Henderson,” she spits, her eyes fix forward as she marches down the hall.
Dustin’s “matchmaker” grin died instantly. He looks at Mike, who is standing in the shadows of the room, looking like he just accidentally deleted his own soul.
“Mike?” Dustin whispers, the gravity of his mistake finally hitting him. “What happened?”
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t need to. He looks defeated.
Mike doesn’t look at them. He just grabs his bag and walks out. He doesn’t feel like a Paladin. He doesn’t even feel like a Wheeler. He feels like a liar.
Dustin, Lucas, and Max stand frozen, watching the two people they had tried to “save” vanish in opposite directions. The triumphant “victory party” Dustin had envisioned felt like a cruel joke now.
The silence says it all: the Party hadn't saved the relationship; they had just provided the room where it died.
Meanwhile, Y/N does move her face on her way home. Steve is concerned. His eyes flickering to her every now and then, but her silence just makes him feel it’s not his time to talk.
When she walks into the kitchen, Steve is following behind her, mid-rant about a stubborn toaster. He looks up, a joke ready on his tongue, but it died the second he sees her.
“Y/N?” Steve asks, dropping the bread. “What happened? You look... white as a ghost.”
“Nothing,” she says, her voice frighteningly calm. She walks to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and turned to head toward the stairs. “I’m just tired.”
“Don't give me that,” Steve says, stepping in her way. “You weren't at practice. Did Wheeler do something? Did he say something?”
Y/N stop:. She look: at her brother—really look: at him. She sees the concern in his eyes, the same protective fire that had kept her safe their whole lives.
“He told me his life was none of my business,” she says, her voice a flat, dead monotone. “And you were right. I was being stupid, Steve. I was pretending I was part of a world I don't understand. I’m done. I don't want to hear his name in this house again. I don’t want to see his letters. I don’t want to know about his 'brave' friends in California.”
“Y/N, wait—“
“I’m going to go to that party with Brian on Friday,” she says, her hand on the banister. “He’s normal. And he actually talks to me when I’m standing right in front of him. Goodnight, Steve.”
His eyes shot as wide as his mouth. “Y/N Harrington, you come back down here! You are not going with Brian who thinks every pool water is safe to drink—“
Steve stands in the kitchen long after she slams her bedroom door. He feels a slow, burning heat rising in his chest.
Friday morning. The air is crisp, and the parking lot us a theater of social posturing. Steve pulls his car into her usual spot, but she doesn’t get out immediately. She checks her reflection in the rearview mirror. She looked perfect—cool, detached, and utterly unbothered.
Brian is already waiting by the doors, leaning against a pillar with the practiced ease of someone who had never had to worry about a monster from another dimension.
Y/N steps out of the car. She didn't wear his jacket he offered yesterday—she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of "marking" her—but she walks straight to him. She stands just close enough to be “with” him, her head tilts as he talks about his personal best in the 100-meter butterfly.
Inside her head, she is screaming. He’s talking about water. He’s literally just talking about moving through water.
Across the lot, the “Observer Group” is gathered by the bike racks. They were frozen in a line, four pairs of eyes fixed on the scene by the gym.
“Is that... Brian?” Lucas asks, squinting. “The guy who breathes through his ears?”
“He’s a swimmer, Lucas. They have lungs,” Dustin corrects, though his voice is flat. He looks at Mike.
Mike looks like he was witnessing a slow-motion natural disaster. His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly aground. He watches the way Y/N laughs at something Brian says—a laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes, though Mike is too far away to see that part. All he sees is the distance between them closing.
“She’s baiting you,” Max days suddenly, her arms crossed.
“What?” Mike whispers, not taking his eyes off them.
“Look at her posture!” Max analyzes, her eyes narrowing. “She’s standing in his 'distance,' but she’s not leaning in. She’s checking her surrounding every thirty seconds. She’s not into Brian. She’s into the reaction she’s getting from this side of the parking lot.”
“She’s fishing,” Dustin adds, a spark of hope returning to his eyes. “She’s casting a line to see if the Paladin still has a pulse. Mike, this is a 'Natural 20' opportunity. You just have to walk over there and be... not a disaster.”
Eddie Munson swings by on his way, pausing just long enough to form a pitiful grin. He looks at the scene, then at Mike’s devastated face.
“Tough break, Wheeler,” Eddie cackles, though there is a sympathetic glint in his eyes. “First the Chrissy-Jason duo, and now you’re falling for the ‘Harrington’ brand? We really do have a type, don’t we? High-status, lame boyfriends that they have, and guaranteed to make you feel like a peasant.”
“She’s not a brand, Eddie,” Mike mutters.
“No, but she's a Harrington. And right now? She’s playing the game,” Eddie says. “Don't let the 'Normie' win just because he’s got better lats than you. Go stir the pot!”
As the bell rings, the groups merge into the hallway. Mike finds himself walking ten feet behind Y/N and Brian.
He can hear Brian’s voice. It’s loud, confident, and incredibly dull. “So then the coach was like, 'Brian, you're the anchor!' And I was like, 'Coach, I got this.'”
Mike feels a surge of pure irritation. He’s an anchor? Great. He’s a bitch that sinks. Riveting. Y/N caught Mike’s eye as she turns the corner. She doesn’t wave. She doesn’t nod. She just looks at him—a long, searching look that dares him to do something. To say something. To be the Mike who talks about the deep, weird parts of the world.
She’s bored out of her mind. She missed the way Mike’s voice got fast when he gets excited. She misses the way he challenges her. But she is a Harrington, and she will stand in the splash-zone of Brian’s boring stories until Mike Wheeler either stepped up or stepped out.
Mike watches her walk away, and for the first time, the “stubbornness” isn’t about Jane. It’s about the fact that Brian’s currently touching Y/N’s shoulder, and Brian doesn’t know her favorite candy. Brian doesn’t know she likes quiet places like the Quarry. Brian probably doesn’t even know she has a brother who is currently a "mentorship" disaster.
The “competition” Mike had been imagining is finally real, and he is losing to a guy who was talking about chlorine.
The bell above the door didn't just jingle; it practically screamed as Dustin, Lucas, and Max stormed in. Steve is currently trying to explain to Robin why The Evil Dead wasn't a gardening documentary, and Robin was leaning over the "Staff Picks" shelf, looking like she was five minutes away from a nap.
“He’s doing it! He’s actually doing it!” Dustin roars, slamming his hands onto the glass counter.
Steve jumps, nearly dropping a VHS tape. “Henderson! What did I tell you about the 'entrance volume'? We have customers! Actual humans with ears!”
“Well, we don’t see any of them, Steve. Focus!” Max snaps, pointing toward the window. “Your sister is currently standing in the parking lot of the high school talking to a guy named Brian who looks like he was grown in a lab to be as boring as humanly possible!”
“Brian? The guy with the ears?” Steve’s face went through a rapid transformation from annoyed to protective. “She actually did it…”
“The guy with the ears!” Lucas confirms. “And she was laughing, Steve. Not a real laugh—it was the 'I-am-spite-personified' laugh.”
“She did say she’s going to some party with him—“
While the trio was a whirlwind of frantic energy and complaints. Mike’s the eye of the hurricane. He had trailed in behind them, but he doesn’t join the counter-scrum. Instead, he had wandered over to the “Drama” section, standing perfectly still.
He isn’t raging. He isn’t even complaining. He just looks… hollow. Like someone had reached inside him and turned off the lights.
Robin watches him from across the store. She’d seen Mike Wheeler in “Hero Mode,” and she’d seen him in “Nerd Mode,” but she’d never seen him in “Total System Failure Mode.”
“Hey, Wheeler,” Robin calls out, dodging around a cardboard cutout of E.T. “You okay there? You’ve been staring at the back of a Steel Magnolias box for three minutes. It’s a tear-jerker, sure, but usually, people wait until they watch the movie.”
Mike doesn’t turn around. “She looked at me like I didn't exist, Robin,” he whispers. “We were in the hallway, and she looked right through me. Like I was a ghost. I think... I think I preferred it when she was mad at me.”
Back at the counter, the “rage-pouring” reaches a fever pitch.
“She told me to stay out of her business!” Steve yells, throwing a cleaning rag onto the counter. “My own sister! I was trying to help! I gave her the 'Water and Ice' speech, and she basically told me to go freeze myself!”
“She’s a Harrington!” Dustin yells back. “They’re stubborn! You’re all stubborn! It’s in your DNA! You have 'Don't-Tell-Me-What-To-Do' syndrome!”
“And Mike is a Wheeler!” Lucas chimed in. “They have 'I-Have-A-Secret' syndrome! It’s a clash of the titans, and we’re the ones getting crushed in the middle!”
“I just want them to stop being stupid!” Max groans, hitting her head against the counter. “I can't take another week of the 'Staring and Sighing.' It’s infecting the whole group. Even the D&D campaign is boring now. Yesterday, we spent forty minutes arguing about a bridge because Mike said bridges were 'metaphors for broken trust.' It was exhausting!”
Steve looks over at Mike, who’s still slumpoin the Drama aisle. He sees the kid’s shoulders shake slightly, and the “Protective Brother” anger towards Mike softens into something else. Something like pity.
“Alright, shut up! Everyone shut up!” Steve shouts, silencing the Party.
“Wheeler,” Steve says, his voice unusually level. His finger pointed towards the boy. “She’s going to that party to fish for a reaction. She’s baiting the hook because she wants to see if you’re actually as 'done' as you act. If you let her go to that party and you don't show up, Brian wins. And if Brian wins, we all lose, because I’ll have to listen to him talk about his 'butterfly stroke' at Thanksgiving for the next ten years. Do you want that for me?”
Mike finally looks up. His eyes are red, but there’s a tiny, flickering spark of stubbornness coming back.
“I can't just go,” Mike says. “She’ll hate me.”
“She already hates you,” Robin adds, joining them. “But 'I-hate-you-because-you’re-here' is way better than 'I-hate-you-because-you’re-not.' Trust me. I’m a professional at unrequited chaos.”
Steve looks at the group, then back at Mike. “We aren't just going to the party. We’re extracting her. And we’re taking her back to him.”
“I know a place where they can breathe” Dustin’s eyes lit up. “The 'Honesty Ledge'!”
“The Honesty Ledge,” Steve agrees. “Now, get in the back. We need a map, some lies, and a really good excuse for why I’m kidnapping my own sister.”
Minutes, possibly hours laters, the plan is settled.
Steve stares at Mike for a long moment. He sees a bit of his younger, stupider self in Mike—the guy who fought for Nancy even when it seemed impossible.
“Wheeler? If you get out there and you freeze up, or you start talking about 'El' in a way that makes her cry... I’m leaving you at the Quarry. I’ll make you walk home. In the dark.”
“I got it, Steve. I promise.”
As the everyone disperses to get into position, Mike stays behind for a second. Steve caught his arm as he heads for the door.
“Hey,” Steve says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “She’s actually really mad, Mike. Like, 'Bad Hair Day' mad. Don't lead with the 'I'm a freak' stuff. Just lead with why you want her to stay.”
Mike nod:, the reality of the “crash” finally setting in. “I know. Thanks, Steve.”
“Don't thank me yet,”!Steve mutters, grabbing his keys. “I still have to figure out how to make an exploding toaster sound like a Tier-One emergency.”
The air in the BMW is a cocktail of Steve’s expensive cologne, the smell of damp forest floor from Dustin’s sneakers, and the palpable, vibrating anxiety radiating off Mike. They are parked in the “blind spot” of a gas station—behind a stack of discarded tires.
“Thermal signatures confirmed,” Dustin whispers, peering through a pair of binoculars he’d definitely stolen from his mom’s bird-watching kit. “The boring-mobile has entered the landing zone.”
“It's a sedan, Dustin, not a UFO,” Max mutters, leaning against the window. “Can we stop acting like this is a crime?”
“The only crime is that shirt Brian is wearing,” Steve says, checking his reflection in the rearview mirror one last time. “Seriously. Vertical stripes? In 1986? It’s a tragedy.”
“Quiet!”!Lucas hissed. “He’s getting out.”
The neon sign of the gas station flickers, casting a sickly green light over the parking lot. Brian hops out of his car, adjusting his belt and giving the passenger window a “cool” finger-gun salute that made everyone and their mom wince in unison.
The second the convenience store door chimes and Brian disappears inside, Steve shifts into gear.
“Masks on!” Dustin shouts.
“No masks, Dustin! We're trying to look like a family emergency, not a bank robbery!” Steve snaps. He peels out, the BMW’s tires chirping as he swings it around and boxes Brian’s car in.
Y/N is sitting in the passenger seat, her head resting against the glass. She looks like she is counting the seconds until the night ends. When Steve’s car roars to a halt inches from her door, she jumps, her eyes wide.
Steve leans across the passenger seat and rolls down the car window. “Y/N! Get in! Now!”
“Steve? What—“
“It’s a Code Red! The toaster caught fire, the curtains are gone, and Mom is having a total breakdown! She’s calling the police because she can't find the fire extinguisher and she thinks the cat started it! Move!”
It’s the perfect Harrington lie—specific, domestic, and loud. Y/N doesn’t even think. She grabs her purse and scrambles out of Brian's car. Just as her sneakers hit the pavement, she caught a glimpse of three heads ducking down in the backseat of Steve’s car.
“Wait, is that—“
“No time! Fire! Cats! Chaos!” Steve bellows.
She hurries into the front seat, and Steve floors it just as Brian emerges from the store, triumphantly holding a bag of ice and a pack of Winterfresh gum. The look on Brian's face—the slow realization that his car was still there but his date is gone—is a masterpiece of confusion. He stands under the humming neon sign, the ice slowly melting, looking like he’d just been erased from the plot.
As the BMW roars towards the outskirts of town, the “emergency” atmosphere begins to crumble. Y/N sits upright, her eyes darting to the speedometer and then to the road signs.
“Steve,” she says, her voice dropping into that dangerous, low Harrington growl. “The house is north. We are going west.”
“Shortcut,” Steve simply says, his knuckles white on the wheel.
“Through the woods? In the dark? For a kitchen fire?” She turns around, her eyes narrowing as she finally looks into the backseat. Dustin, Lucas, and Max slowly sit up, looking like three guilty raccoons caught in a trash can. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”
“Hi, Y/N,” Dustin squeaks, waving a hand awkwardly. “Nice... earrings?”
“You kidnapped me,” she whispers, the fury starting to boil over. “You actually used my own brother to kidnap me from a date with a perfectly nice—“
“A perfectly boring guy!” Max interrupts. “Y/N, the guy was talking about his lap times. We did you a favor. Consider this a social rescue mission.”
“I don't need rescuing!” Y/N shouts, turning back to Steve. “Turn this car around right now, Steve, or I will tell Mom you’re the one who dented the fender last summer!”
“Can't do that, sis,” Steve says, his voice unusually soft. “Because we're already here.”
The BMW roars back up the Quarry path, but this time the energy inside is radioactive. Y/N is in the passenger seat, vibrating with a mix of fury and genuine confusion.
“I cannot believe you,” she says, her hands gesturing wildly. “A toaster fire, Steve? You couldn't even come up with something original? I was actually worried! I thought cats were in danger!”
“The cats is fine! They’re immortal!” Steve shouts back, his eyes darting toward the ledge.
The car crested the hill, and the headlights swept across the familiar limestone ledge.
There, standing in the center of the “Honesty Ledge,” is Mike. He looks small against the backdrop of the dark woods, clutching a stack of envelopes like a shield.
Steve pulls the car to a halt and kills the lights. The silence of the Quarry rushes in to fill the space where the engine had been.
“Get out,” Steve says, not looking at her. “Just talk to him. Five minutes. If you still want to go to the party after that, I will drive you there myself. I’ll even apologize to the Ear-Guy.”
Y/N goes dead silent. She looks at Mike, then at Steve, then back at Mike. “You have got to be kidding me. You kidnapped me for this?”
“He has something to say, Y/N,” Steve says, pulling the car to a stop about twenty feet away. “Just... give him five minutes. Please. For the sake of my gas mileage and my sanity.”
Y/N looks at the silhouette of Mike Wheeler. She thinks about how he said it was none of her business. She thinks about the hundreds of letters he had sent across the states. She thinks about how much easier it would be to just stay in the car.
But then she sees the way Mike’s standing—not like a cocky “leader,” but like a guy who is absolutely terrified of what was about to happen.
“Get out,” Steve whispers.
“No,” she says stubbornly, crossing her arms.
“Y/N, get out of the car or I’m playing my 'Greatest Hits of the 70s' tape and locking the doors.”
With a groan of pure frustration, Y/N shoves the door open. “I hate all of you,” she mutters, but she reaches for the door handle.
“We know!” Dustin calls out as she steps onto the gravel. “We're very unlikable! It's our brand!”
The car door clicks shut. Y/N stands in the cool night air, the wind pulling at her hair, as she begins the long, slow walk towards the ledge where the “ghost” of Mike’s past is finally going to meet the reality of her present. The gravel crunches under her boots as she steps out.
Crrr-unch.
The BMW moves backward slowly. Then stops. Then moved backward again. The engine hums loudly in the quiet night.
Steve looks through the rearview mirror, trying to be “discreet,” but the backup lights are essentially two giant spotlights illuminating the two of them. He backs up another five feet, stops, shifts into drive to straighten out, then shifts back into reverse.
“Steve!” Y/N yells over her shoulder. “Go away!”
“I'm going!” Steve yells back, his head stuck out the window as he navigates a particularly large rock. “It’s a narrow path! I have to be careful with the alignment!”
He finally manages to reverse the car into a small notch in the trees about fifty yards away. He kills the headlights, but the engine is still idling with a low, expensive growl. In the sudden darkness and the light of the night, Mike and Y/N are left alone, the only light coming from the moon and the faint, glowing embers of Steve’s dashboard in the distance.
Mike clears his throat. It sounds like gravel in a blender.
“You're wearing Brian's smell,” Mike says. It was, objectively, the worst opening line in human history.
Y/N closes her eyes, letting out a long, weary breath. “It’s chlorine, Mike. He’s a swimmer. And for the record, at least he’s a swimmer I can understand. I don't have to solve a riddle just to find out why he’s avoiding me like a virus from an illegal cult.”
“I'm not a riddle,” Mike says, stepping forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. He reaches in his back and held out the stack of letters. “I’m just a coward. And I brought proof.”
Y/N looks at the envelopes. She recognizes the handwriting from the scrap of paper she’d found in the textbook. The letters that’s meant for his loved ones in California.
His unsent letters.
“They aren't what you think,” Mike says, his voice finally finding its footing. “I’ve been writing to her because I didn't know how to stop being the guy who saved the world. But I’ve been hiding them from you because I was afraid that if you knew who I really was—what I’ve actually seen—you’d realize that Brian is the 'normal' one. And you deserve normal.”
“You think I want normal?” Y/N asks, her voice cracking as she finally steps towards him. “Mike, I live with Steve Harrington. My life hasn't been 'normal' since he started using more hairspray than I do. I didn't want a guy who was 'safe.' I wanted you.”
The moon and the stars are the only witness as Mike stood there, his hands trembling so hard the letters crumble. Steve’s car is a dark silhouette in the distance, the low hum of its exhaust providing a rhythmic heartbeat to the silence of the Quarry.
Mike didn’t bring just one letter. He had a stack—months’ worth of thoughts that had nowhere else to go.
“I told you I was living a double life,” Mike starts, his voice thick. “And I was. But it wasn't because I was in love with someone else. It was because I was terrified that if I told you the truth, you’d look at me and see a freak. Or worse... you'd be in danger just by knowing me.”
Y/N stands perfectly still, her arms crossed tight against the chill, but her expression was softening. “So you wrote to her instead? You wrote to the 'Legendary Jane' about me?”
“I wrote to her because she’s the only one who knows what it’s like to carry a world that ended,” Mike says. He pulls the top envelope from the stack. The paper is creased and worn, like it had been folded and unfolded a thousand times. “But I didn't write to her because I missed us. I wrote to her because I was losing you.”
Mike clears his throat, squinting at his own messy scrawl in the moonlight. He hands out the letter like a peace offering for her to accept.
“This one is from three weeks ago,” he whispers. “The day after we sat here for the first time.”
She slowly accepts the letter onto her hand, reading it in the dark light.
“Dear El,
Everything is different now. The world is quiet, and sometimes the silence is louder than the monsters used to be. But there’s this girl. Her name is Y/N. She’s Steve’s sister, which should make it weird, but it isn’t. When I’m with her, I don't feel like the 'Paladin' or the kid who saw the Upside Down. I just feel like Mike. And that scares the hell out of me, El. Because if I’m just Mike, then I have to be good enough for her on my own. I have to be better than every 'normal' guy in this town who hasn't been broken by the things we saw. I’m terrified that if she sees the cracks in me, she’ll realize I’m just a placeholder for a life that was supposed to be simpler.”
The letter ends there.
“And this one... this was from the night you found that note in the textbook. After I acted like an idiot in the cafeteria.”
“I messed it up today, El. I tried to protect her by being 'normal,' but I just ended up being a stranger. I saw her looking at me, and I could see her heart breaking because she thinks she’s second place. How do I tell her she’s the only person who makes the present feel real? How do I tell her that I’m not writing to you because I want to go back, but because I’m afraid I’m not brave enough to stay in her world?”
“The red ink,” Mike says, looking down at the rest of the letters in his hand as they stand by the ledge. “When you gave the book back... you circled her name. You circled it like it was a mistake on a test.”
Y/N looks at the ground, a small, bitter smile tugging at her lips. “I wanted you to know that I wasn't just guessing anymore, Mike. I wanted you to see that I had the proof. I thought... I thought I was circling the reason you didn't want me.”
“I was terrified when I saw that red circle,” Mike admits, a nervous laugh bubbling up. “I thought, 'This is it. She thinks I’m a liar.' And the worst part was, I couldn't even explain it without sounding like a bigger liar.”
“You looked like you’d seen a ghost,” Y/N murmurs.
“I had,” Mike says. “I’d seen the ghost of the guy I was trying to be for you. The 'Normal Mike.' The red circle killed him.”
Mike look: up, the letters hanging limp in his hand. “I wasn't pining for a ghost, Y/N. I was using a ghost to talk about the person I was too scared to face. I thought if I kept Jane in a box, I could keep you safe. I thought if I never told about the things I’ve done, I could keep you 'perfect.'”
He steps closer, his boots crunching on the stone until he’s only a foot away. The scent of her perfume—so different from the hospital—smell of his past—hit him, grounding him.
“Brian is 'normal,' Y/N. He’s safe. He doesn't have nightmares about clocks and vines. He can give you a life where the most dangerous thing you ever face is a swim meet. And I thought... I thought that’s what a guy like me should want for a girl like you.”
“You idiot,” Y/N whispers. It’s not an insult; it’s a release of all the breath she’d been holding for weeks. She reaches out, her fingers brushing the stack of letters in his hand. “You think I want 'perfect'? I’ve lived in a house with 'King Steve' my whole life. I know what 'perfect' looks like, Mike. It’s boring. It’s a lie.”
She looks him in the eye, the moon reflecting in the tears she refuse to let fall. “I don't want the version of you that doesn't have cracks. I want the guy who writes letters because he feels too much. I want the guy who’s so scared of losing me that he’d let his idiot brother kidnap me just to get five minutes of my time.”
Mike lets out a shaky, jagged breath. The weight that had been sitting on his chest since the end of the war finally, mercifully, begins to lift. He doesn’t have to be the Paladin. He doesn’t have to be the survivor. He just has to be the guy standing in front of her.
“No more letters,” Mike promises, his voice steady for the first time all night. “No more ghosts. If the monsters come back, I’ll fight for you. But if they don't... I just want to be the guy who knows your favorite candy and takes you to the edge of the world because he actually wants to be here.”
In the distance, inside the familiar BMW, everyone cheered and kicked in victory. They had clearly been watching through his side-mirror.
“I’m not a hero, Y/N,” Mike whispers, his voice cracking. “I’m just the guy who survived. And I spent so much time looking over my shoulder at the monsters that I almost missed the best thing right in front of me.”
Y/N doesn’t wait for him to finish. She steps into his space, her hands reaching up to grab the lapels of his jacket, pulling him down toward her. “Then stop looking back, Mike Wheeler. Look at me.”
Mike freezes for a heartbeat before his hands found her waist, pulling her closer as if he’s finally anchoring himself to the earth. He leans down, his forehead resting against hers. “I am. You're the only thing I see.”
He doesn’t have to be smooth. He doesn’t have to be “King Steve.” He’s just Mike, and when he finally leans in, the kiss is soft, desperate, and tastes like the cold night air and a thousand unspoken promises. It’s a “safe” kiss—the kind that means the war is over and they are finally home.
For a few seconds, the Quarry is silent. No ghosts. No monsters. Just them.
That silence lasts exactly four seconds before the “Gallery” decided they had seen enough. From the darkness, the BMW’s horn gave a short, impatient honk-honk.
Steve’s done being the “patient observer.” He had seen the silhouettes move closer, he’d seen the tension break, and now he’s cold, bored, and probably hungry for a burger. He flips his high beams on for a split second, illuminating the two of them like deer in headlights.
Mike and Y/N break apart, both of them breathless and flushed, looking toward the BMW where four heads are bobbing in the shadows.
“Alright! Okay! We get it! The power of love has triumphed over the nerd-brain!” Steve yells. His voice echoed out of the driver's side window. “The moon is pretty, the air is thin, and I have a date with a box of pizza that doesn't talk back! Let’s wrap it up!”
Inside the car, their friends are giving flirty expressions through the windows like sardines.
“Gross,” Max mutters, though she was grinning. “They’re doing the 'cinematic lean.' It’s nauseatingly symmetrical.”
“Shut up, Max, it's beautiful!” Dustin whispers-yells. “It’s a masterclass in romance! It’s like the end of a John Hughes movie but with more flannel!”
“Is he still holding the letters?” Lucas asks, squinting. “Tell him to drop the letters! It ruins the silhouette!”
“They’re so annoying,” Y/N laughs into his neck.
“The worst,” Mike agrees, though he doesn’t let go of her. He gently wipes a tear away from her cheek.
Y/N laughs—a real, bright laugh. “If you ever mention a toaster on fire again, I will throw you off this ledge myself.”
“Deal,” Mike smiles, and as he reaches out to finally take her hand. The letters he previously held in his other hand are now flying in the wind, all forgotten. The past is somewhere in the sky; the present was right there.
As they walk back toward the car, Mike feels his empty hand. They feel lighter now. They aren’t a secret anymore; they’re just paper.
Steve watches them approach in the rearview mirror, a smug, satisfied grin crossing his face.
“In. Both of you,” Steve commands. “And Wheeler? If I see any 'funny business' in my rearview mirror, I am stopping at the police station and reporting a suspicious lanky person in my backseat.”
“Oh, shut up, Steve,” Y/N says, sliding into the front seat. She looks radiant, the “Harrington Ice” completely melted.
Mike scrambles into the back, squeezed between Dustin, Max, and Lucas. The second the door shut, the interrogation began.
“Did you read the one about the 'North Star'?” Dustin whispers urgently, poking Mike in the ribs. “Did you use the line I gave you about the 'interdimensional soulmates'?”
“No, Dustin, I didn't use the line,” Mike hisses, trying to hide his massive grin.
“You should have used the line! It was gold!”
“I think he did okay, Henderson,” Steve says, shifting into gear. He caught Mike’s eye in the mirror—a quick, sharp look of genuine approval that he’d never admit to out loud.
“So?” Steve asks. “Do I need to go find Brian and tell him his ice melted, or are we done with the 'Butterfly Stroke' era of your life?”
Y/N looks at Mike through the reflection in the mirror. “The era never started, Steve.”
“Good,” Steve shifts into drive, finally spinning the car around with a spray of gravel. “Because if I had to hear one more thing about his 'optimal kick-off,' I was going to drive myself into the lake.”
As the BMW roars away from the Quarry, leaving the limestone and the letters behind, the car is filled with the sound of six people arguing, laughing, and complaining about the cold.
It isn’t a “perfect” ending. It’s loud, chaotic, and messy. But as Mike feels Y/N eyes glance back at him and finally looks at him, he realizes it l’s exactly the kind of life he wants to live.
Monday morning at Hawkins High feels different. The air is thick with the usual gossip, but there is a new tension in the hallway. Mike Wheeler walks in with his shoulders back, wearing a clean, brown denim jacket over a charcoal sweater—a subtle “Harrington-approved” glow-up that made him look less like a basement-dwelling kid and more like the lead of an indie movie.
When the lunch bell rings, the cafeteria holds its breath.
Y/N doesn’t head for the “throne” with the cheerleaders. She meets Mike at the double doors. She doesn’t lead him to her table, and he doesn’t pull her to his. Instead, they walk toward a small, sun-drenched table in the far corner, near the windows—a neutral territory that had been empty all year.
As they walk, a couple of varsity guys near the vending machines starts to snicker. One of them leans back, ready to toss a “freak” comment Mike’s way.
Y/N stops in her tracks. She doesn’t scream; she doesn’t cause a scene. She simply turns her head and levels a cold, razor-sharp stare at them—the kind of look that reminds everyone that her brother is a local legend and she’s twice as terrifying. The guy’s snicker died in his throat. He suddenly became very interested in his shoelaces.
She turns back to Mike, her expression softening instantly, and they sit down.
“You didn't have to do that,” Mike says, though he’s smiling as he opened his milk.
“I know,” Y/N says, leaning her chin on her hand. “But I like the way they look when they’re scared of a girl in a pleated skirt.”
Two tables are intensely watching them; “The Freaks” and “The Champions”. They have the same face, different emotions. One is just as bright as the sun, and the other is as miserable as the Upside Down.
A few weeks later, the chaos of the “Extraction” had faded into a comfortable routine. They don’t need a kidnapping or a “toaster fire” anymore.
It’s a Friday night, and the sun is dipping below the horizon, painting the limestone walls of the Quarry in shades of deep violet and gold. Steve’s BMW is nowhere to be seen.
They sit on the very edge of the “Honesty Ledge,” their legs dangling over the side. The letters Mike had dropped that night are gone—and it feels right. They don’t need the paper anymore.
“I used to hate this place,” Mike says quietly, looking out over the water. “It felt like a graveyard for all the things I couldn't say.”
Y/N lean: her head on his shoulder, her hand finding his. “And now?”
Mike looks at her. He looks at the way the fading light caught the gold in her hair and the fierce, kind intelligence in her eyes. He thinks about the “double life” he used to lead and how small it seemed compared to this.
“Now it’s just the place where I want to go with you,” he says.
He reaches out, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin with a gentleness that would have shocked the Mike Wheeler of a year ago. There’s no hesitation this time. No “ghost” of California, no fear of the “Harrington name,” and no intervention from the Party.
“Better than a toaster fire?” she teases, her voice a soft whisper against the wind.
Mike laughs, pulling her into a hug that feels like the final chapter of a very long, very dark book. “Way better.”
He leans in, and the kiss is slow, deep, and tastes like the future. It’s a promise kept—a safe place in a world that had finally stopped spinning out of control. When they pull apart, Y/N is smiling, her eyes bright and clear.
Down in the trees, a single firefly blinked—a tiny, harmless light in the dark. The monsters are gone. The secrets are buried. And for Mike Wheeler and Y/N Harrington, the world is finally, perfectly, quiet.
“Dear Will and El,
Things are… different here. Hawkins is still the same grey, quiet place, and the school halls still feel like they’re closing in, but for the first time in a long time, the silence doesn't feel like a threat.
I met someone. Or, I guess, I finally actually 'saw' someone I’ve known for years. Her name is Y/N. You’d probably remember her, Will. She’s Steve’s sister. She’s got that same Harrington fire, but it’s different on her. It’s brighter.
I’ve been scared. I’ve been terrified that if I let her in, I’m putting a target on her back. I kept thinking that my life was a 'closed loop'—just us and the things that go bump in the night. I thought that by staying a ghost, I was keeping her safe. But I realized today that I’m just being a coward. I was using our history as a shield to keep from having a future. I’ve been writing these letters to you guys like I’m sending messages from a bunker, but Y/N… she makes me want to come outside. She makes me feel like Mike again.
I don’t know if I’m allowed to be happy while things still feel so heavy, but when I’m with her, the weight just… lifts. It’s the first time I’ve breathed actual air in a year.
I’m going to tell her. I’m going to tell her that she’s the reason I’m finally putting the pen down and picking my life back up.
I hope you guys are okay. I hope the sun is actually as bright as you say it is out there. But for the first time, I think the sun is finally coming up here, too.”
— Mike
A breathless chuckle escapes his lips. His eyes flickers over the paper like it amuses him. The girl, on the other hand, reads the letter carefully.
“Glad he finally said something. If Karen never gave Mom a call? I would’ve think Hawkins is dead.”
The girl nods, a small, understanding smile forms on her lips. “No more coward.”
He leaves the girl reading the letter on his desk, flopping on his bed with laugh. “Exactly. An angel probably whispered in that poor girl’s ear to say yes.”
She throws him a sharp, amused look. “Don’t be mean, Will.”
As the boy continues to talk about many “What If’s” and “If we were there”, the girl continues to read the ink all over again. She understands. In fact, she’s happy. He didn’t lie about his feelings anymore.
Friends don’t lie, but what Mike feels—what Mike has is something Jane can never understand herself if Mike never wrote about the cheerleader.
summary: It began with his lingering hand on her hair, a domestic silence heavy with a tension neither dared to name until the moonlight turned the Hawkins quarry into a jagged cathedral of silver and shadow. There, standing on the edge of the world where the bickering finally died into a breathless hum, the "just friends" pact shattered under the weight of a single, desperate collision of lips—a secret fire ignited in the dark that promised to consume their friendship or forge it into something far more dangerous.
wc: 5,6 k
post contains: fem reader, flirty mike, fluff, idiots in love, “just friends”, perverted jokes, no smut, heavy tension, heavy kissing nothing more.
author’s note: did not expect for ppl wanting a part 2 to this but i’m doing my job as a leader for my people!! can be read singularly :) criticism and feedbacks are appreciated!
Roll for Stamina! | Part 1
The basement is thick with the smell of buttered popcorn and the frantic scratching of Will’s pencils against paper. It is a Friday night—the sacred time of the Party—but the atmosphere shifted this night.
Y/N is feeling particularly bold. Maybe it’s the way the basement lights dim just enough to make Mike’s jawline look sharper, or maybe it’s the fact that he hadn’t sigh at her once in the last hour. She decides to go for the throat.
Mike is leaning over the table, his lanky frame draped over a stack of D&D manuals as he reaches for a bowl of pretzels.
“Careful there, Wheeler,” Y/N calls with a smirk, lounging back on the sofa with her legs crossed. She let her gaze travel up his legs with a deliberate, slow-motion crawl. “If you keep stretching like that, you’re going to pop a seam. And while I’d love to see what’s holding those jeans together, I’m not sure the rest of the group is prepared for the view.”
The room goes quiet. Dustin freezes with a piece of popcorn halfway to his mouth. Lucas winces, waiting for the high-pitched, “Y/N, stop it!” that usually follow.
But the explosion never comes.
Mike doesn’t jump. He doesn’t drop the pretzels. He doesn’t even turn red. Instead, he slowly pulls the bowl toward him, grabs a pretzel, and turns his head to look at her. A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth—the kind of look he usually wore when he knew he was winning.
“Actually,” Mike says, his voice calm and terrifyingly steady, “I think the seams are holding up just fine. But if you’re that worried about the view, you could always just move closer. You’ve been staring from the cheap seats all night.”
He doesn’t look away. He takes a bite of the pretzel, his eyes locks onto hers, challenging her.
Y/N feels the air leave her lungs. Her brain, usually a rapid-fire machine of dirty jokes and witty retorts, suddenly hit a "404 Error: Not Found." She blinks, her mouth opening slightly, but nothing came out.
"I—uh—" she stutters, her face suddenly feeling like it’s being held over an open flame.
“What's the matter?” Mike asks, taking a casual lean toward the sofa. He leans down , resting his hands on his knees so he’s eye-level with her. “Run out of material? Or are you just realizing that your 'stamina' for this conversation isn't as high as you thought it was?”
He reaches out and flicks a stray lock of hair away from her forehead—a jab, playful and light, but so intimate that it feels like a physical blow.
“Shut up, Wheeler,” she finally manages to squeak out, her voice an octave higher than usual. She scrambles to grab a pillow and puts it on her lap, hiding her face halfway, hiding the fact that she’s currently the exact color of a Hawkins High fire extinguisher.
Dustin’s popcorn finally falls from his hand, hitting the floor with a silent thud.
“Holy... did you guys see that?”!Dustin whispers, leaning over to Lucas. “He just... he counter-magicked her. He used her own spell against her!”
“He’s evolved,” Lucas whispers back, looking at Mike with newfound respect. “The Paladin just multiclassed into a Bard. We’re in uncharted territory now.”
Max leans over to Will, a triumphant grin on her face. “Look at her. She’s actually quiet. I didn't think it was biologically possible.”
Will smiles, but he’s watching Mike. Mike doesn’t go back to his books. He’s still standing there, looking down at the Y/N-shaped pile of pillows with a look of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. He wasn't shaking. He wasn't spiraling. He, for the first time, is the one holding the deck of cards.
“Your turn to roll, Y/N,” Mike says softly, his voice full of a playful mischief she’d never heard before. “Whenever you're ready.”
The “Silence of the Pillows” doesn’t last long. In fact, it lasted exactly three minutes before Y/N peaks out from behind the velvet cushion, sees Mike’s smug expression, and feels her competitive spirit roar back to life.
“Oh, so the Paladin wants to play in the mud, does he?” Y/N saya, her voice regaining its honeyed rasp as she tosses the pillow aside. She stands up, closing the distance Mike had created until she’s looking up at him, her eyes dancing. “Careful, Wheeler. You might find you like the view from down here a little too much. I’d hate for you to get distracted during the final boss fight because you’re too busy wondering what’s under my denim jacket.”
“I've got a high Wisdom save, Y/N,” Mike shoots back instantly, not moving an inch. He actually leans in a fraction, a playful glint in his eyes that made Dustin choke on his soda. “But if you’re offering a 'sneak peek' at the loot, I suppose I could spare a few turns for a side quest.”
“A side quest?” Y/N chuckles, a genuine, bright sound. She nudges his shoulder with hers. “You wish you had the experience points to handle me, Mike. You’re still a level-one novice when it comes to... manual labor.”
“Is that so?” Mike raises an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his lips. “Well, I’m a fast learner. Ask Dustin. I mastered the 'advanced grappling' rules in one night.”
“Grappling, huh?” Y/N purrs, turning to the table to grab her dice bag. “I’ll have to remember that for the next time we're stuck in a 'tight spot' together.”
Across the room, the rest of the group sit in stunned silence. This is different. Before, it was a one-sided massacre; now, it is a synchronized dance.
Dustin looks at Lucas. Lucas looks at Max. Max looks at the floor, wondering if it’s too late to go home and start a new life in a different state.
“Great,” Max mutters, rubbing her temples. “Now there’s two of them. It’s like they’ve merged into one giant, perverted hive-mind.”
“It’s... it's worse,” Lucas whispers, watching Mike and Y/N whisper something to each other that made them both burst out laughing. “They aren't even fighting anymore. They’re collaborating.”
“I think it’s nice,” Eleven says, her head tilts as she observes the exchange. “Mike is smiling. A lot.”
“He’s smiling because he’s finally realized he’s as weird as she is,” Dustin sighs, resign to his fate. He picks up his d20 and slumps into his chair. “We’re going to be seventy years old, in a nursing home, and Y/N is going to be making jokes about Mike’s 'magic wand' while he asks her to 'check his stats.' This is our life now. This is the rest of our lives.”
Will looks at the two of them—the way Mike’s hand lingers near Y/N’s as they look at the map, the way Y/N’s sharp edges seem to soften whenever Mike laughs at one of her lines.
“I don't know,” Will saya softly, a small smile on his face. “I think they’re the only ones who don't realize they’re already a couple. They’ve just traded 'holding hands' for... whatever that is.”
“Whatever that is,” Max says, standing up to join them at the table, “is going to be the death of us all. Okay, lovebirds, break it up! We have a Demoplich to kill, and if I hear one more joke about 'penetrating its defenses,' I’m throwing both of you into the Upside Down myself.”
“No promises, Max,” Y/N smiles, winking at Mike.
“Yeah,” Mike adds, his voice full of a confidence that had been missing for years. “The defenses are actually quite formidable.”
The storm outside finally settles into a steady, rhythmic thrum against the basement windows—the kind of white noise that made the rest of the world feel like it had ceased to exist.
By midnight, the "Party" had dissolved into a mess of sleeping bags and tangled limbs. Dustin is already snoring with a whistling sound that Lucas is trying to dampen by throwing a stray sock at him. Max and Eleven are huddled together on a mattress topper, sound asleep, and Will is sleep quietly, tucked in the corner of the room.
Only Mike and Y/N remain in the “living” area of the basement, illuminated by the soft, dying glow of the TV static and a single flickering lamp.
They are sitting on the floor, backs against the sofa, shoulder-to-shoulder. The banter from earlier had quieted into a comfortable, low-frequency hum. Y/N is absentmindedly braiding a piece of yarn from a loose rug, meanwhile Mike is staring at the ceiling, his hands tuck behind his head.
Y/N is staring at the TV screen, her mind racing. Even now, with the monsters gone for the moment, she found herself checking the rhythm of Mike’s breathing, making sure he isn’t slipping back into that hollow-eyed stare he gets when the memories hit.
“You're overthinking,” Mike’s voice cuts through the dark, low and rough with sleepiness.
“I'm not overthinking, Wheeler. I'm stargazing at the ceiling,” Y/N whispers back, her lips twitching into a familiar, tired smirk. “I was just wondering if you’d survive the night if I decided to use your chest as a footrest. You look a little fragile today.”
“Fragile?” Mike lets out a soft huff. He shifts behind her, sitting up a bit straighter. Then, he does something that had become his new, silent habit—the thing he only did when the others aren’t looking.
He reaches out, his long fingers tangling gently into the hair at the nape of Y/N’s neck. He doesn’t pull; he just begins to slowly, rhythmically twirl a loose strand around his index finger.
Y/N’s breath hitches. She doesn’t move away. She doesn’t lean in. She just let him do it, the repetitive motion grounds her just as much as it grounded him.
"I'm fine, Y/N," he murmurs, his eyes fix on the way her hair curls around his knuckle. “You don't have to keep the 'distraction' running at midnight. No one’s watching.”
“It's not for them,” she says, her voice dropping the rasp for something uncomfortably honest. She tilts her head back just enough to look at him. “Every time it gets quiet, I feel like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. If I'm not making you roll your eyes, I feel like I'm failing my job as your unofficial bodyguard.”
Mike’s hand pauses in her hair, his palm resting against the back of her head for a fleeting second before he starts the slow twirl again.
“Is that all I am? A job?” he asks. It isn’t a romantic question; it’s a challenge, a piece of banter wrap in a soft shell.
“The worst-paying job I've ever had,” she shots back, her confidence returning. “The benefits are terrible, the boss is moody, and he has a weird obsession with polyhedral dice. Honestly, I should quit.”
“You won't,” Mike says, his voice full of a quiet certainty that made her stomach flip. “You like the chaos too much.”
“I like making sure you don't disappear, Mike,” she corrects softly.
Mike’s fingers drifts from her hair to the collar of her shirt, his thumb brushing the skin of her neck for a second before he pulls back just enough to maintain that 'friend' distance.
“I'm not going anywhere,” Mike promises. He leans his head back against the sofa, his hand returning to its rhythmic play with her hair. “But if you're really worried about my being... I suppose you could tell me that joke again. The one about the 'Dungeon Master' and the 'damp cavern'.”
Y/N lets out a choked laugh, shaking her head. “You're a menace, Wheeler. You're actually encouraging me now? That’s a dangerous game.”
“I like games,” Mike whispers.
“You know, Wheeler,” Y/N whispers, her voice losing its public bravado and slipping into that private, late-night softness. “For a guy who spent a year being terrified of a twelve-sided die, you’ve developed some pretty sharp teeth lately.”
Mike turns his head, his face only inches from hers. In the dim light, his eyes look dark, focused. “I had a good teacher. She’s loud, she’s annoying, and she has the most inappropriate vocabulary in the tri-state area.”
“Hey! My vocabulary is perfectly appropriate for the situations I imagine us in,” she nudges him with her elbow, a small smirk playing on her lips.
“Is that what you were doing? Imagining situations?”
Y/N feels that familiar electric spark—the one that usually promotes a dirty joke—but for once, she doesn’t use it. She looks at his hand, then back up at him. “Maybe. It’s a hobby. Keeps the mind sharp. Among other things.”
Mike lets out a soft, huff laugh. He doesn’t look away. “You're doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Using the jokes to hide,” Mike shifts, turning his body towards her. The space between them is so small now that she can feel the heat radiating off him. “You don't have to do that. Not right now. There’s no monster to distract me from, and everyone is asleep.”
Y/N freezes. The “mask” feels heavy, like it’s made of lead. She looks at Mike—really looks at him—and sees that he isn’t flustered. He isn’t embarrassed. He’s just... waiting.
“It’s a hard habit to break, Mike,” she admits, her voice barely a breath. “If I'm not the girl with the dirty mouth, then I'm just... the girl who’s terrified that her best friend is going to wake up one day and realize she’s not good enough.”
The silence that follows is absolute.
Mike doesn’t hesitate. He reaches out, his fingers sliding over hers, lacing them together firmly against the carpet. He doesn’t make a joke. He doesn’t roll his eyes. He just presses his hand against her hand hard enough she can feel his heartbeat through his palm.
“That's a pretty low Intelligence roll, Y/N,” Mike whispers, his voice thick with a sudden, raw gravity. “Because I’ve been sitting here all night wondering how I got lucky enough that you chose my basement to haunt.”
Y/N’s heart does a slow, heavy roll in her chest. She leans her head against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut as she inhales the scent of laundry detergent and old comic books. “Don't get sappy on me, Wheeler. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
“Shut up,” Mike murmurs, resting his head on top of hers.
They stay like that for a long time, hands locked, floating in the space between 'just friends' and 'something more.' They are perfectly content to stay in that limbo.
Y/N stays awake for a while longer, feeling the steady pull on her hair every time Mike shifts in his sleep. They aren’t a couple. They are just two people who knew exactly how to keep each other sane in a world that isn’t .
But as she finally drifts off, her head leaning against his shoulder, she realizes that 'just friends' is starting to feel like a very, very small word for a very, very big thing. The sleepover is far from over, but for the first time in Hawkins history, the Paladin and the High Priestess are finally on the same side of the map.
The first hint of morning light crawls through the basement windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.
Mike wakes up before the others. His neck is stiff, and his arm had gone completely numb where Y/N had been leaning against him. At some point in the night, she had shifted, her head sliding from his shoulder to his lap. She looked smaller like this—defenseless, the sharp edge of her smirk replaced by the soft, steady rhythm of deep sleep.
Mike looks at her for a long time. He wants to stay right there, but he knew the their friends would be awake soon. If Dustin wakes up and sees Y/N using the Paladin as a pillow, the teasing would be relentless, and the fragile, quiet peace they’d built would be shattered by “Code Reds” and wolf-whistles.
Carefully, with a level of coordination he usually lacked, Mike slides out from under her. He moves her head onto a spare pillow with the gentleness of someone handling a fragile artifact. He drapes his own discarded hoodie over her shoulders to keep her warm, tucked her in, and retreats to the other side of the room to pretend he’d been sleeping on his own mattress the whole time.
He plays it safe. He isn’t ready for the world to know yet.
An hour later, the basement is a whirlwind of activity.
“Breakfast is ready!” Karen’s voice eachoed down the stairs, bright and cheerful.
The transition is instant. The boys scrambles for their shoes, and Y/N stands up, shaking out her hair. The “High Priestess” is back, but as they ascends the stairs into the kitchen, she does something that always caught Mike off guard.
She tucks her claws in.
“Good morning, Mrs. Wheeler,” Y/N says, her voice dropping the husky drawl for a polite, clear tone. She offers a small, helpful smile as she reaches for a stack of plates. “The house smells wonderful. Can I help you with the orange juice?”
Karen Wheeler beams, clearly charmed. “Oh, thank you, honey! You’re always such a help. Mike, why can't you be more like Y/N? She has such lovely manners.”
Mike, who is currently trying to shove a piece of bacon into his mouth, nearly chokes. He glances at Y/N. She is standing by the fridge, looking like a literal angel. She caught his eye and gives him a tiny, lightning-fast wink—the kind only he is meant to see.
I have lovely manners, Mike, the wink said. I also have a joke about that meat that would make your mother faint.
Mike looks away, coughing into his hand to hide his grin.
Ted Wheeler sits at the head of the table, hidden behind the morning paper. “Good to see some of you kids know how to behave. It’s a madhouse in here usually.”
“We try our best, Mr. Wheeler,” Y/N says sweetly, sliding into the seat directly across from Mike.
The breakfast is a masterpiece of suburban normalcy. Nancy is hearing Holly talk about school, Karen is fussing over the syrup, and the group is arguing about movie rentals.
Under the table, Y/N’s foot, covered in banana socks that are borrowed from Mike, found his. She doesn’t just kick him; she hooks her ankle behind his, a subtle, hidden tether that mirrors the way he had played with her hair the night before.
“So, Mike,” Y/N says aloud, her voice innocent as she buttered a piece of toast. “I was thinking about that move you made in the game last night. The way you handled that encounter. It was very impressive and decisive.”
Dustin stops chewing, his eyes darting between them. He knows that tone. It’s the “danger” tone.
“It was just a standard maneuver, Y/N,” Mike replies, his voice steady even as he feels the pressure of her ankle against his. He takes a sip of his milk, looking her straight in the eye. “I just knew exactly where I needed to put my energy to get the result I wanted.”
Karen smiles, oblivious. “It’s so nice that you kids have such a healthy hobby. Teamwork is so important.”
“Oh, we’re excellent at teamwork, Mrs. Wheeler,” Y/N hums, her eyes sparkling with a secret fire. “Mike is a natural leader. He really knows how to command a room.”
Nancy pauses, her fork halfway to her mouth. She looks at Mike, then at Y/N. She sees the way they are looking at each other—a gaze that was far too intense for a conversation about Dungeons & Dragons.
The “burn” wasn't just slow anymore. It’s starting to produce smoke, right there at the Wheeler breakfast table, under the noses of the most oblivious parents in Indiana.
The breakfast table is a minefield of suburban domesticity, and Y/N is dancing through it with the grace of a professional saboteur.
“More syrup, Mike?” Y/N asks, reaching for the bottle at the same time he did.
Their fingers brush—a brief, searing contact over the plastic maple leaf. Mike doesn’t pull away immediately. He let the contact linger for a heartbeat too long, his thumb grazing the back of her hand before he pulls back to pour.
“Thanks,” he mutters, his voice a little lower than it had been a moment ago.
Nancy, perched at the end of the table, is no longer eating. She’s observing. She had spent the last year chasing leads and uncovering government conspiracies; she knew a “story” when she sees one. Her eyes drift from Y/N’s polite smile to Mike’s unusually focused expression.
“So, Y/N,” Nancy says, leaning forward. “Mom mentioned you might be helping Mike with his... literature project? The one about 'unrequited tension' in Gothic novels?”
Mike nearly spat out his orange juice. “Nancy!”
Y/N doesn’t miss a beat. She takes a dainty bite of her toast, chews, and swallows before looking at Nancy with wide, faux-innocent eyes. “Oh, yes. Mike’s very interested in the climax of those stories. He’s a bit of a slow reader, though. He tends to get stuck on the throbbing prose.”
“It's a very dense book!” Mike interjects, his face turning a shade of pink that matches the floral pattern on the wallpaper.
“I'm sure,” Nancy replies, her voice dripping with skepticism. “I just didn't realize Mike was such a fan of the 'slow burn.' Usually, he’s so impatient.”
“He's learning the value of the build-up and patiences,” Y/N adds, her foot under the table giving Mike’s shin a playful, rhythmic tap. “He's realizing that if you rush to the end, you miss all the best positions of the argument.”
Ted grunts from behind his paper. “Positions. Sounds like politics. Don't get the boy started on politics, Y/N. He’s got enough ideas as it is.”
“Of course, Mr. Wheeler,” Y/N says sweetly. “I'll keep him focused on the physical aspects of the text instead.”
Dustin lets out a sound like a choked kazoo. He suddenly becomes very interested in his scrambled eggs, whispering to Lucas, “She's doing it in front of Karen. She's a madwoman. She’s actually going to do it.”
“She’s a genius,” Lucas whispers back, watching as Mike tries—and fails—to maintain a stoic expression while Y/N’s foot continues its covert operation under the table.
As the meal wound down, Karen stands up to clear the plates. “Well, I’m just glad you kids are getting along so well. It’s nice to see Mike so... energized.”
“He's definitely got a lot of stamina this morning, Mrs. Wheeler,” Y/N says, standing up to help. She caught Mike’s eye as she walks away from his sight toward the sink.
As she leans over to place a plate in the dishwasher, her top rides up just enough to show the waistband of her jeans. Mike’s eyes drops for a fraction of a second—a reflex he can’t control.
Y/N looks over her shoulder, a private, razor-sharp smirk cutting through her “good girl” mask. She doesn’t say a word, but her look says everything: Caught you looking, Paladin.
Mike doesn’t look away this time. He just raises his glass of milk in a silent, mocking toast, his eyes promising that the “Reverse Card” from the arcade isn’t a one-time thing.
“We should probably get going,” Mike says, his voice regaining its leadership authority. “We have to... uh... check the walkie-talkies. For the game.”
“Right,” Y/N agrees, stepping away from the sink and brushing her hands off on her jeans. “Lots of technical stuff to handle. Very hands-on.”
As they file out of the kitchen, Nancy caught Mike’s sleeve, pulling him back for a second while the others head for the basement stairs.
“Mike,” she whispers, her eyes narrows. “If you two set the house on fire with whatever 'literature project' you're actually doing, I'm telling Mom.”
“We're just friends, Nance!” Mike hissed, though his ears were flaming.
“Yeah,” Nancy mutters, watching Y/N disappear down the stairs with a sway in her step that’s definitely not just friendly. “And Steve’s hair is natural. Get out of here, Mike.”
The humid afternoon air of Hawkins is a far cry from the cool, butter-scented safety of the Wheeler kitchen. The Party had finally splintered; Dustin and Lucas are racing their bikes toward the park, Max is racing along with her skateboard, and Will and Eleven walked the other way to drop something off at Hopper’s office.
Y/N and Mike are left standing at the end of the Wheelers' driveway, the gravel crunching under their sneakers. The “polite guest” act had vanished the moment the front door clicked shut.
“So,” Mike says, shoving his hands into his pockets. He looks at her, the afternoon sun catching the sharp angles of his face. “The climax of the story, huh? You really like to live on the edge, don't you?”
“I don't know what you're talking about, Wheeler,” Y/N teases, stepping into his space until she can see the tiny reflection of the street in his dark eyes. “I was just being a helpful student. Your mom thinks I'm a delight. A 'lovely' influence.”
“My mom thinks a lot of things,” Mike counters. He doesn’t back away this time. Instead, he takes a half-step closer, his shadow falling over her. “But I’m the one who has to deal with the 'unrequited tension' you keep bringing up. It’s starting to get... distracting.”
Y/N’s smirk falters for a second. The way he says distracting doesn’t sound like a complaint. It sounds like an observation.
“Is that right?” she asks, her voice dropping into that low, dangerous register. “And what are you going to do about it, Paladin? Throw me in a dungeon? Put me on 'time out'?”
Mike leans down, his face hovering just inches from hers. The playful banter is there, but the air between them feels like it was humming with high-voltage electricity. He reaches out, his hand tucking a piece of her hair behinf her ear and letting it fall down on her neck slowly, just above her collarbone.
“I was thinking,” Mike whispers, his eyes dropping to her lips and then back up to her gaze, “that maybe I’d just let you keep talking. Because the more you talk, the more I realize...”
“Realize what?” she breathes.
“That you’re just as flustered as I am,” Mike finishes, a triumphant, genuine smile breaking across his face. He gives the collar of her jacket a playful little tug. “Your heart is beating so fast I can see it in your neck, Y/N. Looks like your 'stamina' is hitting a critical low.”
Y/N gasps, a genuine flush creeping up her neck that had nothing to do with a joke. “You... you're an idiot, Mike Wheeler.”
“Yeah,” Mike laughs, stepping back and hopping onto his bike. “But I'm your idiot. See you at the quarry at four? Or are you too busy studying 'Gothic prose'?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, already knowing her answer. He kicks off, pedaling down the street with a newfound energy, leaving Y/N standing in the driveway, clutching her jacket where he had touched it.
She watches him go, a slow, helpless grin spreading across her face. The “Slow Burn” had officially moved from a simmer to a steady, glowing coal.
“Damn it,” she mutters to the empty street, her heart still hammering against her ribs. “He’s getting too good at this.”
The quarry at sunset is a place of jagged edges and golden light, the kind of spot that felt like the edge of the world. The rest of the Party had headed to the arcade, but Mike and Y/N had “detoured,” claiming they need to check the perimeter of the cliffside one last time.
Now, they are sitting on the very edge of the rock, legs dangling over the drop, the wind whipping Y/N’s hair across her face.
“You know, I heard a rumor,” Y/N starts, her voice cutting through the sound of the wind.”"Apparently, Troy—you remember Troy, the mouth-breather?—claims he saw you crying in the bathroom last week because you lost your favorite d20.”
Mike snorts, leaning back on his elbows. “First of all, Troy is a liar. Second, it wasn't my favorite d20. It was the one I used to kill the Hydra. It had sentimental value.”
“So you did cry,” she teases, bumping her shoulder against his.
“I had a moment of silence,” Mike corrects with a grin. “And speaking of gossip, I heard you’re the reason Mr. Clarke had to change the seating chart in Bio. Something about 'distracting the local wildlife'.”
“I can't help it if the frogs find me fascinating, Wheeler. It’s a gift,” she laughs, but then the laughter trails off, leaving that heavy, charge silence that always seems to find them when they are alone.
She’s shivering, just a little. She had worn her signature denim jacket, which is great for “looking cool” but terrible for a forty-degree Indiana night.
“You're cold,” Mike notes. It isn’t a question.
“I'm not cold, Mike. I'm just... shaking with excitement,” she tries to rasp out, but the chatter of her teeth betrayes her. “Maybe I’m just anticipating the moment you decide to be a hero and offer me your sweater. I’ve always wanted to know what 'Paladin' smells like.”
Mike isn’t roll his eyes. He doesn’t even blush. He just unzips his heavy gray hoodie, and pulls it off in one fluid motion.
“Put it on,” he commands softly.
Y/N blinks, her bravado momentarily stalling. “I was joking, Wheeler. You'll freeze.”
“I have more body fat than you, and I'm wearing a thermal under this. Just take it.”
He drapes the hoodie over her shoulders and her body follows, and then—the habit—his hand lingers. He doesn’t just give her the hoodie; he pulls the edges of the hoodie together in front of her, his knuckles brushing against her chin, leaving ghostly touches on her collarbone.
Y/N looks up at him, the sarcasm dying in her throat. The hoodie is huge on her, smelling like woodsmoke and him.
“You're being very... assertive tonight, Mike,” she whispers, her voice actually trembling now, and not from the cold. “If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to mark your territory.”
Mike’s gaze darkens. He doesn’t pull his hands away. Instead, he slides them up to the hood, adjust it over her hair, his fingers grazing her ears.
“Is it working?” he asks. No stutter. No hesitation. Just a low, steady challenge.
Y/N feels a heat flare up in her chest that can melt the snow in January. Her body eventually gives in the heat, her fingers curling into the fabric. “Maybe. But you’ll have to do better than a hand-me-down sweater to keep me quiet.”
“I don't want you quiet,” Mike murmurs, leaning his forehead against hers for just a second—a secret contact that would have sent Dustin into a coma if he sees it. “I just want you to stay warm.”
They talk for a while longer—about nothing and everything. They bitched about Nancy’s new obsession with the Hawkins Post, they speculated on whether Steve actually used an entire can of Farrah Fawcett spray in one go, and they talked about the weird, quiet fear that the Upside Down was just waiting for them to get comfortable.
“Do you think it ever stops?” Y/N asked suddenly, her voice losing its edge. “The feeling like we're just waiting for the next disaster?”
Mike doesn’t look at the horizon. He looks at her. “I don't know. But I know that when I'm with you, I don't feel like I'm waiting. I feel like I'm... already there.”
Y/N turns her head, her breath hitching. The banter is gone. The “High Priestess” is nowhere to be found. “That was almost poetic, Wheeler. You're going to make me think you actually like me.”
“I think we're well past 'like,' Y/N,” Mike whispers.
He moves then—not a subtle brush or a playful nudge. He reaches out, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb smoothing over her cheekbone with a sudden, desperate intensity. The “just friends” mask didn't just crack; it shattered into a million pieces.
Y/N doesn’t make a joke. She doesn’t say something about his “grip strength.” She just leans into his palm, her eyes searching his. “Mike—“
“Shut up,” he murmurs, but it’s soft, a plea. Almost desperate and demanding.
He leans in, and when their lips finally meet, it isn’t like the movies. It’s frantic, a little bit messy, and fueled by years of suppressed static. It’s the sound of a rubber band finally snapping.
Y/N’s hands flies to his hair, her fingers tangling in those dark curls she’d been wanting to touch for years, pulling him closer until there was no air left between them. Mike’s other arm wraps around her waist, hauling her flush against him as if he’s trying to merge their heartbeats.
It’s a “break loose” moment—all the protective flirting, the subtle hair-twirling, and the secret glances at the breakfast table culminating in a kiss that tasted like salt and adrenaline.
When they finally pull apart, just enough to breathe, their foreheads stay pressed together. Both of them are flushed, their chests heaving.
“So,” Y/N pants, her voice a wreck, shaky version of her usual rasp. “Does this mean I have to stop making jokes about your... stamina?”
Mike lets out a ragged, breathless laugh, his eyes bright with something that isn’t fear for the first time in his life. He leans back in, bringing her with him as she hovers over him with one of his hands holding them up. His eyes are bright like a pupou, his lips brushing against hers as he speaks.
“No,” he whispers. “But you’re definitely going to have to find some new material. Because the 'Paladin' will show you how much stamina he got.”
He kisses her again, deeper this time, the orange sun sinking behind the trees and leaving them in the beautiful, private dark.
pairings: mike wheeler x cheerleader!harrington!reader
summary: In the quiet hum of Hawkins High, a fire and a shadow began to blur at the edges of a shared textbook. They existed in the fragile season of stolen glances and unspoken gravitational pulls that felt like a secret language only they could speak. Yet, beneath the soft glow of the Quarry moon, the weight of a hidden life threatened to turn their silence into a cage. They were two hearts orbiting a truth that hadn't yet broken—unaware that the ghosts of the past were already tracing the lines of their future.
wc: 11,1 k
post contains: fem reader, diots in love, protective steve, mike in love, mike is an idiot, slow burn is burning, fluff.
author’s note: u guys deserve this one after waiting for so long (sorry muah) idiot mike incoming!! i thought i could write the ending in this part but it was going to be tooooo long :/ criticism and feedbacks are appreciated!
All to Ourselves Masterlist
The first rule of Operation: Gold Dragon was simple: Never, under any circumstances, let Steve Harrington see more than two “nuggets” in one place at the same time.
According to Dustin, Steve’s “Protective Brother Radar” is a finely tuned instrument. If he sees them huddled together, he smells a conspiracy. If he sees them near Y/N, he smells a crime.
“Positions,” Dustin’s voice crackles through the walkie-talkie. He is leaning against the corner wall outside of the school, a pair of binoculars pressed to his face as he observes the parking lot.
Max’s voice then crackles through, “Target is preparing to exit the gym. She’s alone. Mike, you’re in the 'Blind Spot' behind the bleachers. Move in ten seconds. Over.”
“I’m moving,” Mike whispers back, his back pressed against the cold metal of the stands. “What if Steve cuts in short?”
“Negative,” Max’s voice cuts in. She is sitting on a nearby bench, seemingly engrossed in a comic book, but her eyes are scanning the perimeter like a hawk. On her right is her boyfriend playing basketball alone, on her left is the cheer squad leaving the gym.
“I’ve got visual on Steve. He’s distracted. Some girl from the junior class just asked him for help with her car. He’ll be occupied for at least five minutes. Mike... go!” Dustin’s urgent cue for Mike leaves his blood run cold with adrenaline.
Mike steps out from behind the bleachers, trying to look like a person who is simply thirsty and not a person whose entire nervous system is currently being held together by tape and prayer.
Y/N is walking towards the double doors of the gym, her gym bag slung over one shoulder, her face flush from practice. To Mike, she looks like a movie star who had accidentally wandered into a high school.
“Oh—hey, Mike,” Y/N says, stopping as he approaches. A small, genuine smile touched her lips—the kind of smile that made the "Level 2" friendship feel like it was vibrating with electricity.
“Hey, Y/N,” Mike says, his voice actually staying in the lower register for once. “Good practice?”
“Standard,” she sighs, leaning against the brick wall. “Heather is still trying to convince everyone that we should do a 'Hawkins Pride' routine, but it's mostly just an excuse for her to do more solo flips." She pauses, looking at him curiously. "You’re around here a lot lately. Are you suddenly into track and field?”
Mike feels the heat rise in his neck. “Just... getting some fresh air. Hellfire is... stuffy.”
From across the court, Max watches through the pages of her comic book. “He’s doing it. He’s talking. He’s leaning against the wall. He looks almost cool.”
“Don't jinx it,” Dustin mutters into his radio.
The “Heaven” of the moment lasted exactly forty-five seconds before the “Hell” of reality intervened. Before Dustin can speak for report, Steven Harrington walks inside the school in a fast pace. They’re both cursing under their breaths, thinking of the same assumptions.
“Harrington!”
The voice booms across the giant room. Steve Harrington is walking away from the junior girl, his keys jingling aggressively at his hip. He looks like he is in a “Big Brother” mood—the kind that usually ends with Mike being hoisted up by his collar.
“Lucas! Intercept!” Dustin hisses into the radio as he trails behind Steven a few feet away, walking just as fast as he is.
On the basketball court, Lucas Sinclair doesn’t hesitate. He launches a basketball with professional-grade accuracy, letting it “accidentally” bounce directly off the backboard and roll toward Steve’s feet.
“Hey, Steve! My bad!” Lucas shouts, sprinting toward him. “Can you show me that crossover again? I’m losing the ball on the break!”
Steve stops, his eyes darting between Lucas and the suspicious sight of Mike standing suspiciously close to his sister. “Sinclair, I told you, the footwork is—“
“I know, I know, but I'm tripping over my own feet, man! Just once!” Lucas pleades, physically stepping into Steve's line of sight, blocking the view of the couple.
Behind, Y/N glances towards her brother and then back at Mike. She isn’t stupid. She saw the way Lucas had suddenly become a “clumsy” basketball player. She saw the way Max was “reading” the same page of a comic book for the last ten minutes.
She looks at Mike, and for the first time, there was a flash of something more than just “friendly curiosity” in her eyes. It is a look of shared conspiracy.
“Your friends are very... dedicated, Mike,” she whispers, stepping a fraction of an inch closer. The scent of her shampoo—something like apples and summer—hit him like a physical blow.
“They're... they're just idiots,” Mike manage to say, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Maybe,” Y/N says, her voice dropping lower. “I’ll see you when I see you, Mike.”
Before Mike can answer, she turns and head towards Steve, dragging him out by the hoops of his jeans, leaving Mike and Lucas standing in the orange glow of the afternoon sun, his head spinning.
The basement door slams shut, the sound echoing like a coffin lid. Mike doesn’t even take off his jacket; he just collapses onto the sofa, burying his face in a striped throw pillow.
“She said 'Maybe,'”Mike’s voice is muffled by the fabric. “'Maybe,'”That’s the universal Harrington word for 'Please move to another state and never speak to me again.'”
“It’s not a 'no,' Mike,” Lucas argues, pacing the length of the wood-paneled room. He is still sweaty from his 'interception' on the court. “A 'maybe' is a tactical neutral. It means the board is still in play.”
“The board is on fire, Lucas!” Mike sits up, his hair a frantic mess. “She saw you throw that ball on purpose. She saw Max pretending to read a comic book upside down! She looked at me like I was the ringleader of a very pathetic circus. And then she dragged Steve away. She dragged him. Like she couldn't get away from us fast enough.”
Dustin is sitting at the D&D table, slowly rotating a d20. He isn’t frantic; he is pensive.
“We overplayed our hand,” Dustin says, his voice calm and clinical. “We were using Level 5 tactics on a Level 15 social encounter. We were too loud, too obvious. We made Y/N feel like a target instead of a person.”
Max, who is leaning against the washer-dryer, scoffs. “Oh, now the 'Mastermind' admits he failed? I told you it was too exposed.”
“I didn't fail,” Dustin counters, pointing the d20 at Mike. “We just discovered a new variable. Y/N isn't like the other girls in her circle. She doesn't want a performance. She's smart—she’s a Harrington. She’s probably been surrounded by people trying to 'win' her over since kindergarten.”
Mike looks up, his eyes tired. “So what now? We just... stop? I go back to being the weird kid who stares at her in the cafeteria?”
“No,” Dustin says, standing up. “We stop the 'Operation.' No more walkie-talkies. No more diversions. No more 'clumsy' basketball.”
“Then how does he talk to her?” Lucas asks.
“He does it alone.”
That night, Mike is in his room, the glow of his desk lamp the only light. He’s staring at a blank piece of paper.
The “slow burn” is now a physical ache in his chest. He keeps replaying the way Y/N looked at him. Was it pity? Or was it that she was waiting for him to be real?
He realizes that his friends—as much as they love him—can't win this for him. He thinks about her “maybe.” He realizes that “maybe” wasn't a rejection. It was a challenge. She was leaving the next move to him, without the safety net of his friends' chaos.
The next day at school, his friends are noticeably absent. No one is lurking. No one is spying.
Mike finds Y/N in a quiet hallway near the library. No Steve. No Dustin in the bushes. No star students to judge him. Just the two of them.
Mike doesn't have a script. He just walks up to her.
“Y/N?”
She turns, looking surprised to see him alone. “No bodyguards today, Mike?”
“I fired them,” Mike jokes, then his voice steadied for the first time in weeks. “I wanted to apologize. For... the circus yesterday. They mean well, but... they don't know when to stop.”
Y/N softens. She leans against her locker, looking at him with that same searching expression. “I was wondering when you were going to tell them to take a hike. It was getting a little crowded.”
“I’m an idiot,” Mike admits.
“You're a lot of things, Mike Wheeler,” Y/N says, stepping closer. “But 'idiot' is pretty low on the list.”
The hallway is silent, the roar of the after-school bell fading into the distance. Mike’s heart feels like a trapped bird beating against his ribs. He has no radio. He has no "tactical retreat" signals by Lucas. He just has the smell of his try-hard cologne and the way the light caught the edge of Y/N’s face.
“I... uh, I didn't actually have a plan for what happened after the 'apology' part,” Mike admits, his hands shove so deep into his pockets he thinks he might rip the seams. “My brain kind of short-circuited after I saw you weren't wearing your track jacket today.”
Y/N let out a soft laugh, the sound echoing in the empty hall. She turns fully towards him, her social grace acting like a bridge over the canyon of his awkwardness. “It’s in my locker, Mike. But I'm impressed. Usually, when you talk to me, you look like you're trying to calculate the fastest exit strategy.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“It’s a little obvious,” she teases, tilting her head. “But it's okay. Most people in this school are either trying too hard to be cool or trying too hard to ignore me because of Steve. You're just... calm. It’s different.”
Without Dustin in his ear, Mike finds that he doesn’t have to be “cool.” He just needs to be Mike. The conversation drifts, lead by Y/N’s ability to fill the silences he left behind. They talk about the upcoming movie at the Hawk theater, the terrible mystery meat in the cafeteria, and how Steve’s hair seems to be gaining sentience.
For the first time, the “Level 2” barrier didn’t feel like a wall; it felt like a screen door that was slowly swinging open.
“So,” Y/N says, closing her locker with a decisive thud. “No circus today. No spies in the bushes. Just you, wandering the halls like a lost soul. What’s the real reason you're here, Mike? And don't say 'fresh air' again. We’re indoors.”
Mike swallows hard. This is it. The moment where the slow-burn either becomes a fire or went out forever. “I wanted to ask you something. Without anyone watching. Without anyone's 'help.'”
While Mike is having the most important conversation of his life, the rest of his friends are in a state of absolute panic.
They are huddled in the theater room, the walkie-talkies hissing with empty static.
"”Where is he?!” Lucas demands, pacing the small room. “I checked the gym. I checked the parking lot. He’s gone. He’s been kidnapped by the Russians. I knew it!”
“He hasn't been kidnapped, Lucas,” Max says, though she looks worried, her eyes glued to the door. “But he’s not where he’s supposed to be.”
Dustin sits in the swivel chair, looking at the empty hallway outside through the cracked door. He tilts his head, dots in his head connecting to one another. He is looking at Mike’s empty seat. A slow, realization-dawning smile began to spread across his face.
“He’s not kidnapped,” Dustin whispers.
“Yeah, no shit! Where is he?!” Lucas yells.
“He’s gone rogue,” Dustin says, a hint of genuine pride in his voice. “He didn't wait for the signal. He didn't ask for a distraction. He’s off-script, guys. Mike Wheeler just leveled up to a bracket we haven't even named yet.”
Back in the hallway, Mike takes a step forward. Just one. But it feels like a mile.
“I'm going to the library tomorrow,” Mike says, his voice finally finding its footing. “To actually study. Not for a 'mission.' Not because Lucas told me to. Just because I want to sit at a table with you and see if we can talk for more than three minutes without my friends acting like I have to act perfect around you.”
Y/N looks at him, her eyes searching his. The playful “Cheer Captain” mask drops for a second, and she just looks like a girl who is tired of being a trophy and ready to be a person.
Her lips curls back into a teasing smirk. The one you’d see on Steve Harrington. “Actually, I wasn’t thinking of a mission, but I thought you were talking about hooking up. How cute.”
She reaches out, her fingers grazing the sleeve of his jacket. “Four o'clock?”
“Four o'clock,” Mike breathes.
“Okay,” she smiles, and this time, there was no 'maybe' in it. “And Mike? Leave the walkie-talkie at home.”
The moment she’s out of site, the boy has never run as fast as his beating heart before, but he’s beating his own record right now.
The door didn't just open; Mike burst it wide, gasping for air like he’d just run a marathon through the Upside Down. The air inside was thick with the scent of incense, stale Cheetos, and the palpable fury of a Dungeon Master whose rhythm had been shattered.
“He lives!” Eddie Munson shriek, standing up so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor. He throws his arms out, his many rings glinting under the dim lights. “The brave Paladin returns from the mists! Tell me, Wheeler, did you lose your way in the Forest of Eternal Tardiness? Or did you simply forget that your brothers were currently being disemboweled by a level-twelve Beholder?”
“I'm sorry,” Mike pants, stumbling toward his empty chair. “I got... caught up. In the hall.”
The entire Hellfire members staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes. They aren’t angry—they are vibrating with a different kind of energy. They are looking for the "mark." They are looking for any sign of what had happened in the vacuum of Mike’s solo mission.
“Caught up?” Eddie leans over the table, his long hair shielding his face as he levels a Piercing Gaze at Mike. “Wheeler, we have been waiting forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes of Dustin trying to 'calculate the odds' of your survival and Lucas staring at the door like a heartbroken spaniel. You missed the entire ambush at the Black Gates!”
Mike sits down, his hands still shaking. He looks at his character sheet, but the numbers and stats looks like gibberish. All he can see is the way Y/N had looked at him by the lockers.
“Well?” Dustin prompts, leaning in so close Mike can see the reflection of the d20 in his eyes. “Did the... uh... 'academic advisor' give you the information you needed?”
Mike looks at Dustin. He looks at the smug, “I-know-everything” grin on Henderson’s face, and for the first time, Mike doesn’t feel like a pawn. “She did. We’re meeting tomorrow. At the library. At four.”
The table goes silent.
Eddie’s jaw drops. “The library? At four? Is that a new campaign module? A secret quest?”
“It’s a date, Eddie,” Max whispers, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and genuine awe. “He actually did it. He went rogue.”
“A date?” Eddie’s theatrical fury vanish, replace by a look of profound confusion. He looks at Mike like he’d suddenly grown a second head. “With who? Who is worth missing the Siege of Oakhaven for?”
“Y/N Harrington,” Lucas blurts out, unable to contain his excitement for another second.
The silence that follow is even heavier than Eddie’s initial shouting. Eddie slowly sits back down, his rings clinking as he taps his fingers on the table.
“Harrington,” Eddie repeats, his voice low. “The sister of King Steve. The girl who literally has a dedicated fan club in the junior varsity locker room. The cheer’s captain.”
Eddie looks at Mike’s messy hair, his wrinkled Hellfire shirt, and his frantic, pale face. A slow, crooked grin began to spread across Eddie’s face—a look of pure, unadulterated respect.
“Wheeler,” Eddie says, picking up a d20 and tossing it to Mike. “I take back every insult. You didn't lose your way in the forest. You were out there hunting a dragon without a shield. That is the most metal thing I have ever heard in my entire life.”
“He’s going to get killed, Eddie,” Lucas hisses. “Steve is going to turn him into a human basketball.”
“Maybe,” Eddie shrugs, leaning back. “But what a way to go! To the halls of Valhalla, Wheeler! But for now...” Eddie slams his fist on the table, the miniatures rattling. “Roll for initiative! You’ve got a Beholder to kill before your 'study date' tomorrow, and God help you if you’re late for that too.”
Mike picks up the dice. His hands are still trembling, but the “Hell” of Eddie’s yelling felt like nothing compares to the “Heaven” of Y/N’s smile. He looks at Dustin, who gives him a small, respectful nod—a silent acknowledgement that the student had officially surpassed the master.
Mike leveled up on his own. He isn’t just a Paladin in a game anymore. He is a boy with a tomorrow.
“I roll,” Mike says, his voice finally steady. “Natural twenty.”
The library is so quiet Mike can hear the internal gears of his own brain grinding. He has been staring at the same diagram of a cotton gin for fifteen minutes. Across from him, Y/N is a picture of academic composure. She is scribbling notes, her highlighter making a rhythmic shuck-shuck sound that felt like a countdown clock.
This is the “Heaven” he had wanted—just the two of them—but it feels like a trap. Every time his shoe squeaks the floor or his stomach growls, it sounds like an explosion.
“You're holding your breath again, Mike,” Y/N says softly, not looking up from her legal pad.
“I'm just... focusing,” Mike lies, finally exhaling. “The Industrial Revolution is a lot to take in.”
“Is it?” She finally looks up, her pen stops on the paper. She looks at his book, then at his face. “Because you're on the chapter about the Civil War. We haven't even gotten to the cotton gin yet.”
Mike freezes. He looks down. She’s right. He flipped too many pages in his nervous trance.
Y/N leans back, her chair giving a small, sharp creak. The playful energy from the hallway earlier is gone, replace by a weary sort of gravity.
“You know, you don't have to act like a librarian just because we're here,” she says. “I get enough of the 'perfect student' act from my friends. And I get enough of the 'overprotective guard dog' act from Steve.”
She looks towards the large glass windows at the front of the library. Outside, the familiar silhouette of Steve’s BMW is idling in the parking lot right on time. He isn’t coming in—not yet—but his presence is like a heavy blanket over the room.
“Is that why we're really here?” Mike asks, his voice low. “Because it's the one place he can't hover?”
“It’s the one place I can breathe,” Y/N admits. She looks back at Mike, her gaze intense. “But it’s hard to breathe when even you are acting like you're afraid of breaking a rule. I came here to be with Mike Wheeler, not a guy who’s terrified of my brother.”
The comment stings. Mike feels that old spark of Wheeler defensiveness flare up. “I'm not terrified of him. I just... I don't want to get banned from seeing you. If I mess this up, he’ll make sure I never get within ten feet of you again. I’m trying to be smart, Y/N.”
“Smart or safe?” she challenges. “Because 'safe' is boring, Mike. I have a whole life full of 'safe.' I have cheer practice, and honor society, and a brother who treats me like a porcelain doll. I thought you were the one who liked high-stakes games.”
Mike grips the edge of his chair. The "slow-burn" is turning into a flashpoint. “This isn't a game to me! In a game, I have three lives and a set of dice. In this... I just have me. And 'me' isn't exactly a knight in shining armor.”
The tension between them snaps by a sharp tap-tap-tap on the glass.
They both turn. Steve is standing outside by the library entrance, pointing at his watch with an expression that was half-impatient and half-suspicious. He can’t see exactly what they are doing through the tinted glass and the glare of the sun, but he knows they are in there. Together.
“He's early,” Mike whispers, his heart sinking. “He’s not supposed to be here for another half hour.”
Y/N looks at her brother, then back at Mike. The frustration in her eyes is palpable. “He’s checking up on me. Again.”
“Maybe I should go,” Mike says, already reaching for his backpack. “If he sees us sitting this close, he's going to freak out.”
Y/N reaches out and grabs his wrist. Her grip is firm, stopping him in his tracks. “No. Don't go. If you walk out now, you're just proving that he can have his eyes wherever he wants. Sit. Down.”
Steve wasn’t just tapping on the glass anymore; he is cupping his hands around his eyes, pressing his face against the library window like a desperate deep-sea diver looking for signs of life. His breath is fogging up the pane in rhythmic, frantic puffs. The librarian just stares, the bitter coffee tasting even more bitter than before.
“Is he... is he licking the glass?” Mike whispers, frozen in his seat.
“He's checking for our outline,” Y/N groans, burying her face in her hands. “He read about it in a magazine at the hair salon. He thinks he can sense 'moral decay' through windows.”
“I'm going to die,” Mike notes, remarkably calm for someone whose life is flashing before his eyes. “He’s not even a babysitter anymore. He’s transitioned into a Victorian Governess. He’s one step away from buying you a corset and locking you in a tower.”
Y/N stood up, her jaw set. “Pack your bags, Wheeler. We’re walking out together. Front door. No sneaking through the return slot.”
“The return slot is surprisingly large,” Mike mutters, but he obeys. He stuffs his Civil War/Industrial Revolution/Lies textbook into his bag and follows her.
As they push through the heavy library doors, the humid Indiana air hit them, along with the immediate, high-decibel sound of Steve’s "Dad Voice."
“There she is! There’s my sister! And look who’s with her!” Steve exclaims to the empty parking lot, throwing his arms out wide. He marches over, his strut is somewhere between a protective strut and a panicked waddle. “Mike! Hey! Small world! What are the odds? In a library? On a Tuesday? During the exact hours I told my sister I’d be busy?”
“Steve, we were studying,” Y/N says, trying to push past him towards the car.
“Studying! I love studying!” Steve chirps, intercepting her and placing a heavy, paternal hand on her shoulder. He turns his gaze to Mike, his eyes narrowing to slits. “And what were we studying, Michael? Biology? Anatomy? The chemistry of... hormones?”
“Funny because that’s what you always studied when you dated my sister.”
Steve looks like a mother whose child just said “no”. He has his hands on his hips. He looks like he is trying to remember a lecture his father had given him, but he is accidentally mixing it up with a speech from a sports movie.
“You see, Mike,” Steve says, pointing a finger at Mike’s chest. “A sister is like... she’s like a very expensive car. A classic. You don't just let any teenager with a learner's permit take her for a spin. You gotta check the oil. You gotta make sure the tires aren't... impure.”
“Did you just compare me to your car?” Y/N hisses, her face turning a brilliant shade of pink.
“I'm being a guardian, Y/N! I’m being a lighthouse in the storm of your puberty!” Steve shouts. He turns back to Mike, leaning in close enough that Mike can smell the lingering scent of hairspray. “I’ve got my eyes on you, Wheeler. I know your tricks. I know you think you’re smooth with your... your collared shirts and your calculators.”
“I don't even have a calculator in this bag, Steve,” Mike squeaked.
“Exactly! Secretive! I don't like it!”
What Mike didn't see—what he was far too terrified to notice—was the slight tremor in Steve’s hand. Steve isn’t just being a jerk; he is genuinely losing his mind. In Steve's head, Y/N is the “untouchable” Harrington. She’d turned down every varsity jock, every preppy jerk, and every "nice guy" in Hawkins. She was the only part of his life that felt stable, and the idea of her falling for a kid who spent his weekends arguing about elf-politics was causing Steve’s brain to short-circuit.
“Alright, get in the car,” Steve orders Y/N, clicking the locks. “And Mike? If I see you within five miles of a library for the next forty-eight hours, I’m telling your mom you’ve been smoking 'the grass.' Don't test me, man. I’m a parent now. I have the authority!”
Y/N looks back at Mike over the roof of the car before getting in. She looks exhausted, but as Steve turns to open the driver’s side door, she shot Mike a quick, secret wink.
It is a small gesture, but it means everything.
Steve’s BMW rolls out of the parking lot with a dramatic screech of tires that is entirely unnecessary for a 15-mph zone.
Mike stands alone on the sidewalk, clutching his backpack straps like a life jacket. From the bushes behind the library, three familiar heads popped up: Dustin, Lucas, and Max.
“On a scale of one to ten,” Dustin calls out, brushing leaves off his hat. “How much of that was about 'moral decay'?”
“Twelve,” Mike breathes, still staring at the empty road. “He compared her to an oil change.”
“Classic Steve,” Max mutters, shaking her head. “But hey... you survived the Lighhouse. That’s worth at least 500 XP.”
“Well done, Mike. I’m impressed. Now, stage two. Try to brush her hair behind her ear and whisper-“
“No, Lucas.”
The neon lights of the Family Video sign flicker, casting a sickly warm glow over Steve’s face as he pace the length of the “Action” aisle. Robin is behind the counter, leaning her chin on her hand, watching Steve with the exhausting patience of a mother bird. Nancy Wheeler sits on a stool, nursing a lukewarm coffee, looking increasingly like she wants to disappear into the carpet.
“It’s the principle of the thing, Nance!” Steve shouts, waving a copy of Top Gun in the air for emphasis. “It’s a Wheeler! Your brother! The kid who used to wear a cape and scream about 'fireballs' in your basement is currently... pursuing my sister!”
“Steve, calm down,” Nancy says, rubbing her temples. “Mike isn't 'pursuing' her. They were studying in a library. That is the most innocent thing Mike has ever done in his entire life.”
“He was looking at her, Nancy! With eyes!” Steve slams the VHS tape onto the counter. "And she was looking back! Y/N doesn't look at people. She’s the Harrington Fortress! She turned down the captain of the swim team because he 'breathed too loud,' but Mike Wheeler whispers some nerd-jargon about a cotton gin and suddenly she’s winking at him?”
Robin pops a piece of gum, a knowing smirk is happily showing on her lips. “Maybe she likes the nerd-jargon, Dingus. Have you considered that your sister has... taste? Unlike you, who once dated a girl because she had a 'cool' charm bracelet?”
“This isn't about taste, Robin! This is about the natural order!” Steve turns to Nancy, his voice dropping into a desperate plea. “He’s your brother. Talk to him. Tell him to... I don't know, find a nice girl who lives in another zip code. One who doesn't have a brother who knows exactly what teenage boys are thinking!”
“That’s the problem, Steve,” Nancy says, a similiar, knowing smirk playing on her lips. “You’re not mad at Mike. You’re mad because you know Mike is a good kid, and you can't find a legitimate reason to ban him from the house without looking like a lunatic.”
The rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of a rubber band hitting a plastic “New Releases” stand is the only thing keeping Robin Buckley from screaming.
Steve is currently in hour two of his “The Wheeler Menace” manifesto. He isn’t just pacing anymore; he suddenly grabs a whiteboard from the back room and draws what looks like a tactical map of the school hallways, complete with “danger zones” highlighted in red marker.
“Look at the geometry!” Steve shrieks, pointing a dry-erase marker at a crude drawing of the library stacks. “If Mike sits at Table 4, he has a direct line of sight to her. It’s a strategic position. He’s flanking her! My sister is being flanked by a kid who still uses a velcro wallet!”
Nancy Wheeler doesn’t look up from her copy of The Hawkins Post. She just takes a slow, methodical sip of her coffee. “Steve, for the tenth time, they were studying. Mike has a D in History. Y/N is an Honor student. It’s called 'peer tutoring.' It’s a recognized academic practice.”
“Peer tutoring? My ass!” Steve drops the marker and leans over the counter, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “I saw his face, Nance. He had that... that look. The same look I had in eighty-three when I was trying to get you to notice me. It’s the 'I’m-a-sensitive-soul-who-needs-understanding' face. It’s a trap! It’s a total trap!”
Robin pops a bubble with her gum, her eyes glazes over. “I think it’s adorable. The Paladin and the Princess. It’s very The Breakfast Club, except with more sweat and fewer dance montages.”
“It’s not adorable, Robin! It’s incestuous by association!” Steve throws his hands up. “Think about the holidays! If this works out—and God help me, I will make sure it doesn't—I’ll have to see Mike Wheeler at Thanksgiving. Every year. Forever. He’ll want to talk about 'The Lore.' He’ll ask me to help him move furniture. He might even call me... brother.”
Steve shuddered so violently his hair actually lost a fraction of its volume.
“You're overreacting because you're scared,” Nancy says, finally folding her newspaper and looking him in the eye. "Y/N is finally going out there and choosing. She knows the guy who cries during Old Yeller. And you're terrified that if she starts dating Mike, Mike will set a new standards that will burst your bubbles. Maybe embarrassing stories of you that you never told me before."
Steve goes very still. He looks at Nancy, then at Robin. Robin gives a slow, mischievous nod.
“Oh, she’s right,” Robin whispers. “You're afraid Mike’s going to tell her about the time you got your head stuck in the vent when we worked at Starcourts.”
“That was a structural defect!” Steve shouts, his voice cracking.
“Or the time you tried to 'casual' your way into a party and tripped over a decorative lawn flamingo,” Nancy adds, a smirk tugging at her lips.
Steve points a shaky finger at both of them. “You two are ganging up on me. This is a betrayal of the highest order. I am trying to protect the Harrington legacy! I am trying to ensure that my sister doesn't end up spending her weekends in a basement smelling like pizza and twenty-sided dice!”
The bell above the door chimes, and a customer walks in. Steve immediately wipes his face, stands up straight, and gives a plastic, terrifyingly wide smile.
“Welcome to Family Video! The Terminator is on the left, and if you're looking for romance, stay away from the Wheeler section—it’s full of lies and heartbreak!”
“Steve!” Nancy and Robin hisses in unison.
“What?” Steve whispers back, grabbing a stack of tapes to hide his shaking hands. “I'm just being an honest businessman. And a protective brother. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go check the parking lot. I think I heard a bicycle bell, and if it’s Sinclair or Henderson scouting for the 'Gold Dragon,' I’m going to lose it. I’m actually going to lose it.”
As Steve storms towards the front windows, Robin leans over to Nancy. “On a scale of one to ten, how long until he actually tries to join the Hellfire Club just to spy on them?”
Nancy sighs, watching her ex-boyfriend press his nose against the glass. “Give it a week. He’ll show up in a cape. It’ll be humiliating for everyone.”
Meanwhile, the two lovebirds are spending quite some time in some part of Indiana.
The climb up the jagged limestone path was steep, the kind of trail that required you to grab onto roots and steady yourself against cold stone. Mike led the way, occasionally reaching back to offer a hand to Y/N—a gesture she accepted with a small, lingering squeeze that made Mike’s pulse skip several beats.
When they finally reach the ledge, the world opened up. The water below is a deep, ink-pool blue, reflecting the bruised purples and burnt oranges of the Indiana sunset.
“I didn't even know this was back here,” Y/N breathes, stepping up to the edge. The wind caught her hair, blowing it back from her face. “It’s... it’s quiet. Properly quiet.”
“It’s where we go when we need to disappear,” Mike says, standing a few feet back. He looks at her, framed by the fading light, and feels that familiar ache of not-enough-ness start to flare up. He pushes it down. “The last few years, when everything went to hell... we sat here a lot. It’s the only place in Hawkins that doesn't feel like it’s pretending to be something else.”
Y/N turns to him, her expression soft. “Is this why you brought me here? To disappear?”
“I brought you here because...” Mike pauses, his throat dry. “Because it’s mine. I mean, it’s the Party’s, but... I wanted you to see it. So you have somewhere to go when the 'Harrington Fortress' gets too loud.”
Y/N sits down on a flat, sun-warmed rock, patting the space beside her. Mike joins her, keeping a “safe” distance—six inches of friendship-approved space that felt like a mile of electricity.
So,” Y/N says, her voice dropping to a low hum. “We’re 'disappearing' together. Does that make us accomplices?”
“Accomplices in academic delinquency,” Mike jokes weakly. “Steve probably thinks I’ve kidnapped you and I’m currently brainwashing you into playing a Level 10.”
Y/N laughs, nudging his shoulder with hers. “He thinks everyone is a threat, Mike. But you? He’s mostly just confused. He told me last night that you were 'dangerously observant.' He said you look like you’re constantly writing a manual on how to dismantle his life.”
“I’m just trying to survive his life,” Mike mutters.
They sit in silence for a long moment, the only sound being the distant lap of water against the rocks below. Mike looks at her hand, resting on the stone between them. He wants to reach out. He wants to close those six inches and tell her that he hadn't slept a full night since she sat at that lunch table.
But then he remembers she is a Harrington. He remembers her “maybe”. He remembers that he is a Wheeler.
“You're a good friend, Mike,” Y/N says, her voice genuine, though there was a tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of something else in her eyes—a question she isn’t quite ready to ask.
“Yeah,” Mike says, the word tasting like lead. “Friends.”
Y/N doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans in just a bit more, her shoulder pressing firmly against his. She doesn’t have to say that her feelings are shifting; it was in the way she didn't look back at the path leading home.
“I like 'friend,'”she whispers, looking out over the water. “It’s a safe label. It doesn't have expectations. It doesn't have... Steve-sized consequences.”
She turns her head to look at him, her eyes searching his in the twilight. “Let’s make a deal. This is our place. No Lucas, no Dustin, no Steve. Just... us.”
Mike feels a surge of something—not quite courage, but something close. “Just us. I can do that.”
For a moment, the label didn't matter. They are two teens on the edge of a cliff, caught in the gravity of a slow-burn that was pulling them closer with every breath. Y/N reaches out, her pinky finger hooking around Mike’s. A tiny, fragile bridge.
The sun dips lower, turning the quarry water from ink-blue to a shimmering, metallic silver. The air had cooled, but the rocks beneath them still held the day’s heat, making it feel like they are sitting in a warm pocket of the earth, hidden away from the rest of Hawkins.
Y/N leans back on her elbows, looking up at the first few stars blinking through the purple haze. “You know, the weirdest thing isn't even that Steve is obsessed with your whereabouts,” she says with a light huff of laughter. “It’s how he changed. Sophomore year, he was... well, he was an idiot. He was King Steve. He was barely home, and when he was, he was just... distant.”
Mike listens intently, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. This was the side of the Harringtons he never saw—the quiet house, the empty hallways.
“Then, suddenly,” Y/N continues, shaking her head, “he comes back one night looking like he’d been run over by a lawnmower, and the next thing I know, he’s basically a full-time chauffeur for a pack of middle-schoolers. He calls you guys his 'nuggets.' He has a bat in the trunk of his car, Mike. A bat with nails in it! He told me it was for 'aggressive raccoons.'”
Mike nearly choked on a laugh. Aggressive raccoons. That was the best cover story Steve could come up with for a Demogorgon? “Yeah, well... those Hawkins raccoons don't mess around. They’re... territorial.”
“He treats you guys like you're his own kids,” she says, her voice softening. “Especially Dustin. I think he loves that kid more than he loves his hair products, which, if you know Steve, is a statistical impossibility.”
Mike shifts closer, feeling the weight of the secrets he couldn't tell her yet. He wants to explain that Steve is a hero, not just a babysitter, but he settles for making her feel like part of the inner circle instead.
“It’s not just Steve,” Mike says. “The group... it’s smaller than it used to be. Two of our best friends moved to California last year. Will and Jane.”
“You still talk to them?” Y/N asks.
“Yeah,” Mike nods, a brief shadow of sadness crossing his face before he brightens. “Will is... he’s the Cleric. He’s the heart of the group. And Jane... she’s special. She’s tough. You would’ve liked her. She doesn't take crap from anyone, kind of like Max, but... quieter.”
He looks at Y/N, making sure to catch her eye. “But honestly? You'd fit right in. Lucas would try to impress you with basketball stats, Dustin would explain the entire plot of Star Wars to you whether you asked or not, and Max... well, Max would probably just be glad there’s another girl around who isn't obsessed with the cheer squad.”
Y/N smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes. “I’m already obsessed with the cheer squad by proxy, Mike. It’s a requirement of the last name. But... I think I prefer the 'Paladin' talk. It’s less exhausting.”
“Is it difficult?” Mike asks suddenly. “Being... the captain? Everyone looks at you and sees the hair, the role, the name. Does anyone ever just see... you?”
Y/N looks down at her hands, twisting a ring on her finger. “Steve does. In his own, suffocating kind of way. But most people? They just want to be near the 'Harrington' brand. It’s like being a statue in the middle of the town square. People look at you, but they don't talk to you.”
She nudges his arm with her elbow. “Until a certain Wheeler decided to start 'vibrating' with nerves every time I walked by.”
“I told you, that was a medical condition,” Mike defends, though he was grinning.
“It was cute,” she whispers, the word hanging in the air between them. “It was the first time in a long time someone looked at me and looked... terrified. Not because I was popular, but because they actually cared about what I thought of them.”
For a few minutes, they don’t talk at all. They just sit there, the "popular" and the "nerd” labels that usually felt like heavy armor, now discarded on the rocks. Mike realizes that the more he learns about her—her annoyance with Steve’s over-parenting, her quiet loneliness in a big house, her sharp wit—the more the “crush” is evolving into something deeper.
He isn’t just falling for the girl at the lunch table anymore. He is falling for the girl who stayed at the quarry long after the sun went down.
“We should probably get back,” Mike says, though he doesn’t move an inch. “Before Steve starts calling the National Guard.”
“Just five more minutes,” Y/N says, leaning her head back against the stone. “The stars are better out here. No streetlights. No noise. Just... us.”
“Just us…” he breathes out. The weight of his shoulders slowly vanish as his body lets go of every thought.
“Natural twenty,” Mike whispers to himself.
“What was that?” Y/N asks, smiling.
“Nothing,” Mike says, finally closing the gap and letting his hand rest fully over hers. “Just... a good roll.”
He doesn’t realize it yet, but the “friend” label he is clinging to is already starting to fray at the edges. He isn’t just a friend, and she isn’t just a peer tutor. They are two people sharing a secret place, building a bridge that Steve Harrington doesn’t have the blueprints for.
The "Subtle Wave" has become a high-stakes sport. Mike would practice his "casual acknowledgment" in his bedroom mirror until he looked less like a human and more like a malfunctioning robot.
The 2nd-period bell rang, and the hallway floods a sea of denim and neon. Mike is walking with Dustin, who is currently explaining why a displacer beast could easily take down a bear, when Y/N appeares from the opposite direction, flanked by two other cheerleaders.
As they pass, Mike doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow down. Instead, he locks eyes with her and his face softens—the kind of move a low-level spy might make before being caught.
Y/N doesn’t miss a beat. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes flicking to Mike for a fraction of a second, and gives a sharp, mischievous wink that sent Mike stumbling directly into a row of lockers. Dustin knew well to tell him beforehand, but it’s funny to see it happen instead of imagining it.
“Smooth, Wheeler,” Dustin mutters, grabbing Mike by the back of his jacket to steady him. “Really graceful. You looked like a newborn giraffe hitting an electric fence.”
“I'm fine!” Mike hisses, his face a shade of red that shouldn't be biologically possible. “It was a tactical stumble! It lowered her guard!”
“Her guard is fine, Mike. Yours is the one currently lying on the floor,” Dustin sighs.
“You could’ve told me, Dustin!”
Back at Family Video, the “Harrington-Wheeler Cold War” had moved into a new, more ridiculous phase. Steve had decided that the best way to keep tabs on the situation was through Forensics.
Steve is currently sitting on the floor of the back room, surrounded by several of Mike’s returned VHS tapes. He is holding a magnifying glass he’d bought at the drug store.
“What are you doing, Steve?” Robin asks, standing over him with a bucket of popcorn. “Are you looking for fingerprints? Because I’m pretty sure the only thing you’ll find on The Goonies is Cheeto dust and Mike Wheeler’s tears.”
“I'm looking for notes, Robin!” Steve snaps, squinting at the plastic casing. lThe youth of today use VHS sleeves as a dead-drop system! I know they do! I saw it in a movie. They slip a little piece of paper in there that says, 'Meet me behind the gym at midnight to discuss... feelings.'”
“You are so stupid—Why would he even return it to us if there’s—if he did—“ Robin stutters in frustration, her fists are clenched to hold back unnecessary comments.
“I agree with Robin. I thought you was searching for fingerprints. Who knows. Maybe they had a movie night and she was the one who slipped the tape in,” Nancy says with a smirk he can’t see but can hear through her teasing tone. She’s facing her back towards him while flipping through the news on the screen.
His eyes widen and frantically grabs the previous tapes he checked before and searches through them again.
“You have officially lost it,” Robin says, turning to Nancy. “Nance, he is profiling your brother via rental tapes. Please tell me the Wheeler family has some sort of legal recourse for this.”
Nancy walks to where they are and leans against the doorframe, watching Steve try to smell a copy of Back to the Future. “Steve, if Mike wanted to send her a note, he’d just use a walkie-talkie. Or, you know, a locker. Like a normal person.”
Steve freezes, his eyes widening. “The lockers! I haven't checked the lockers! Robin, take over the counter! I have to go to the school for... uh... 'alumni relations!'”
“You’ll get a restraining order, dingus!” Robin calls out as Steve sprints for the door. "And I’m not bailing you out! I’m taking your vest and becoming the manager!"
Nancy only looks unfazed. Robin just curses as she takes off her uniform vest and goes back to the staff’s room, yelling out loud to the curly haired woman. “Out of here, Lady Wheeler! Store is closed!”
Back at school, the “Friends” are communicating through the most sacred medium of all: The Snack Trade.
Mike is sitting at the Hellfire table, staring at a small, wrapped brownie with a smiley face sticker on his tray. He hadn't bought it.
“Where did that come from?” Lucas asks, eyeing the chocolate.
“The 'Harrington Delivery Service,'” Max says, looking over at Y/N’s table.
Earlier, Y/N had walked past the lunch line right as Mike was reaching for a bruised apple. She had “accidentally” bumped his tray, slid the brownie over, and whispers, “Happy Wednesday, Paladin,” before disappearing into a cloud of perfume and high-status popularity.
“She gave you the fudge-deluxe?” Dustin asks, sounding genuinely offended. “Do you know what I had to do to get a fudge-deluxe last week? I had to trade my mint-condition X-Men comic to a freshman!”
“It’s just a brownie, Dustin,” Mike says, though he is holding it like it was a holy relic.
“It's not just a brownie!” Dustin gestures wildly. “It's a declaration!”
Across the room, Y/N is laughing at something a friend said, but she caught Mike’s eye just as he took a bite of the brownie. She gives him a tiny, satisfied thumbs-up under the table.
Mike nearly choked.
Lunch quickly ends and everyone starts to carry themselves away. As they walked out of the cafeteria, Mike finds himself walking parallel to Y/N for exactly three seconds. The cafeteria is too crowded and full of impatient people wanting to get out.
“Is the 'friendship' brownie satisfactory?”!she whispers, her eyes dancing with amusement.
“It’s... it’s a very high-level snack,” Mike replies, trying to keep his voice steady. “Dustin was super jealous. They’re going to think you have a favorite, Harrington.”
“I do not,” Y/N rolls her eyes playfully with a smile. “See you at 'Our Place' after school? No bodyguards?”
“No bodyguards,” Mike promises.
Did Mike ever tell anyone that Wednesday is his favorite day of the week? It’s his favorite day because that’s the day where Y/N Harrington makes excuses to her brother just to spend time with him at the Quarry. This has been ongoing for a month.
As they split off, Mike feels a rush of adrenaline. They are playing a game that is far more complex than D&D, and for the first time, he feels like he was actually winning.
After that, Mike is trying to pack his bag with lightning speed, hoping to slip out of the theater wing before the “Inquisition” began. He fails. Eddie Munson is already leaning against the doorframe, twirling a drumstick, while the “Cupids” blocks the exit.
“Leaving so soon, Wheeler?” Eddie teases, his grin wide and sharp. “The battle for the Iron Hills hasn't even begun, and yet our Paladin is already washing his face and... is that cologne I smell? Or just the scent of destiny?”
“It’s not cologne, it’s soap, Eddie! Leave me alone,” Mike snaps, though his face was betraying him by turning a bright, festive pink.
“He’s going to the Quarry,” Dustin whispers loudly to Lucas, acting like Mike isn’t there. “The Sacred Site. The place where 'Friends' go to stare at water and pretend they aren't totally obsessed with each other.”
“Don't forget to breathe, Mike,” Max adds. “And if Steve shows up with that bat, remember: stay low and zig-zag. He’s got great hair, but his peripheral vision is terrible.”
“I'm leaving!” Mike shouts, shoving past them. As he runs down the hall, he hears Eddie’s voice booming behind him: “Spaghetti’s a great move to find the treasure! Kiss the treasure!”
The Quarry is bathe in a hazy, lavender light by the time Mike arrives. Y/N is already there, sitting on their rock, her chin resting on her knees. She had swapped her cheerleader uniform for an oversized sweater and jeans, looking less like a cheer’s captain and more like a girl who just wanted to disappear for a while.
The “Elephant in the Room”—the crushing weight of Mike’s feelings—is currently sitting right between them, but for now, they both pretend it was just another rock.
“Steve thinks you’re a negative influence,” Y/N says softly as Mike sits down. She doesn’t sound upset; she sounds amused in a weary way. “He told me today that Wheelers are 'born troublemakers' because Nancy once broke his heart in Halloween years ago. He acts like love is a battlefield and he’s the only one with a medic kit.”
“He’s just protective,” Mike says, looking at the water. “My friends... they talk about him like he’s this legendary warrior, but I see him in Family Video arguing with the shelf. It’s hard to remember he’s the same guy.”
“He had to grow up so fast,” Y/N whispers. “When our parents went on those long trips... he was the only one there. But he was just a kid too. He doesn't know how to let go because he thinks if he stops hovering, everything will fall apart again.”
Mike looks at her, seeing the sympathy in her eyes—not just for Steve, but for the weight of being her. He realizes he wants her to know everything, even the parts he can’t say.
“That's why my friends are so loud,” Mike explains, gesturing vaguely towards the town. “Will, Dustin, Lucas... we all have stuff at home. Will’s house was... quiet for a long time. Dustin didn't have a dad around. We built our own family because the one we had felt like it was missing pieces. Steve was the missing piece.”
He turns to her, his voice sincere. “You're not an 'add-on' to this, Y/N. I know it feels like we’re this exclusive club, but the reason I tell you about them is because... well, I want you to know the people who matter to me. Because you matter to me. As friends.”
The air in the Quarry suddenly feels very still. The “Elephant” shifted its weight.
Y/N looks at him, her eyes searching his. She reaches out, her hand hovering near his on the stone. “You really mean that? Even if it means Steve keeps trying to 'parent' you into early retirement?”
“I'd take on a hundred Steves,” Mike says, then immediately backtracks, “Okay, maybe three Steves. Four if I have a head start. But yeah. I mean it.”
Y/N laughs, a genuine, warm sound that makes Mike’s stomach does a backflip. She finally closes the gap, her fingers brushing against his. It is “Heaven” because she is right there, smiling at him in a way she doesn’t smile at anyone else.
But it is “Hell” because he is Mike Wheeler, and she is Y/N Harrington, and the word friend is still the only shield he feels safe enough to carry. He wants to tell her. He wants to say, 'I think you're the most incredible person I've ever met,' but instead, he just squeezes her hand.
“We're a weird pair, aren't we?” she asks.
“The weirdest,” Mike agrees. “A Paladin and a Princess. The DM is definitely going to have to rewrite the rules for this one.”
He then tugs his bag in between them, his comforting smile made her forget why she felt the way that she felt when she arrived. “Snacks?”
Back in the BMW, Robin is putting on a performance worthy of an Oscar. Steve is gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white, his eyes darting toward every shortcut that led to the Quarry. Steve had gone to three different locations that are possible targets to hormonal teenagers.
“Steve, look! Is that a sale at 'RadioShack'?” Robin shouts, pointing wildly out the window at a completely empty storefront. “I think I saw a limited edition cassette cleaner! You need that for the Bimmer!”
“I don't need a cassette cleaner, Robin! I need to ensure my sister isn't being 'Wheeler-ed'!” Steve swerves the car around a corner. “She told me that she’s doing a group project with the other class. I feel a disturbance in the Harrington Force.”
Steve pulls the BMW into a ditch-adjacent parking spot about a quarter-mile from the ledge. “I’m going in on foot, Buckley,” he whispers, checking his reflection in the rearview mirror as if he is preparing for a covert ops mission instead of a sibling check-in. “The engine is too loud. It gives away the element of surprise. Stay here. Be my lookout. If you see a Wheeler-shaped reinforcements, honk twice.”
“You’re like a budget Batman, Steve. Go, go! Save the day!” Robin shoos him away.
The moment Steve’s sneakers hit the gravel and he starts his frantic, “stealthy” jog toward the trail, Robin dove across the center console. She scrambles for the glove box, nearly knocking over a half-empty bottle of Steve’s expensive cologne. She grabs the black walkie-talkie, her thumb jamming the Talk button.
“Calling all Nuggets! This is Robin-the-Great, do you copy? Come in, you little monsters!”
Static hisses for a split second before Dustin’s voice crackles through. “Robin? Why are you on this frequency? This is for official Party business only!”
“Official Party business is about to get a Steve-shaped wrecking ball!” Robin hisses, her eyes darting to the tree line to make sure Steve hadn't doubled back. “He’s on the trail. He’s in 'Protective Dad Mode' Level Ten. If he finds Mike and Y/N alone up there, Mike is going to be ground into dust and scattered over Mirkwood. Get to the ledge! Dilute the romance! Make it look like a boring, smelly group hang! Move!”
“Code Red!” Dustin shouts on the other end. “Lucas, Max, drop the comics! We’re going hot!”
Up on the ledge, the world is still beautiful and blissfully unaware of the incoming storm. Mike is currently digging through his backpack, pulling out a slightly flattened bag of pretzels, two bags of chips, and some orange slices his mom had packed.
“It’s not exactly a five-star dinner,” Mike apologizes, handing Y/N options for her to take. “But it beats the cafeteria mystery meat.”
“It’s perfect, Mike,” Y/N says, leaning her head on his shoulder. The scent of her shampoo—something light and floral—mixed with the smell of the damp limestone.
Mike feels a surge of warmth. To make her feel more like she belongs, he starts telling her about the “Distance Days.” He talks about how the group survived when half of them were in California.
“I still write to them” Mike says, his voice dropping an octave. “Every week. To Will, about the new campaigns we’re building. And to… Jane.”
Y/N tilts her head. “Jane,” she repeats, the name tasting strange in her mouth. “Were you guys close? Still?”
“I’d say it’s a cool distance,” Mike says, staring at the water. “She's... she's the most powerful person I know. And the bravest. And Will keeps the group together. They both balance us so well. Writing to them is like... appreciating a piece of the past alive.”
Y/N smiles, though there was a tiny, flickering curiosity in the back of her mind. She doesn’t know the history—the first kiss, the first heartbreak of the move, the fact that Jane was Mike’s first everything. To Y/N, Jane was just a legendary friend from the “California branch.”
“So, every Friday?” Y/N asks, smiling as Mike describes the letter-writing routine.
“Every Friday,” Mike nods seriously. “Sometimes it’s hard because I want to tell them things that haven't happened yet. Like... meeting someone new.”
He looks at her, his heart doing that familiar flutter. The letters are his lifeline, and now Y/N is becoming a part of the narrative he sends across the country.
“You're a good friend, Mike,” Y/N says, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Most guys just talk about themselves. You talk about everyone else. It’s... refreshing. I think it's sweet that you’re so loyal. Most guys forget people the second they’re out of sight.”
Mike felt like he was floating. It was heaven. It was perfect. It was—
“ABORT! ABORT! CODE RED! ACT NATURAL!”
The silence is puncture by the sound of tires screaming on dirt. Mike and Y/N jumped apart as Dustin, Lucas, and Max literally tumble over the crest of the hill like they’d been launched from a cannon.
“Math!” Dustin roars, sliding into the dirt next to them. He zips open his bag and dumps everything out. Every book of each subject is there. “Quick! Talk about the Pythagorean Theorem!”
“What?!” Mike shouts, clutching his pretzels.
“Steve is forty-five seconds out!” Max pants, grabbing Mike's arm and physically dragging him three feet away from Y/N. “Lucas, sit in the middle! Max, look annoyed! Mike, look... like you're struggling with long division!”
By the time Steve Harrington burst onto the scene, flashlight held like a tactical weapon, he didn't find a romantic sunset date. He found a chaotic, sweaty, and incredibly loud study session.
Lucas is pointing aggressively at a scrap of paper. “I'm telling you, the remainder is six!”
“It can't be six, Lucas! You didn't carry the one!” Mike yells, his voice cracking with the effort of the lie.
Steve stands there, panting, his hair slightly disheveled from his “stealth” run. He looks at Y/N, who is calmly eating an orange slice, and then at the four “nuggets” who look like they are in the middle of a high-stakes tutoring session from hell.
“Oh,” Steve says, his chest heaving. “You... you're all here. All of you.”
"Oh, hey, Steve!" Y/N says, looking up with a perfectly practiced expression of boredom. “We’re studying. Or we were, until you decided to recreate the climax of an action movie in the bushes. Do you need something? Or did you just come to check our homework?”
“Wait. Why are you all here? It’s a Wednesday. Don't you people have homes?” he blinks in confusion.
“We’re a study group, Steve,” Y/N says, her voice perfectly flat and unimpressed. “Mike was actually explaining the 'Industrial Revolution' to us. It was so boring I think Dustin actually fell asleep for a second.”
“It was agonizing,” Dustin adds, nodding solemnly. “Truly a trial of the spirit.”
Steve looks between them, his suspicion fighting with his relief. He looks at Mike, who gives him a very tired, very 'platonic' wave.
Robin appears a moment later, leaning against a tree and trying to hide her grin behind a handful of taco shells. “I told you, Steve. It’s a nerd-fest. Pure, unadulterated boredom.”
Steve tucks his flashlight away, looking both relieved and deeply embarrassed. “Right. Yeah. Homework. Good. Keep it up. Education is... it's the future. I'll be in the car. Taking a nap. A very masculine nap.”
As the older teens retreat, the Party let out a collective breath. Mike looks at his friends, then at Y/N, who is trying—and failing—to hold back a laugh.
“I'm sorry,” Mike says to her.
“Don't be,” she laugh, throwing a pretzel at him. “That was the most intense math lesson I’ve ever had.”
The three doesn’t bike away. Instead, they collapse onto the limestone like discarded marionettes, their chests heaving from the uphill sprint. The “Boring Math” ruse was over, replaced by the reality of four out-of-shape teenagers and one very confused Harrington.
“I think... my lungs... are on fire,” Dustin wheezes, his hat askew.
“You're pathetic, Dustin,” Max pants, though she is sprawled out flat on her back, staring at the darkening sky.
Y/N laughs, leaning over to offer Dustin the rest of the orange slices. “You guys really didn't have to break a land-speed record for a 'study group' cover story. But I appreciate the commitment to the bit.”
Mike sits there, picking at the grass, feeling a strange tightness in his chest. He is “disturbed”—that nagging feeling that the worlds are colliding too fast. He hadn't planned for Y/N to meet them in such a raw, chaotic state.
“So,” Max starts, leaning back on her elbows. “You actually like hanging out with Wheeler? Alone? Without someone paying you?”
Y/N laughs, nudging Mike’s foot with hers. “Believe it or not, he’s actually decent company. He doesn't talk about hairspray or basketball once. It’s a nice change of pace.”
“He’s a fountain of useless knowledge,” Lucas adds, finally catching his breath. “If you ever need to know the specific weakness of a gelatinous cube or the history of a random basement in 1983, he’s your guy.”
“He told me about the basement,” Y/N says, her voice turning a bit more thoughtful. “And the campaigns. And the 'Great Arcade War' of last summer.”
The Party relax. They start swapping stories—real ones, the kind that didn't involve monsters but felt like they did. They talked about Dustin’s failed science fair projects and the time Lucas got his head stuck in a trophy case. For a good twenty minutes, the “Social Chart” didn't exist. They weren't the Freaks and the Princess; they were just kids sitting on a rock.
“He really does talk about you guys constantly,” Y/N said, looking around the circle. “He talks about the California branch, too. Will and Jane. He makes them sound like legends. Especially Jane. He said she’s the bravest person he’s ever met.”
The name Jane didn't trigger a romantic alarm, but it triggered a “classified information” alarm.
Mike feels a cold drop of sweat slide down his neck. He wasn't in love with Jane anymore—the letters he wrote now were filled with talk of school and his new friendship with Y/N—but he had been dishonest. He had presented Jane as a "brave girl from out of state" instead of a "superpowered girl who used to be my girlfriend and saved the world."
Dustin stops chewing. He looks at Mike, waiting for him to fill in the blanks. When Mike stays silent, staring intensely at the water, Dustin has to pivot.
“Yeah,” Dustin says, his voice a little too high. “She’s... uh... she’s very brave. She once stood up to a... very big dog. A real monster of a dog. Scary stuff.”
The way Y/N said the name was so casual. To her, it was just a quirky name for a distant friend. She didn't say it with the weight of a girl who could flip a van with her mind, or the girl who was written in Mike’s heart in permanent ink. She said it like she was talking about a pen pal.
“Yeah,” Max says slowly, her voice carefully neutral. “Jane. She’s... she’s something else.”
“It’s cool that you guys stay in touch. Most people just move on, but Mike... he’s loyal.”
The Party felt the weight of that word: Loyal.
They knew Mike wasn't being malicious; he was just terrified. If he told her the truth about Jane, he’d have to tell her the truth about everything. The Upside Down. The Lab. The fact that her brother, Steve, had been beaten to a pulp by a creature from another dimension.
By keeping Y/N in the dark, he was keeping her “safe,” but he was also building a wall between them.
Max looks at Mike, her eyes saying everything: The longer you wait to tell her who we really are, the harder it’s going to be when she finds out.
“We're a 'loyal' bunch,” Lucas says, trying to ease the mood. “Golden retrievers! That’s us—Ouch!” he flinches when his girlfriend pinches him from behind.
“She's definitely brave,” Dustin finally says, breaking the tension with a forced grin. “But hey, we’re all pretty legendary. Did Mike tell you about the time I found a—“
“Dustin, don't,” Mike interrupts, his voice a bit sharper than he intended. He feels exposed. He felt like the “Elephant in the Room” had just grown a second head.
Y/N sensed the shift. She saw the way Mike’s friends went from exhausted to guarded. She saw the way Mike was suddenly staring at his shoes like they held the secrets to the universe.
“Did I say something wrong?” she asks softly, looking around the circle.
“No!” Everyone say, a bit too loudly.
“No, we just... we don't usually talk about the California kids much. It makes Mike get all... Wheeler-y,” Lucas says with an apologetic face.
“Wheeler-y?” Y/N teases, trying to bring the light back into the conversation. She nudges Mike’s shoulder. “Is that a technical term?”
“It means he gets moody and starts writing long letters,” Max says, her eyes fixed on Mike, a silent warning in her gaze.
Be careful, Mike. You’re playing with a different kind of fire now.
Mike doesn’t look up. He could feel the weight of the letters in his bag, the ones he hadn't sent yet. He thought about the “Natural 20” he thought he’d rolled. Now, it felt like he was playing a game where the rules kept changing, and the “friendship” he was building with Y/N was built on top of a mountain of things he couldn't—or wouldn't—say.
summary: Her words are a constant, suggestive friction, a calculated chaos that leaves the Party laughing and Mike perpetually on edge. But beneath the sharp wit and the brazen remarks lies a secret language only the two of them are starting to translate. Sometimes, the most inappropriate distractions are the only thing keeping the darkness at bay.
wc: 6,5 k
post contains: fem!reader, dirty humor, nervous mike, idiots in love, slow burn, eleven attends hawkins high cuz why not, mileven never happened, teenagers being teenagers, no actual smut, fluff if you squint.
author’s note: went into my flow state while writing this LMFAO not proofread. can be read as singularly :) criticism and feedback are appreciated! requested
Lean for a Kiss! | Part 2
Hawkins High School was a graveyard of 1980s stereotypes. The air was a thick, suffocating blend of Aqua Net hairspray, floor wax, and the lingering scent of mystery meat coming from the cafeteria. It was 1986, and for most students, the biggest threat was a failing grade in Trigonometry or a social snub from a cheerleader. But for the “Party,” the hallways felt different—heavier.
Every flickering fluorescent light felt like a warning. Every dark corner was a reminder of things seen that couldn't be unseen.
Mike Wheeler was the walking embodiment of that weight. He moved through the crowd like a man on a deadline, his lanky frame hunched, eyes darting between his watch and the scribbled notes in his hand. He was the Paladin, the leader, the one who carried the map of their trauma in his pocket. He was always “on,” always calculating the next move for a war that never seemed to truly end.
And then there was Y/N.
If Mike was a storm cloud, Y/N was the lightning bolt that didn't care who it hit. She didn't walk through the hallways; she owned them. She wore her denim jacket slightly off one shoulder, her backpack slung low, and a smirk that suggested she knew a secret that could get everyone in the building suspended. While the others walked with their heads down, she moved with a predatory grace, her eyes always scanning for her favorite target.
She spots him by locker 24/7. He looks stressed. He looks tired. He looks like he was about to have a panic attack over a D&D module.
Perfect.
She didn't just approach him; she invaded his orbit. She slid past a group of jocks, ignored a wave from a confused-looking one, and plants herself directly in Mike’s path.
The air around Mike usually felt static, but when Y/N leans against the locker beside him, the energy shifts. She smells like vanilla and just a hint of the cigarettes she definitely wasn't supposed to be smoking behind the gym.
“You know, Wheeler,” she starts, her voice a low, honeyed drawl that cut through the noise of slamming lockers. She didn't wait for him to look up. She reached out, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw before resting on the collar of his striped polo. “The way you’re clutching those papers... it’s almost like you’re afraid someone’s going to take them away. Or maybe you’re just practicing your grip for later?”
Mike freezes. The frantic tapping of his foot stops instantly. He looked up, and for a split second, the haunted look in his eyes was replaced by pure, unadulterated panic.
“The trajectory is all wrong, Mike,” she adds, her eyes dropping to his lips with a deliberate, teasing slowness.
“The... the trajectory?” Mike squeaks. His voice cracks, a beautiful, high-pitched note of distress that made Y/N’s smirk widen. “I was... we were talking about the basketball game. Lucas has a game, Y/N.”
“Oh, I'm sure Lucas is great at shooting,” she purred, leaning in until their noses almost touched. “But I was talking about the way you’re looking at me. It’s very... vertical. If you keep staring like that, I might start thinking you want to see how I look from a different angle. Maybe from the floor?”
Dustin, standing just behind Mike, let out a sound like a teapot reaching a boil. Lucas simply sighed, leaning his head against the cold metal of the lockers. “Four seconds. She didn't even say 'hello' before the floor joke.”
The hallway seems to shrink as Y/N maintained her target lock on Mike. The rest of the Party stood in a loose semi-circle, a practiced audience to the daily “Wheeler Meltdown.”
Will stands slightly to the left, clutching his sketchbook. He’s the only one who didn't look away or groan. Instead, he watched with a quiet, observant intensity. He noticed how Mike’s knuckles, previously white from gripping his books, had finally relaxed. Y/N was a chaotic distraction, but she was an effective one.
“Y-you're doing it again,” Mike stammers, his eyes darting to Eleven, who is standing beside Max. “Y/N, El is right there! You can't just... say things about floors!”
Eleven tilts her head, her dark eyes tracking the way Y/N’s hand was still resting dangerously close to Mike’s chest. Since she isn’t dating Mike, her curiosity is purely academic. She is like a scientist observing a strange and new species.
“Floor?” El repeats, her voice calm and inquisitive. “Is there something wrong with the floor? Is it... 'bitchin'?”
Max snorts, leaning her weight onto her skateboard. “No, El. Y/N is just being a menace. It’s her primary personality trait. Somewhere between 'annoying' and 'felony charges'.”
“It's called flavour, Max,” Y/N toss over her shoulder, not once breaking eye contact with Mike. She steps even closer, her denim jacket brushing against Mike’s windbreaker. “And El, honey, the floor is only 'bitchin' when Mike is the one pinned to it. I’ll explain it to you when you’re older. Or when Mike finally grows a pair... of dice. For the game. Obviously.”
“I have dice!” Mike argues, his voice jumping an octave. “I have a whole bag of dice!”
“I bet you do,” Y/N whispers, her thumb brushing the underside of his chin. “Are they weighted? Or do you just have a natural talent for rolling... deep?”
Dustin throws his hands up in the air. “Okay! That’s it! I’m calling a Code Red on my own sanity. Mike is pink, El is confused, and I’m pretty sure I just grew a chest hair from the sheer secondhand tension.”
Lucas checks his Casio watch again. “We have three minutes until Mr. Munson starts the Hellfire meeting. If we don’t move now, Y/N is going to have Mike pinned to a locker, and I really don't want to explain that to Principal Higgins.”
“He'd like it,” Y/N hums, finally stepping back. She gives Mike a slow, deliberate look-over—one that started at his messy hair and ended at his scuffed sneakers—before winking at the group. “But Lucas is right. Duty calls. Lead the way, Paladin. I’ll be right behind you. Literally. I want to see if those jeans look as good from the back when you're walking away in shame.”
Mike scrambles to turn around, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to get toward the AV room. “I'm not in shame! I'm leading! I'm... I'm walking!”
As the boys hurries ahead, Max falls into step beside Y/N, nudging her with an elbow. “You’re going to actually kill him one of these days. His heart is going to explode.”
Y/N’s smirk softens, just for a fraction of a second, as she watches Mike’s lanky silhouette disappear through the double doors. The playful predator look in her eyes flickered into something more grounded—something protective.
“Better a heart attack from a joke, Max,” Y/N says softly, her voice losing its husky edge, “than him losing his mind over everything else. He was spiraling again. Did you see his hands?”
Max pauses, looking at the closed doors. She hadn't noticed. But Y/N always did.
“Yeah,” Max mutters, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I saw. Nice 'stamina' joke, by the way. A bit cliché, but effective.”
“Cliché?” Y/N gasps, her theatrical persona snapping back into place instantly. “That was vintage! Now come on, I need to go find a way to work 'natural twenty' into a sentence about his mouth.”
The room was a sanctuary of thick curtains, the smell of ozone from old projectors, and the chaotic aura of Eddie Munson.
Eddie didn't just sit at the head of the table; he presided over it like a manic king on a throne of scrap metal. He was currently standing on his chair, his rings clattering against a goblet as he wailed about the "unholy carnage" awaiting them.
"The Cult of Vecna cares not for your puny mortal lives!" Eddie bellows, his wild hair flying. Then, he spots the group entering. His eyes lands on Mike, who is still vibrating with residual Y/N-induced radiation, and then on Y/N herself. "Ah! The Paladin returns! And he’s brought the High Priestess of Filth with him."
Y/N didn't miss a beat. She strides over and sits on the table ahead of him until she was inches from Eddie’s face. “Careful, Eddie. If you keep calling me that, people will start thinking you’re jealous of Mike’s... attention.”
Eddie let out a bark of a laugh, leaning back with a grin that shows off his teeth. “Jealous? My dear, I’m merely an admirer of the craft! Most people use fireballs to burn their enemies; you use HR violations. It’s poetic!”
“Sit down, Y/N! You’re on the map! You’re literally standing on the Forest of Shadows!” Mike scrambled to pull her off the table, his hands landing on her waist before he realized what he was doing and pulled back like he’d touched a hot stove.
“Oh, Mike,” Y/N sigh, sliding off the table with a theatrical pout. She leans into him, whispering loud enough for the entire room to hear. “You don't need a map to find your way to find my heart. Just ask for directions. I’m very... hospitable to lost travelers.”
The Hellfire members—Jeff and Gareth—erupts. Gareth actually bangs his drumsticks against the table. “Another one! That’s a twenty-sider to the heart!”
“Can we please just play?” Mike pleads. “The Party is currently standing at the mouth of the Cave of Whispers. It’s dark. It’s damp. It’s—“
“Sounds like my bedroom on a Friday night,” Y/N chirps, popping a piece of Dustin’s popcorn into her mouth.
Mike’s head hit the table with a dull thud.
“Focus, Wheeler!” Eddie shouts, pointing a finger at him. “The Cave! It’s damp! There are sounds coming from the depths! Rhythmic... pounding... sounds!”
Y/N leans over Mike’s shoulder, her chin resting on his sweater. She looks at the map, then up at Mike’s burning ear. “Rhythmic pounding? Honestly, Mike, did you write this campaign or did you just transcribe my dreams? Because if there’s a 'beast' at the end of this tunnel, I hope it has half the endurance you claim to have on your character sheet.”
“It’s a Troglodyte!” Mike yells at the ceiling. “It’s a foul, stinking, three-armed Troglodyte! It is not—in any way—erotic!”
“Three arms?” Y/N muse, tapping her lip. “Well, that does open up some interesting possibilities for multitasking.”
Even Will couldn't hide his snicker anymore, hiding his face behind his sketchbook.
Eddie is double over, clutching his stomach. “By the gods, Wheeler, give up! She’s got you cornered! Just roll for initiative or marry the girl before she kills us all with a double entendre!”
Mike takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to regain his 'Dungeon Master' dignity. He looks at his notes, then at Y/N, who gave him a slow, heavy-lidded wink. For a second, his annoyance flickersinto something else—a fleeting, confused smile that he quickly suppressed.
“Fine,” Mike mutters, his voice finally dropping back into a serious register. “You enter the cave. Y/N, since you’re so interested in the... stamina of the beast, you’re in the front. Roll for perception.”
Y/N picks up her d20, blowing on it for luck before looking Mike dead in the eyes. “I’m always looking for something, Mike. Let’s see if I’m lucky enough to find it tonight.”
She rolls. The dice clattered across the table, spinning past a stunned Dustin and a grinning Eddie, before landing directly in front of Mike.
"Natural twenty," Max whispers.
“Of course it is,” Mike sighs, but his eyes stays lock on Y/N's. For the first time all day, he didn't look away.
The "rhythmic pounding" of the D&D session is replace by the rhythmic rattling of Steve Harrington’s BMW 733i.
The sun is dipping below the Hawkins horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange. Steve sits behind the wheel, looking like a man who had survived a war, while Robin sits in the passenger seat, vibrating with her usual frantic energy as she try to untangle a cassette tape with a pencil.
The back seat is a sardine can of teenagers. Mike is shoved against the window, trying to maintain a "respectful distance" from Y/N, who was currently using his lap as a leg rest. Max is sitting on Lucas’ lap, and Dustin and Will are squished.
“I’m just saying, Steve,” Y/N’s voice drifts through the car, smoky and teasing. “For a guy who spends so much time obsessing over his 'texture,' your shocks are surprisingly... stiff. Every time we hit a pothole, Mike here gets a little closer to my lap. Not that I’m complaining, but I think your car is trying to tell us something.”
Steve’s eyes flickers to the rearview mirror, narrowing. “My shocks are fine, Y/N. It’s an imported vehicle. It has 'road feel.'”
“Oh, I'm feeling the road, alright,” Y/N hums, shifting her weight so her leg pressed firmly against Mike’s denim-clad thigh. She feels him jump as if he’d been electrocuted. “Though I think Mike prefers the 'seat feel.' Don't you, Wheeler? You’ve been gripping that door handle like your life depends on it. Or are you just practicing for when you have to hold onto something... sturdier?”
Robin snorts, finally giving up on the tape. “She’s got you there, Dingus. You do drive like an old man taking his prize-winning poodle to a dog show.”
“I am a great driver!” Steve protests. “And Y/N, for the love of God, can you go five minutes without making Mike look like he’s about to faint? The kid is turning a color I didn't even know humans could turn.”
“He likes it,” Y/N says, her hand “accidentally” sliding down from the seat-back to brush against Mike's arm. “He’s just shy. He’s a slow-burn kind of guy. Very... methodical. Right, Mike? I bet you’re the type who likes to follow the instructions... all night long.”
Mike let out a sound that is somewhere between a whimper and a strangled voice of protest. He stares out the window with the intensity of a man looking for an escape hatch. “It’s just a car ride, Y/N. We’re going to Family Video. It’s a five-minute drive.”
“A lot can happen in five minutes,” she whispers, leaning closer until her lips were inches from his ear. “If you know what you’re doing with your hands.”
“Okay! That is it!” Steve swerves slightly as he turns into the Family Video parking lot. “Everyone out! Robin, keep an eye on her. If she starts hitting on the cardboard cutouts of Tom Cruise, we’re leaving her here.”
“I make no promises,” Robin laughs, hopping out of the car. “But I think the 'Top Gun' poster is more Mike’s speed anyway. Very... authoritative.”
As the group piles out, Mike scrambles out first, practically falling onto the pavement to get away from the heat of Y/N’s presence. He starts walking toward the store, his stride long and panicked.
Y/N lingers by the car door, watching him. Steve steps around the hood, leaning against the car and crossing his arms. He isn’t glaring this time; he is looking at her with that "mom-friend" intuition he’d developed over the last few years.
“You're laying it on thick today,” Steve notes, nodding toward the retreating, awkward figure of Mike Wheeler.
Y/N’s mask doesn’t drop, but her posture relaxes. She leans back against the BMW, the cool metal biting through her denim jacket. “He was thinking about the Byers' old house again, Steve. I could see it. He gets that look in his eyes—like he’s waiting for the floor to open up and swallow him.”
Steve sighs, his expression softening. He knew that look. They all did. “And your solution is to talk about 'stamina' and 'anatomy' until his brain melts?”
“If his brain is melted,” Y/N says, a genuine, small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “there’s no room for the nightmares. Besides...” she pushed off the car, her eyes regaining that predatory sparkle. “He really does look cute when he's flustered. It brings some color to his cheeks.”
She saunter toward the neon lights of the video store, calling out. “Hey, Wheeler! Wait up! I need help picking out a movie! Something with a lot of... action! Or maybe just something with a very, very long... runtime!”
Steve watches her go, shaking his head. “Gosh, I hate teenagers,” he mutters, though he is smiling.
To say there’s chemistry amongst the party—that is not wrong. Different types of chemistry. There are those who are lovebirds and those who jokes about a man’s birds in between their pants.
Y/N tends to get ahead of herself, but nobody stops her. What is she without the wise words of Mike’s ability to unravel her upside down?
Incident #1
“The strategy is simple!” Mike was saying to a bored-looking Max and a nodding Will. “If the cultists surround us, Lucas uses the blast, Dustin provides cover, and I—“
“And Mike provides the visual entertainment,” Y/N interrupted, sliding into the group like she’d been there the whole time. She reached out and adjusted Mike’s collar, her fingers lingering just a second too long against his neck.
“Though, Mike, if you really wanted to distract the cultists, you should’ve worn those tight corduroys from Tuesday. They did wonders for your... critical hit zone.”
Dustin snorted so hard milk came out of his nose. Lucas just closed his eyes and whispered, “Here we go.”
Mike froze, his face turning a shade of red that actually made his freckles disappear. “Y/N! We are talking about life or death stakes in the Shadow Realm! And those pants were a gift from my mother!”
“Even better,” Y/N winked, completely unfazed. She turned to Max. “Did you see the way the fabric gripped? It’s a miracle he can breathe, let alone cast spells.”
“I hate you all,” Mike muttered, though he didn't move away from her touch. He never did.
Incident #2
The bell hadn’t even finished ringing before Mike Wheeler was already spreading his Hawkins High map across the desk, looking like a man who hadn't slept in three days. “Okay, the Hellfire campaign starts at four. We need to discuss the strategy for the Demoplich—“
“You know, Mike,” Y/N interrupted, leaning over his shoulder so closely that her breath hit his ear. She traced a slow finger over the edge of his map. “I’m much more interested in your manual than the Dungeon Master’s manual today. Does it have a section on... stamina?”
Dustin choked on his chocolate milk. Lucas looked at the ceiling as if praying for strength. Mike, however, froze mid-sentence, the tips of his ears turning a shade of red that rivaled a cherry Slurpee. “Y/N! We’re talking about strategy! And... and that’s not even how the game works!”
Incident #3
She leaned against her locker, watching Mike struggle to get his oversized chemistry textbook into his backpack. He looked stressed, lanky, and—in Y/N’s humble opinion—ridiculously biteable.
“Need a hand, Wheeler?” she purred, sliding over and placing a hand right over his on the locker door. “Or are you just saving all that arm strength for something more... private later?”
Mike fumbled his bag, a notebook spilling out. “It’s a heavy book, Y/N! My god, can you just be normal for five minutes while we walk to the Buried Pleasure?”
“Normal is boring,” she winked, dropping to help him pick up his papers, making sure to stay in his line of sight. “Besides, you love the attention.”
Incident #4
The fluorescent lights of the Hawkins High hallway hummed with a headache-inducing buzz, but Y/N only had ears for the sound of Mike Wheeler’s voice. He was arguing with Will about the physics of the Upside Down, his hands moving wildly as he talked. He was the “Paladin.” The leader. The one who always tried to keep things together.
Y/N lived to pull those strings apart.
She waited until he was mid-rant before she stepped into his path, forcing him to stop short. She reached out, adjusting the collar of his striped polo shirt with lingering fingers.
“You’re vibrating, Mike,” she whispered, her eyes dropping to his lips just for a second too long. “If you’re that pent up, I could think of a few ways to help you burn off that energy. And none of them involve a D20.”
Will suddenly found a very interesting poster on the wall to look at, while Mike’s voice hit a frequency only dogs could hear. “I... we... we have a meeting! At my house! With my mom there!”
The storm outside is a classic Hawkins tantrum. Thunder rolls over the suburbs like heavy boulders, and the rain lashes against the small, basement windows of the Wheeler house. Inside, the usual cacophony of the Party had faded. Dustin and Lucas had braved the rain to get home before the streetlights flickered out, and Nancy is upstairs, the muffled sound of her typewriter a distant heartbeat above them.
Mike is sitting on the edge of the worn-out sofa, surrounded by loose-leaf paper and half-drawn maps. The dim yellow light of a single lamp made his shadow look ten feet tall against the wood-paneled walls.
Y/N isn’t on the other side of the room. She is sitting on the floor, her back against the sofa right between Mike’s knees. Her body is slouch against the sofa. For the first time all day, she is quiet. She is spinning a pencil between her fingers, her eyes fix on the blank TV screen.
“You're doing it again,” Mike says softly. His voice wasn't cracked or high-pitched. It was low, tired.
Y/N doesn’t look back. “Doing what, Wheeler? Existing? I know, it’s a lot for you to handle.”
“No,” Mike says. He leans forward, his chest inches from the back of her head. “The silence. You only get this quiet when you’re thinking about something you don't want to joke about.”
Y/N’s hand stops spinning the pencil. She feels the warmth of him radiating behind her. Normally, this was where she’d make a comment about him “breathing down her neck” or ask if he liked the view from up there. But the joke died in her throat. The air in the basement felt thick, charged with something more potent than the electricity outside.
“Maybe I'm just tired of hearing my own voice,” she whispers, lying through her words..
“Liar,” Mike whispers back.
He does something then that he never did. He reaches out and tentatively places a hand on her head, ruffling and patting through her hair softly. He didn't pull away. He sees the tension in her muscles loosen in her body, the way she was holding herself together. “Is it the gate? Or... is it just everything?”
Y/N closes her eyes. The touch felt like a brand. Without the shield of her humor, she felt exposed. She tilts her head back, resting it against the cushion right next to his leg. From this angle, she had to look up at him upside down.
“I saw you today, Mike,” she says, her voice dropping the husky, flirty edge for something raw. “In the hallway. You looked like you were disappearing. Like you were already halfway into the Upside Down without even moving.”
Mike’s thumb brushed the fabric of her shirt on her shoulder, a tiny, rhythmic movement. “I'm fine. I'm the Paladin, remember? I stay on the map.”
“Even Paladins get tired of carrying the shield,” she murmurs. She reaches up, her hand hovering near his, but she doesn’t grab it. Instead, she traces the line of his wrist with her index finger. No jokes. No suggestive comments. Just a slow, deliberate touch.
Mike’s breath hitch. It isn’t the startled gasp of a flustered boy; it is the sharp inhale of someone who is suddenly, terrifyingly aware of how close she was. He looks down at her—really looks at her—without the red-faced embarrassment.
“Why do you do it?” he asks, his voice barely audible over the rain. “The jokes. The... constant 'stamina' stuff. Why always me?”
Y/N’s heart hammers against her ribs. This is the cliff. She could jump off with a joke and save herself, or she could stay here in the truth.
“Because,” she says, her finger stopping at the pulse point on his wrist. “If I'm making you blush, you're looking at me. And if you're looking at me, you aren't looking at the dark. And I... I need you to stay in the light, Mike. I need you here.”
Mike has been carrying the burden of the party for years. It’s a miracle that he isn’t thinking about anything that’s related to the Upside Down. She’s the main reason for that.
The silence that follow is heavy. Mike doesn’t pull his hand away. In fact, he turns his palm upward, letting his fingers lace through hers. It isn’t a “perverted” move. It was a grounding one.
“I'm here,” he said.
Y/N glances at their joined hands. The urge to say something dirty, to break the tension with a comment about “hand-holding being a gateway drug,” is screaming in her head. But she doesn’t say it. She just squeezes his hand, her thumb tracing his knuckles.
The fire is there, under the surface. It isn’t the bright, loud explosion of her usual flirting. It is a slow, steady burn—the kind that hurts because you know once it truly starts, there’s no putting it out.
The vulnerability of the basement felt like a fever dream by morning. The sun is out, the puddles are steaming on the hot Hawkins asphalt, and the “High Priestess of Filth” is back in full regalia.
They are gathered at the Starcourt Mall (rebuilt and rebranded, but still the same neon-soaked purgatory). The mission is simple: find a birthday gift for Dustin’s mom without Dustin finding out.
The group is weaving through the crowds, but Y/N is trailing slightly behind with Robin and Nancy. Steve is up ahead, trying to keep Dustin from wandering into the RadioShack.
“You look like you didn't sleep,” Nancy notes, her investigative journalist eyes narrowing as she looks at Y/N. Nancy is wearing a crisp pastel blazer, looking every bit the professional, while Y/N looks like she’d been dragged through a bush backwards—and enjoyed it.
“Hard to sleep when you’re thinking about the heavy lifting Mike has to do,” Y/N replies, her voice regaining its signature honeyed rasp. She caught Mike’s eye from across the atrium and blew him a kiss. He nearly trips over a trash can. “Takes a lot of energy to keep a guy from falling on his sword.”
Robin leans in, her voice low. “Right. Because we all know how much you love his... sword.”
“Robin! Don't encourage her,” Nancy sighs, though she was fighting a smile.
“What? I’m just saying,” Robin shrugs, grinning at Y/N. “I’ve never seen a girl so dedicated to a single target. It’s like a military operation. Operation: Make Mike Wheeler Spontaneously Combust.”
“He’s just so... reactive,” Y/N says, her eyes following the way Mike is currently arguing with Lucas about a ceramic cat. “You poke him, and he hums like a tuning fork. It’s addictive.”
They reach the boys, who are huddled around a display of “World’s Best Mom” mugs.
“This is garbage,” Lucas is saying. “We need something... classier.”
“Classy? In this mall?” Y/N slides between Mike and Lucas, throwing an arm around Mike’s shoulders. She leans her weight into him, feeling the familiar stiffening of his frame. “If you want classy, Wheeler, I could show you a few things in the lingerie department. I’m sure your mom would love a silk robe... and I’d love to see your face while we pick it out.”
Mike went from pale to fuchsia in point-five seconds. “Y/N! We are shopping for our friend's mother! Why do you always have to make it weird?”
“I don't make it weird, Mike. I make it interesting,” she purrs, her hand sliding down to the small of his back, just at the waistband of his jeans. She feels his breath hitch—a sharp, jagged sound. “Besides, you look so handsome when you're morally outraged. It really defines your jawline.”
“I... I’m going to go check the other aisle,” Mike stammers, practically vibrating. He turns to flee, but as he moves, he accidentally brushes his hand against hers.
Unlike the basement, where the touch was soft and lingering, this was a spark. An electric shock of friction. Their eyes met for a split second—not the predator-and-prey look from before, but something sharp and hungry.
Mike bolts toward the back of the store.
“He's getting faster,” Dustin noted, appearing out of nowhere with a bag of Orange Julius. “Soon he’ll be able to outrun a Demogorgon just to avoid one of your 'length' jokes.”
“Let him run,” Y/N murmurs, watching Mike’s retreating back with a look that was decidedly not a joke. “The chase is the best part.”
But as she turns back to the girls, her hand stays tuck in her pocket, her thumb rubbing the spot where his skin had just grazed hers. The burn is getting harder to hide.
In her head, Y/N is starting to realize that the “performance” is getting harder to maintain. She wants him to know she's serious, but she's terrified that if she stops the jokes, the “real” Mike won't want the “real” her.
The mall was a maze of neon and capitalism, but for Mike, it is a gauntlet. Every corner turn is another opportunity for Y/N to catch him off guard.
The Party eventually finds themselves walking to the food court, a sprawling arena of plastic chairs and the smell of grease. Mike is sitting next to Will, picking at a basket of fries like they were puzzle pieces he couldn't solve.
“He’s doing the brooding thing again,” Dustin whispers to Lucas, loud enough for everyone to hear. “The 'I’m the protagonist of a tragic indie movie' look.”
“I am not brooding,” Mike snaps, though he didn't look up. “I'm just... thinking.”
“Thinking about what, Wheeler?” Y/N’s voice appears right behind his ear, followed closely by the weight of her leaning over the back of his chair. She didn’t just lean; she drapes herself over him like a velvet shroud. Her chin came to rest on his shoulder, her hair brushing against his cheek.
“Thinking about how much better those fries would taste if I were the one feeding them to you? Or were you wondering if I’m as... flexible as I look in these jeans?”
The table goes dead silent. This is bold, even for her.
Mike freeze. He doesn’t turn red this time. Instead, a muscle in his jaw jumps. He slowly put down his fork and turns his head just enough to look her in the eye. The proximity is staggering; he could see the gold flecks in her irises, the tiny smirk that usually meant she had won.
“Actually,” Mike says, his voice surprisingly steady, “I was thinking about how you never stop. It’s like a reflex for you, isn't it? Everything has to be a punchline. Everything has to be... this.”
He gestures vaguely between them, his eyes searching hers for something she wasn't prepared to give.
Y/N’s smirk doesn’t falter, but her heart skips a beat. She shifts closer, her lips ghosting over his earlobe. “What can I say, Mike? You’re just so easy to play with. Like a little clockwork toy. I just wind you up and watch you go.”
She expects a stutter. She expects him to shove his chair back and run.
Instead, Mike reaches up. His hand doesn’t push her away. He wraps his fingers around her wrist—the one draped over his shoulder—and pulls her hand down so he could look at it. He doesn’t let go. His grip is firm, warm, and utterly serious.
“Is that all this is to you?” Mike asks. Everyone is staring now. Max had stopped mid-bite; Eleven is watching with wide, curious eyes. “A game? Because it’s getting a little old, Y/N.”
The air in the food court seem to thin out. The “High Priestess” feels her throne wobbling. The teasing comment she had ready—something about “gripping her tight”—dies in her throat because the look on Mike’s face isn’t embarrassment. It is hurt.
“Mike—“ she starts, her voice losing its husky edge.
“No, forget it,” Mike said, abruptly letting go of her wrist. He stands up, his chair screeching against the tile. “I’m going to the arcade. Alone.”
He walks away, his shoulders tense, his head down. He doesn’t look back.
The table remains silent for a long beat until Dustin finally spoke up. “Uh... Y/N? I think you finally broke him.”
Y/N stands there, still leaning over the back of the empty chair. The spot on her wrist where he’d held her felt like it was on fire. She looks at the others, her usual mask of cool indifference feeling heavy and cracked.
“I was just joking,” she whispers, more to herself than them.
“Were you?” Will asks softly. He is the only one who doesn’t look away. “Because I think Mike’s tired of being the joke. I think he’s waiting for you to say something that actually matters.”
Max leans back, crossing her arms. “You played the 'pervert' card one too many times, Y/N. Now he thinks that’s all you see when you look at him. A target. Not a person.”
Y/N feels a cold lump form in her stomach. She looks toward the neon glow of the 'Palace' arcade in the distance. The “Slow Burn” had just turned into a wildfire, and for the first time in her life, she didn't have a witty comeback to put it out.
The neon lights of the “Palace” arcade are a dizzying blur of magenta and electric blue, but the usual soundtrack of Pac-Man chirps and Dig Dug explosions felt muffled to Y/N. She found Mike in the far corner, hunched over a Dragon’s Lair cabinet that wasn't even turned on. He is just staring at his own reflection in the dark glass.
She doesn’t sneak up on him. She doesn’t whisper something scandalous in his ear. She just walks up and stands a few feet away, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets.
“Mike,” she says. Her voice is flat. No honey, no rasp, no hidden meanings. Just his name.
Mike doesn’t turn around. “If you’re here to tell me the joystick is ‘stiff’, then don't. I’m really not in the mood.”
Y/N winced. It is a fair shot. She steps closer, leaning her shoulder against the side of the cabinet, looking at the profile of his face. He looks exhausted. The shadows under his eyes seems deeper under the harsh arcade lights.
“I’m not,” she says softly. She took a breath, the smell of ozone and stale popcorn filling her lungs. “I'm actually here to say... I’m sorry. I crossed a line.”
That got him. Mike turns his head, his brow furrow in genuine shock. In all the years he’d known her, Y/N hadn't apologized for anything—not for stealing his fries, not for making his mom blush at dinner, and certainly not for her jokes.
“You're apologizing?” Mike asks, his voice skeptical. “Is this a prank? Is Dustin filming this?”
“No, Mike. No cameras. No punchlines,” Y/N looks down at her scuffed boots. The silence stretch between them, awkward and heavy. “I know I’m a lot. I know I’m... loud and inappropriate and I say things that make you want to crawl into a hole and die.”
“Usually, yeah,” Mike mutters, but his posture relaxes slightly.
“I do it because of your hands, Mike,” she says suddenly, looking up at him.
Mike blinks. “My... my hands?”
“They shake,” she explains, gesturing to where his fingers are currently fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. “Every time things get quiet, or every time someone mentions the lab, or the woods... your hands start to shake. You look like you’re carrying the weight of the entire world on your shoulders, and you’re waiting for it to crush you.”
Mike stares at her, speechless. He’d spent so long trying to be the “strong leader” for the Party that he didn't realize anyone had seen through the cracks.
“When I say something stupid,” Y/N continues, her voice trembling just a fraction, “when I make you turn red and yell at me... you aren't shaking anymore. You’re just Mike. You’re annoyed, and you’re flustered, but you’re here. You aren't in 1983. You aren't in the Upside Down. You’re just a teenage guy getting teased by a girl.”
She lets out a short, dry laugh, shaking her head. “I thought if I kept you focused on me—even if you hated it—you wouldn't have room to be afraid. I didn't realize I was just making you miserable.”
Mike looks at her for a long time. The anger he felt in the food court evaporated, replace by a strange, hollow ache in his chest. He looks at his hands, which were, for the moment, perfectly still.
“I don't hate it,” he says quietly.
Y/N looked up, surprised. “What?”
“The jokes. I mean, they’re embarrassing. Ridiculously embarrassing,” Mike clarifies, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his gloom. “But... you’re right. It does help. It’s like a cold splash of water. It wakes me up.”
He steps away from the machine, standing fully in front of her. “I just... I didn't think you were doing it for a reason. I thought you just liked seeing me suffer.”
“Well, seeing you suffer is a bonus,” Y/N teases, a hint of her old self flickering back into her eyes. But then she turned serious again. “I just want you to be okay, Mike. You’re the Paladin. If you go down, we all go down. I just... I need my friend to stay sane.”
“Friend,” Mike repeats. The word is a fact, yet somehow insufficient, though neither of them seemed to notice why. He reaches out, awkwardly patting her arm. “Thanks, Y/N. For... noticing. And for the apology. It was weirdly mature of you.”
“Don't get used to it,” she warns, finally letting out a real breath. “I have a reputation to uphold. If word gets out I have a heart of gold, I’ll never be able to make a 'stiff' joke again.”
“Please don't,” Mike laughs, and for the first time all day, the haunted look is gone.
As they walk back toward the food court, side by side, they are perfectly oblivious to the fact that their friends are huddled behind a Galaga machine three rows over, watching them with a mix of awe and frustration.
“See?” Dustin whispers, pointing at them. “Complete idiots. They’re literally soulmates and they’re talking about 'friendship' and 'shaking hands.'”
“Give it time,” Max murmurs, a smirk on her face. “The burn is just getting started.”
pairings: mike wheeler x cheerleader!harrington!reader
summary: Mike stood trapped in the narrow space between a Centipede cabinet and the girl who felt like a different species, the distance between them had never felt more deafening. Mike was beginning to realize that the most dangerous game in the room wasn't on a screen—it was the quiet, terrifying glitch in the air every time Steve’s younger sister looked his way.
wc: 7,3k
post contains: fem!reader, slow burn, yearning mike, down bad mike, nervous mike, basically canon mike, cupid in action.
author’s note: i did NOT expect for the first part of this to blow up like hello ?? ik we’re grieving puppy mike just about right 👅👅 not proofread! criticism & feedback are appreciated!! part 3 will be posted soon
All to Ourselves Masterlist
In the high school ecosystem, noticing someone new is like a “glitch in the Matrix.” Y/N has been at the top of the food chain so long that she’s used to everyone being predictable. Suddenly, Mike Wheeler starts to look like the nonexistent insecurity in real life. He starts to show up out of nowhere. He’s like the characters that suddenly shows up in the middle of a TV show even though they’ve always been there before.
In the hierarchy of Hawkins High, there were rules. You stayed in your lane, you wore the right shoes, and you never, ever looked too closely at the 'freaks' in the back of the cafeteria. As a Harrington, Y/N was the judge, not the contestant.
But lately, the contestants were acting... weird.
She feels a weird ping of guilt. She knows Mike. She’s seen him at her house, eating pizza and arguing with Steve about the "physics of fireballs." She knows he’s a "10/10" in the category of actually being a real person, even if his hair is a disaster and his jeans have a hole in the knee.
It’s not that she’s cocky of his attention. Oh, no, she gets that every day from everyone. It’s not foreign to her, but how is it when oil meets water? They don’t go with each other.
The day when Hawkins High won the basketball championship game made the shift. That was two months ago.
She started getting love letters from a new secret admirer. These dudes are lining up in a line they refuse to acknowledge. This one specific secret admirer is quite… polite.
“Did you try on a new bow today? It suits you.”
“Careful on that handstand. Still, it was incredible!”
“The school’s chocolate puddings are probably expired. They taste like shit to me. Don’t waste your taste on such things.”
She’s not pointing fingers, but something about Mike Wheeler tugging a string in her heart that she can’t explain why.
Another thing is that Lucas is so noisy all of the sudden. Not only to her, but the rest of the ladies in the cheer squad. He’s not flirting. He’s just… inserting himself where he isn’t usually is.
It started with Lucas Sinclair. Usually, the only time she saw him was when he was trailing behind Steve and Max like a lost puppy. But for three days, he’d been appearing in the gym hallway during cheer practice, 'practicing his pivots' in a way that looked suspicious.
He’s never alone. His girlfriend seems to be the second piece of their secret observation.
She notices the couple lurking everywhere. They aren't being subtle. Lucas would “practicing dribbling” in hallways he has no reason to be in. Max would leaning against walls, staring intensely at every girl who carries the school’s name on their back.
She rarely talks to them because she’s “Up There” and they are “Down There.” To her, they are the “nuggets” Steve complains about. But now, she keeps catching them staring at her friend group.
They were searching for something. Or someone.
A month ago…
The cheer squad were sitting together. A few basketball guys sitting beside amongst the girls. What a dream, right? Basketball boyfriend and cheerleading girlfriend are the blueprint to high-school love.
“What do you think they’re doing?” Heather, the co-captain of the cheerleading team said. “Y/N, you know them, right? Do you know something?”
“Know them? I barely talk with them. They’re always doing their own stuff,” Y/N poked her meal, unfazed. “Never dangerous, so I choose not to worry.”
Jason, who has his hand around Chrissy, suddenly jumps in. “I don’t like how they’re looking like they have the right to. I bet they’re up to something.”
Y/N spoke again, her tone shifting into something more defensive. “Dustin and Eddie? I’d say so. But Lucas and Max always minded their own business. Don’t talk about your friend like that, Jason.”
Chrissy was quiet the entire time. Her body growing tense under Jason’s arm. Her eyes glanced up when Eddie was mentioned, but quickly looking back down at her meal.
“Hey, he associates himself with those kids, Harrington.”
“And he’s triving! They’ve known each other before they learned the alphabet!”
Heather puts an arm in between the two. She sensed that this would escalate to something bigger if one doesn’t stop.
“Hey, Jason, it’s none of your concern,” she then turned to her friend. “Y/N, he’s just trying to play safe. April is next month. Maybe they’re planning an prank…?”Heather’s unsure of her own words.
Jason pointed a finger at Heather, his arm tightened around Chrissy. “It is my concern that they’re eyeing my girlfriend!”
Every time Y/N caught their eye, they’d scramble away. It made her skin itch. She looked over at Mike Wheeler—the lanky, pale leader of their little band of misfits—as he hurried past her friend, Heather, he didn't look up. He never did. But for a split second, Y/N wondered if the 'glitch' in her daily life had something to do with the boy who looked like he was constantly trying to vibrate out of existence.
For once, this is way tougher to figure out than algebra.
Right now, Mike has his arms crossed, tapping his foot against the gravel surface. In front of him, Lucas and Max has their head down in shame. This is insanely similar to when Steve is scolding them for destroying his precious deadly baseball bat.
Max is the first to speak, her voice still holds that guilt but slightly stubborn. “I’m just gathering data, Mike! They’re quite nice, okay? I saw Amy help a freshman with a jammed locker, and then I saw Tiffany cheer a nerd up from chemistry.”
“Gathering data? You guys went full on monocle military-esque colors for field work!”
“Mike, chill,” Max said, looking entirely too bored for someone who had just been caught 'spying' in the girl's locker room hallway. "We’re being subtle.”
“Subtle?!” Mike waved a frantic hand toward the gym. “Lucas, you were literally standing behind a potted plant. You’re six feet tall! The plant is two feet tall! Estella looked right at you, and you started whistling!”
“I was blending in!” Lucas argued, whispering-yelling back. “I’m on the team! I have every right to be in the athletic wing. And for your information, she didn't just look at me. She smiled. It was a 'I know you're Mike's friend' smile. We're building rapport!”
“We don't need rapport!” Mike groaned, stopping his pace to lean his forehead against the cool metal of a locker. “You guys need invisibility. I told you guys about the... the girl... because I needed to vent. Not because I wanted a two-man search party investigating every pom-pom in the building.”
Lucas lowers his head down, lifting slightly to glance at his girlfriend. “I think they’re onto us. I swear Heather looked at me today. Like, really looked at me. I think I’m burned. I can't go back in there.”
“Yeah, no shit. You streached on the bleachers, looking at the cheer squad who were doing Padahastasana with their backs facing you!” Mike runs a hand through his hair, his eyes shut in frustration and anxiety from the possibilities of humiliation.
“What’s that?” Max looks puzzled.
“Basically they had their asses in the air, and Lucas coincidentally was looking at the wrong time. He kept looking too.”
“I was looking at their heads in between their legs to see their faces!”
Max looks disgusted, her head snapping at him and grabs a piece of his hair and drags it back. Lucas yelps and clutches his head, muttering apologies repeatedly in desperation.
“Seriously, you guys should mind your own business. It’s only bad that I’m being secretive. This is the only chance I have to be close with her.”
Max lets go of Lucas, ignoring his whimpers and whining. She looks at Mike with a straight face. “If anything, we’re trying to figure out your mysterious girl!”
“Yeah, man. I can help, you know. Connections, remember?” Lucas said with a huff as he massages the stinging part of his head.
“But I don’t want that! I know I don’t have a chance. I know I’ll be seen as Duckie from Pretty in Pink. I know I never get bitches other than girls who haven’t experienced love because she was raised in an abusive lab. I know what I’m facing, and I’m perfectly fine with where I am,” he exhales heavily.
“That’s because you’re scared of rejection, Mike! You say you know what you’re facing yet you don’t back away. You still hope for the possibility of a positive outcome,” Max takes a step closer to the boy.
“I know you don’t fall for assholes who care about their skin and hair. This girl has to be good for you in a way. She made you feel like life is worth chasing for. So, please, spare us for being curious friends who needs to find out on who this girl is because she’s doing a great job at keeping you in place!”
She breathes heavily. Her chest is rising up and down. The abandoned playground is only filled with silences and the chirping of the birds in the sky.
Mike only looks at her, not knowing what to say as he glances behind her, asking Lucas for help through his eyes. They both gave each other the same intimidated eyes and chose not to say anything.
Mike pressed his lips shut before speaking in a quiet, scared voice. “And no, it’s not Amy, Tiffany, nor Heather.”
Max just curses and stomps the ground as she faces away from Mike, pacing and kicking rocks. Her boyfriend sighs and rests his hand in the pocket of his jacket. He starts walking to the young Wheeler and puts a hand on his shoulder.
His expression softened, just for a second. The teasing edge left his voice. “Mike, this girl, she’s not like Heather or Tiffany. We’re sure of that. She’s... she’s probably cool. Probably cooler than you.”
“Exactly!” Mike threw his hands up. “Thank you, Lucas! That’s my point! She’s too cool! So stop 'reconnoitering' before you blow the only thing I have left, which is the ability to walk past her without her thinking I’m a total creep!”
“Fine,” Lucas said, adjusting his backpack. “No more spying. But we can't just leave it at 'Level 2' forever, Mike. So I did something. Something official.”
Mike freezes. “What did you do, Lucas?”
The cafeteria is buzzing with chatter and laughter from a table across. Yet, the table that’s usually the loudest of all tables, is dead silent like a mime just died. No one dares to speak.
Perhaps it’s the stares from other nearby tables, or the inconsistent color amongst the table, but let’s address the pom pom in the room. There’s Y/N Harrington sitting in between the freaks.
Dustin is munching quietly, looking like he lost his appetite with a piece of pizza in his mouth. Eddie Munson is grinning like a shark, enjoying the chaos Mike looks like he’s trying to phase through the floor. Max is pretending to read a comic, but she’s actually observing the table through her peripheral vision.
Lucas is sitting there looking proud of himself. In his head, he’s thinking: “See? I’m fixing the social divide! I’m the Great Unifier!”
Lucas is the first to break the silence, coughing awkwardly before speaking with tight friendliness. “So, Y/N... I was telling the guys how you're actually really cool for a cheerleader. Like, you don't even have that high-pitched laugh Heather has. Right, Max? Max and I were just talking about how 'different' you are.”
Y/N movements stops and glances towards him, looking puzzled. “I’m sorry?”
Max glared at him subtly, but just enough to make him notice and make his smile falter. Still, she plays the act and offers a smile that’s incredibly smooth. “Yeah, yeah! You know, I only appreciate the ‘Go Tigers’ thing because of you.”
Y/N just nods, a slight smile appears to seem polite. “Thanks, Max.”
The tables goes silent again. The sound of pizza munches and fork being scraping on the tray are the only things that are saving the awkwardness.
Eddie doesn't know the secret, but he’s a professional chaos-maker.
He leans over the table, grinning like a shark. “Well, well. A Harrington in the Wild. Tell me, Y/N, does your brother know you’re consorting with the subterranean class? Or are you here to recruit us for the pyramid-formation?”
“I think I’d have a hard time getting you into a skirt, Eddie. But I’m mostly here because Lucas seemed like he had something on his mind. He’s been following me around like a private investigator,” she settles her fork down on her tray. Her perfect posture seems like a threat than her name.
“Care to tell what issues you guys have with my team? As captain, I’m here to settle every seed into its perspective pot.”
Mike finally looked up, and for a second, the lunchroom noise faded into a dull hum. She’s looking at him. Not like he was Steve’s “little nugget,” but like he’s a puzzle she’s trying to solve.
“You've been quiet, Mike,” she said, her voice soft enough that it didn't carry to the rest of the table. “You okay? You look like you're seeing ghosts.”
He stutters, blinking nervously as he glances down the table. “Just not used to… this.” She just nods slowly, as if taking his words for a testimony.
“Listen, we’re not doing anything. We just need to find someone right now. It’d be awkward if we ask people one by one, so, we did it on our own,” Max cuts in. Lucas is just nodding rapidly.
“Well, you guys are creeping us out.”
“We’re sorry, okay? We’re not planning anything. I swear on Dustin’s mom,” she points at the said guy, who froze and looks puzzled.
“You better not. I’ll tell Steve before you get to say excuses to him.”
The couple immediately shakes their head, stumbling with their words as they try to convince her.
Dustin couldn’t take it anymore. He broke his silence and said with so much formality in his voice that he forgets that the girl he’s talking to is his babysitter’s younger sister.
“I still don’t get it. Maybe it’s because I’ve been getting left out these past weeks,” his eyes glaring at a few people, clearly targeting. “But trust me, we’d rather get up Steve’s hair than yours and your team’s. You guys are just… not our taste.”
Y/N is taken back at this. She’s clearly not used to having her ego rejected like this. “Well, good! None of you are our taste, either!” It’s like looking at Steve, but as a girl and younger.
Nobody notices the slouch in Mike’s figure. Nobody notices how his shoulders went down immediately like jelly. That comment felt like a bad hair day.
Eddie suddenly cuts in, still chewing on his slice of pizza. “Okay, so, what’s the deal here, anyway? Little Miss Glitter here is suddenly sitting with us like a virus.”
“Excuse me?”
Lucas raises both hands to both sides, trying to prevent unnecessary tension. “Hey, hey! We’re here to make amends, not just talk.”
The rest of the Hellfire members are equally puzzled, saying “We are?” in unison.
“Look, basically we aren’t planning anything. We just hope that your… circle can be more gentler than they are.”
“Gentler? You were being a creep the whole week!” she exclaims.
“Look, it’s a misunderstanding! We were just... scouting. For... spirit! We wanted to see if the cheer team wanted to collaborate on a... pep rally theme? Right, Max?” he looks at her to seek some help but he’s met with the similar look of desperation.
Y/N just raises an eyebrow. She’s a Harrington; she can smell a lie from a mile away. “A pep rally theme? Lucas, you were hiding behind a equipment rack for twenty minutes. Unless the theme is 'Espionage,' I'm not buying it.”
Mike felt like he was watching a slow-motion car crash, and he was the car. He looked at Lucas, pleading with his eyes for him to shut up, but Lucas was on a roll. Every 'explanation' Lucas gave made Mike look more like a weirdo by association. He caught a glimpse of Y/N’s hand on the table—her nails were painted a soft color of her favorite color—and he felt a wave of nausea. She was here to defend her friends from 'creeps,' and he was the reason the creeps existed.
“I’m here because I like Steve, and I like you guys. But my girls are getting weirded out. Lucas, you were lurking by the equipment shed yesterday. Max, you’ve been 'tying your shoe' outside our locker room for four days straight. If there’s a prank coming, just tell me now so I can help you make it actually funny instead of just... unsettling.”
This just makes the Hellfire members even more confused. They feel left out and offended, especially Dustin. They’re not even a part of the duo’s creepy scheme but they somehow have to endure this? Unfair.
She had expected them to be mocking or defensive, but as she looked around the table, she saw genuine confusion on the faces of the rest of the Hellfire members. They clearly had no idea what their friends were up to. But Mike... Mike Wheeler looked like he was vibrating out of his skin. He hadn't said a word. He looked guilty. Not 'creepy' guilty, but 'I’ve made a terrible mistake' guilty. It piqued her curiosity more than the lie about the pep rally did.
Y/N decides to be the bigger person, but with a warning.
“Okay. I'll tell the girls it was a 'misunderstanding.' But if I see a Sinclair or a Mayfield within ten feet of our practice again without a valid reason, I’m telling my brother. And you know Steve... he’s protective.”
She stands up from the table, taking her tray with her. Before she leaves, she looks directly at Mike. “You should talk more, Wheeler. Your friends are doing a lot of the talking for you, and it's not working out in your favor.”
Her hand brushes against Mike’s. He flinched like he’d been hit by a Level 10 Lightning Bolt. His face turned a shade of crimson that he didn't know was biologically possible for a human of his complexion.
As soon as she stands up and walks away, the tables erupts with fingers of accusations and confused murmurs.
Eddie’s eyes settles on the girl that just walked away, then he glances at Mike, who looks like he’s cornered by Vecna. Eddie leans in with his hands under his chin, a sinister smirk is plastered on his face. “Wheeler. Start talking. Why is the Cheer Captain giving you 'the look' and why are our friends acting like private eyes?”
“Yeah, Mike! If you’re involved in some secret mission, we want in! Or at least tell us so we don't look like idiots!” another member said.
Eddie’s eyes then darts between Lucas and Max. “Is there a rebellion in the ranks, Sinclair? Are you trying to defect to the athletic department? Because if you're looking for a pom-pom scholarship, I think your footwork needs help.”
Lucas is sweating. He realizes that “bringing Y/N to the table” didn't make them look cool; it made them look like they’re on trial.
Dustin doesn't just “feel” something is wrong; he calculates it. You can have him list the evidence in his head like a mental chalkboard.
While Y/N was doing her "Captain’s Negotiation" at the table, Dustin wasn’t entirely listening to the words—he was watching the biometric feedback. He remembers the way Mike’s pulse was visible in his neck. He remembers the way Mike’s eyes shook and dilate when Y/N looked at him.
Dustin, tapping a pencil against his lips as he’s sitting on his desk, recalling the day when Y/N Harrington walked away from their table, her ponytail swaying with a rhythmic, infuriatingly organized grace.
He remembers every face on that table. How one was acared, confused, unbothered, and there was Mike. He was trying to merge with the structural atoms of his plastic chair.
“Interesting,” Dustin thinks. “Very interesting.”
That day where Y/N sat with the freaks…
“Hey, Dustin!” Lucas nudged him. “Wasn't that cool? We totally smoothed things over with the squad. We’re in the clear!”
Dustin took a long, slow sip of his milk, his eyes never saw how Mike was still staring at the spot where Y/N had been sitting as if her ghost was still there.
“Yeah, Lucas,” Dustin said, his voice dropping into a low, mysterious tone. “Totally smoothed over. You guys are real James Bonds. Elite spies.”
“Right?!” Lucas grinned.
“But,” Dustin added, leaning in closer. “Just a tip from a fellow intellectual. Next time you ‘scout’ for a pep rally? Maybe don’t do it behind a rack of volleyballs. You look like a periscope.”
Max frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Dustin said, standing up and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, “that the game you guys are playing is ass. Simply because I’m the only one who doesn’t know the rules.”
He walked away, leaving a confused Lucas and Max behind, and a still-shaking Mike. Dustin didn't say a word to Mike. He didn't have to. The "Mastermind" will search for information now. And information is the most powerful thing in the world.
That same day, his room looks like you can find a fossilized sock, but to Dustin Henderson, it was a data stream. He sat at his desk, ostensibly picking the pepperoni off a slice of lukewarm pizza, but his eyes were closed, trying to recall every part of his day when he thought was boring.
He had a theory. Well, more than a theory—he had a Manifesto of Suspicion.
It had started small. A change in Mike’s walking cadence. A sudden, suspicious spike in Mike’s use of expensive deodorant. Then, the “Lumax” anomaly. Lucas and Max, who usually treated the school’s social elite like a separate, boring species, had suddenly become obsessed with the gymnasium's perimeter.
Dustin had watched them from the shadows, squinting as Lucas tried to “blend in” with a trophy case. He’d watched Max “study” on a bench that provided a direct line of sight to the cheer squad’s practice mats.
“Something is rotten in the state of Hawkins,” Dustin thought, narrowing his eyes. “And it smells like Aqua Net and desperation.”
Dustin Henderson was a man of science, and science demanded an explanation for the "Wheeler Glitch."
For three weeks, Dustin had been tracking the anomalies. He sat at the lunch table, his eyes narrowed, watching Mike Wheeler stare at a slice of pizza with the intensity of a man staring into the void. Mike was vibrating. Not metaphorically—actually shaking. The day that Y/N sat down with the freaks made Mike Wheeler realized he’s an actual freak.
Theory One : The Soviet Connection.
It made sense. The suspicious whispering with Lucas and Max? The secret “reconnaissance” missions around the gym? Maybe Mike had found a spy in the faculty and was trying to handle it himself.
He sees how the three seems to find themselves comfortable to go at a specific hallway where it always smells like a jock’s armpit and a cheerleader’s sweat mixed with lavender. Maybe the three are planning a revenge attack ever since Jason’s buddies messed with Eddie’s trailer.
They would’ve invited him to do so.
Theory #1 dismissed.
Theory Two : The Demogorgon Parasite.
Perhaps a piece of the Upside Down had hitched a ride back in Mike’s sweater? It would explain the sweating, the social withdrawal, and why Mike suddenly smelled like an entire bottle of Drakkar Noir (presumably to mask the scent of inter-dimensional rot).
“He’s found a new gate,” Dustin whispered to himself. “He’s found a gate and he’s trying to hide it so we don't get in trouble with the government again. He’s protecting us. What a hero.”
But he would’ve said something by now. If he didn’t, he would’ve been stupid enough to give himself away.
Dustin groans in frustration, crossing the theory with a chalk.
Theory #2 dismissed.
Theory Three : The Debt.
Maybe Mike owed money to a local jock? Or worse, to Erica Sinclair? That would explain why Lucas and Max were “scouting” the hallways—they were lookouts, watching for the muscle to come collect.
Maybe Mike sought help to the nicest cheerleader out there to help him out. Whoever it is, that person poured their heart out to the captain of the team. They’re creeped out by the couple’s tactics. That would’ve made sense.
Again, Karen Wheeler always hated Sundays because that’s the day where her son bugs her for extra lunch money for the week.
“No, Michael. I already gave you enough to buy a freaking arcade set!”
Mike gave his best, annoying puppy eyes. He whines and groans like a child being rejected for candy. “But mom, you gave Nancy fifty and Holly a twenty!”
Theory #3 dismissed.
Theory Four : The Russian Spy 
When no monsters appeared, Dustin moved on to political intrigue. This was the 80’s, after all.
Lucas and Max were “reconnoitering” the gym. Why the gym? The gym was near the boiler room. The boiler room had pipes. Pipes that led to the town’s infrastructure.
Lucas was using binoculars. Max was taking notes.
“They’ve found a sleeper cell,” Dustin decided. “The Russians have infiltrated the Hawkins High athletic department. Mike is the lead investigator, and he’s using Steve Harrington as a double agent. It’s brilliant. It’s like a Tom Clancy novel.”
Again, they’re way to stupid to handle it on their own. He’s not underestimating them, but he just knows them so well.
Theory #4 dismissed.
Dustin’s thinks about the messy chalkboard back in his room, full of frantic scribbles when the “Anomaly” herself approached.
The Harringtons don’t walk; they glide. She was the peak of Hawkins High social evolution, all high-waisted denim and a ponytail that moved with the precision of a Swiss watch.
Dustin looked at Mike, expecting to see the face of a boy being interrogated by a spy. Instead, he saw something much worse.
Mike wasn't looking at her eyes. He was looking at her hands. Then her hair. Then his feet. He looked like a man who had just seen the face of the dead and realized he was wearing his shirt inside out.
Oh right, arcade night.
Steve is tossing the keys in his hands as he walk along side his sister towards the group in front of the building. His voice cutting through the night like a silver bell. "You okay, Mike? You're a little... pale."
Mike didn't answer. He just let out a small, pathetic squeak—a sound so high-pitched it probably shattered a window in the chemistry lab.
In that instant, Theory One, Two, Three, and Four crumbled into dust. Dustin’s brain performed a massive, high-speed recalculation.
The cologne. The gym-hallway detours. The way Mike had been asking Steve if 'good hair' was genetic. The way Lucas and Max were 'scouting' the cheerleaders not for secrets, but for a reason.
Dustin’s eyes went wide. He looked at the Cheer Captain. He looked at the Paladin. He looked at the social canyon between them that was currently being bridged by a shared fruit cup.
“It’s not a conspiracy,” Dustin whispered to himself, his heart skipping a beat. “It’s not the Soviets. It’s not even a debt.”
He watched as Y/N gave Mike a tight smile, giving Mike a small, lingering smile that made Mike looks like he’d been hit by a tranquilizer dart.
“Holy Mother of Gygax,” Dustin thought. “He’s not a spy. He’s a romantic suicide mission.”
The Ending: The Mastermind’s Advantage
“Dustin? You okay?” Max asked, poking his arm. “You’ve been zoning out for a long time.”
Dustin blinked, coming back to reality. He looked at the empty space where the Harringston had been, then at the Mike’s shirt that used to be Mike Wheeler’s dignity.
“I’m better than okay, Max,” Dustin said, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. “I’m a genius. I’m the only person in this room who understands the true nature of reality.”
“Please don’t bring your bullshit into this nice night,” Erica says with a very judgmental look.
The group of teenagers starts following Steve inside the arcade. Y/N is much ahead than the rest of them, being closer to Steve.
Lucas leans over, looking proud. “See? Y/N is chill. I told you I’d fix the ‘creep’ thing. She thinks we’re just enthusiastic about school spirit.”
Dustin looks at Lucas with genuine pity. “Lucas, you are a beautiful, dim-witted butterfly. You wouldn't know school spirit if it bit you on the nose. But don't worry. The Mastermind is here now.”
Lucas just furrow his eyesbrows, glancing at Max for answers, but she’s just as confused
Dustin leans over to whisper into Mike’s ear as he passed.
“Nice cologne, Wheeler. Does Steve know you’re trying to join the family, or should I tell him?”
Mike’s eyes snapped open, a look of pure, unadulterated horror crossing his face. Dustin didn't wait for a response. He just whistles a cheery tune and walks faster towards Y/N, the secret humming in his pocket like a winning lottery ticket.
Dustin looks at Steve’s sister, then at Mike. Suddenly, the "Gold Dragon" code-talk from Lucas and Max makes sense. His eyes lit up like he discovered a time machine.
Dustin looks at Lucas and Max, who are still whispering their lies about pep rallies. He feels a sudden, overwhelming sense of intellectual superiority. He’s the only one who actually understood the gravity of the situation.
Mike Wheeler hadn't just developed a crush. He had developed a crush on the sister of the man who carried a bat with nails in it. He had fallen for the girl who lived at the very top of the social food chain.
Dustin took a slow, deliberate bite of his chocolate bar. It tasted like victory. It tasted like leverage.
"Wheeler," Dustin thinks, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face as he watches Mike try to act normal. "You are in so much trouble. And luckily for you... I'm the only one smart enough to navigate this minefield without getting us all blown to pieces."
It’s not 'a' cheerleader. It’s the cheerleader. It’s the Harrington girl. Mike Wheeler is an absolute madman. He’s trying to climb Mount Everest in flip-flops.
They all eventually got inside. The neon lights of the games seducing them to be played.
Dustin leans into Mike’s personal space, the smell of Farrah Fawcett hairspray (borrowed from Steve) wafting off him.
"Don't look so pale, Wheeler," Dustin whispers, his grin wide enough to show off his happiest smile. "I’m not going to tell Steve. Yet. But I think I deserve a little entertainment for my silence, don't you? Consider tonight a... collaborative effort."
Before Mike can respond, Dustin claps him on the back—hard enough to make him stumble—and shouts, "Hey, Harringtons! Wait up! Mike was just telling me how he's a world-class champion at Galaga. He’s practically begging for a challenger!"
Before they played, Dustin somehow convinces Steve that he need to go "supervise" Erica at the prize counter because "she’s definitely going to steal something."
He then pulls Lucas and Max away, basically dragging them with him. “Look, guys, the Dragons Lair! I’m telling you that machine doesn’t want us to touch it,” he leaves Mike and Y/N standing in a narrow aisle. For a few minutes, they are in their own world.
“So… do you guys come here often?” Y/N says, trying to break the tension.
Mike blinks, then shakes his head slightly, internally screaming at himself. “Y-yeah? Yeah! Not that often, but often enough to know around. You know how high-school is, right?”
She just nods and looks around. It’s been a long time since she had been to this place.
After a moment of silence, she tilts her head at a random direction, walking slowly to where her feet will take her. “I’ll just go find Pac-Man… have fun?”
“Yeah! Have fun, t-too…” Mike waves awkwardly. He then realizes that Pac-Man is literally the opposite of where she’s going. Too late to speak.
Dustin watches from behind a Pac-Man machine, eating a bag of chips. “Look at him,” Dustin thinks. “He’s actually doing it. He’s talking to her without fainting. I’m a genius. I’m the Cupid of Hawkins.”
Everyone is busy doing their own thing. Lucas and Max are probably making out in the parking lot, Erica is swearing at a bunch of eight year olds for making her wait, and Steve is supervising but also can’t help being frustrated with a bunch of eight year olds.
The three? Oh, they’re busy alright.
Mike is playing something safe and solitary—Dig Dug, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that Y/N is only ten feet away and “Hell” (Steve and his nailed baseball bat) is only twenty feet away. Suddenly, Dustin appears like a glitch in the system.
Dustin didn’t just walk up; he inserted himself into the narrow space between Mike’s machine and the next, leaning his elbow on the console.
“Rough luck, Wheeler,” Dustin said, looking at Mike’s dwindling life bar. “You’re playing like a man with a guilty conscience. Or maybe you're just distracted?”
Dustin tilted his head toward Y/N, who is focused on her own game, her brow furrowed in concentration. Before Mike could hiss at him to shut up, Dustin rattles his empty coin cup. It is a hollow, accusing sound.
“I’m out. Bone dry. And since you forgot to tell me several important life updates recently, I think you owe me a 'friendship tax.' Hand over the pouch.”
Mike, wanting Dustin to go away as fast as possible, hands over a handful of tokens. But Dustin doesn't leave. Instead, he turns to Y/N.
“Hey, Y/N!” Dustin called out, over the electronic screams of the arcade. “Mike here was just complaining that this machine is rigged. He says no one—not even a Harrington—can break the top five on Centipede.”
Y/N lets go of her joystick, her game ending with a sad bloop. She turned, a playful spark in her eyes. “Rigged? Is that what he said?”
“I—no—Dustin is exaggerating,” Mike stammers, his face heating up.
“He’s being modest," Dustin lies smoothly, sliding a token into the Centipede slot before Mike could stop him. “He actually bet me five bucks you couldn't beat his score. But since he’s out of tokens, and I’m a benevolent god, I’m donating my last few to the cause of proving him wrong. Mike, show her the 'expert' technique you were telling me about.”
Now, they are forced to share one machine. This is the “Heaven” part Dustin planned—physical proximity.
Dustin stepped back, wearing a grin that was half-angelic, half-shark. He watched as Y/N stepped up to the machine, her shoulder inches from Mike’s.
“Go on, Wheeler,” Y/N teases, nudging him with her elbow. “Show me the 'expert' moves. Or are you scared to lose to a girl in a denim jacket?”
Mike’s hands are slick with sweat as he grabs the trackball. He can smell her—that faint scent of vanilla and whatever hairspray the cheerleaders used. It was intoxicating and terrifying. For a moment, the arcade disappeared. It was just the glow of the screen, the roll of the ball, and the fact that Y/N was rooting for him to do well.
While they are playing, Dustin leans in close to Mike’s ear, whispering while Y/N is distracted by the high-speed movement on the screen.
“See? I’m a genius,” Dustin whispered, his voice barely audible under the synth-pop music. “But every genius needs a patron, Mike. If you want me to keep Steve busy at the air hockey table for the next twenty minutes, I’m gonna need your pepperoni sticks from lunch tomorrow. And your seat by the window in Steve’s car. Deal?”
Mike didn't even look at him. He just nodded frantically, his eyes locked on the screen, terrified that if he stopped playing, she would walk away and the “Heaven” would end.
They actually beat the high score together. There’s a high-five—the first time their skin actually touches. It feels like a lightning bolt to Mike.
Lucas and Max emerge from the dark, looking a little disheveled and very out of the loop. They think they’ve been gone for ages, but in the fast-paced world of Dustin’s "Secret War," they’ve missed everything.
They spot Mike and Y/N at the Centipede machine. They see the physical proximity—the shoulder brushing, the shared trackball
As the couple approaches to investigate, Dustin intercepts them like a bodyguard. He can’t let them ruin the “Heaven” he’s built for Mike, mostly because he’s still enjoying the “Hell” he’s putting Mike through.
“Whoa, whoa, Romeo and Juliet,” Dustin said, stepping into their path with two sodas he’d 'acquired' from the snack bar. “Where have you two been? Scouting for more 'pep rally' locations in the dark?”
Max turned red. “Shut up, Dustin. What’s going on? Why is she actually talking to him?”
Dustin leans back, looking incredibly smug. “What? Mike can’t be friends with Steve’s younger sister? I’m a professional. While you two were busy swapping spit, I was performing social surgery. I convinced her that Mike is a gaming prodigy. Now, if you go over there and say anything 'nerdy,' you’ll blow the circuit. Stay. Here.”
Back at the machine, the tension is peaking. Y/N is actually having fun, and Mike is trying to remember how to breathe.
“Watch out! The spider!” Y/N yelled, her hand accidentally landing on top of Mike’s on the trackball to jerk it to the left.
Mike’s brain short-circuited. The spider on the screen died, but Mike felt like he was the one who’d been zapped. He didn't pull his hand away. He couldn't. It was like his skin was glued to hers by pure, 1980s magnetism.
She realized it a second later. She didn't pull away immediately either. She looks at Mike, the neon green light of the screen reflecting in her eyes. “Nice save, Wheeler,” she whispered.
From ten feet away, Dustin and the couple watched them. They saw the hand-touch. They saw the look. He leans over to a bewildered Lucas and Max. “See that? That’s called a 'Critical Hit.' And I didn't even have to roll the dice.”
Just as the couple are about to say something brave, Erica wanders over with a bucket of tickets.
“Why are they huddled over a mushroom-game like it’s the burning bush? I don't know what kind of weird 'Love Boat' episode you nerds are filming, but Steve is at the Air Hockey table and he’s asking why Mike is 'holding hands' with his sister. If I were you, I’d start a distraction. Unless you want Mike to be buried in the parking lot.”
Dustin immediately pivots. He realizes “Heaven” is about to turn into “Total War” if Steve sees them.
“Abort! Abort!” Dustin hissed to Lumax. “Lucas, go challenge Steve to a rematch. Max, go annoy him that the snack bar is giving out free refills. I’ll handle the lovebirds.”
Dustin sprinted back to the machine. “Okay, show's over, kids! Y/N, Steve is looking for you—something about a 'family emergency' involving a lost quarter. Mike, follow me. We need to go... uh... look at the new Street Fighter cabinet in the back. Now!”
Steve is leaning against his BMW, twirling his keys around his finger with the practiced nonchalance of a guy who knew he had the best car in the lot. He looks up as the group approached, his eyes instantly narrowing as he spotted Mike and Y/N walking a little too close for his comfort.
“Alright, Harrington, let’s go,” Steve called out, his voice dropping an octave into his 'protective brother' register. “ I want you asleep by eleven, and I still have to drop these nuggets off. Which I want you all here to stay until I drop off princess over here,” he points towards everyone except his sister.
She slowed her pace, turning to Mike. The orange streetlights caught the gold in her hair, and for a second, the “Level 2” friendship felt like it was crumbling.
“Thanks for the help on Centipede, Mike,” she said. She didn't say 'Wheeler.' She said Mike. “I didn't think you had it in you to beat that high score.”
“I... yeah. Teamwork," Mike managed to say. His voice didn't crack, which he counted as a monumental victory. “We should... do it again. Sometime.”
Before she could answer, Steve is there, sliding a heavy arm around her shoulders and pulling her toward the passenger side. He shot Mike a look—not a mean one, but one that clearly communicate as if Mike committed a criminal offense.
“Yeah, great teamwork, Mike,” Steve said, his grin a little too sharp. “Maybe next time you can help her with her chemistry homework instead of teaching her how to waste quarters. Get in the car, Y/N.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, but she gave Mike a small, lingering wave before the car door clicks shut. As the engine roared to life, Mike stands there, paralyzed, watching her silhouette through the glass until the taillights disappeared around the corner.
As soon as the BMW was out of sight, the “safety” of the group vanished. Lucas and Max flanked Mike immediately, their faces a mix of shock and “we need to talk.”
“Okay, spill it,” Max demanded, crossing her arms. “Since when do you and Y/N have 'teamwork'? And why was she looking at you like you just saved her life from a giant spider?”
“He did!” Erica said loudly enough to make it sound argumentative.
“I... I don't know,” Mike stammered, his bravado disappearing. “Dustin did it. He just... he pushed us together.”
Dustin was standing a few feet away, leaning against a lamp post, looking like a king surveyng his kingdom. He is tossing a single, leftover arcade token into the air and catching it with a snap.
“He’s right,” Dustin said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “I performed a social miracle. I turned a 'Background Extra' into a 'Lead Protagonist' for approximately twelve minutes.”
Lucas looks between Mike and Dustin, his brow furrowed. “Wait. Dustin, how long have you known? And why are you acting like a Bond villain?”
“Literally two hours ago,” Dustin said, pushing off the lamp post and walking toward them. “And I'm acting like a villain because Mike here thought he could keep a secret from the Party's resident genius.”
He stopped in front of Mike, his grin turning sharp.
“Heaven was the hand-touch, Mike. That was a freebie,” Dustin whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear. “But Hell? Hell starts tomorrow. Because now that I'm the official manager of this disaster, you're going to do exactly what I say. Starting with buying me a Double-Decker taco from Taco Bell on the way home.”
Mike looked at his friends—the confused ones and the one who currently owned his soul—and then back at the empty road where the Harringtons had gone. He felt terrified, exhausted, and more alive than he’d felt in years.
“Fine,” Mike sighs. “But if Steve Harrington kills me, I'm haunting your locker first, Henderson.”
“Deal,” Dustin chirps. “But hey, Wheeler? Look at your hand. You're still shaking. Level 3 reached, buddy. Welcome to the game.”
pairings: mike wheeler x cheerleader!harrington!reader
summary: In a world where the lights never flickered and the woods remained just woods, Mike Wheeler thought he had Hawkins High figured out. He tried to establish his imperfect, freak of a circle. But when she climbed into his passenger seat smelling like hairspray and the colors to his life, the labels didn't seem to stick anymore.
wc: 4k
post contains: fem!reader, slow burn, insecure mike, yearning mike, downbad mike, perverted thoughts, no byers will be mention being present bcs they moved to cali, mention of past mileven, irrelevant but s3 ended in this fic.
author’s note: first time writing a fanfic !! kinda nervous !! not proofread. every feedback is appreciated :)
All to Ourselves Masterlist
"Yeah, Wheeler. You. Who else am I talking about?" Steve stance is undeniably mother-like. One hand on his hip and a stressed look with Dustin's supercom in front of his mouth.
Dustin, who is in the middle of piles of lego pieces that were sorted according to each type, is sketching a blueprint that looks like a terrorized lab in Mike's basement.
That noon, Dustin called Steve to help him sort a bunch of lego pieces and build it with Mike. Now here is Steve, demanding Mike to pick up his younger sister from cheerleading practice at school.
Mike is currently driving Steve's beamer with one hand on the wheel and the other is holding his own supercom.
Coincidentally, he was driving back from the market and from Dustin’s house to return home, borrowing Steve's car. Was. Apparently he has other tasks to do other than delivering his mom's groceries and Dustin's scrolls of more sketches.
Mike is cringing internally. the thought of returning to school picking up the queen of Hawkins High makes him feel like crashing Steve's beamer into a tree.
"C'mon, Steve, can't you just wait until I arrive? I'm literally ten minutes away from-"
"Y/N will kill you and me if you let her sit in that damn sun for another minute. You're seven minutes away from school and I know it," Mike's eyebrows curled, bothered by how accurate Steve is.
Instead of arguing back, Mike angles the wheel to the left, a familiar route to school.
It didn’t take long to arrive in the parking lot of Hawkins High. The parking lot is almost empty. Mike chose to park the furthest and where no cars are parked near.
Mike’s mind is swirling and he felt like he couldn’t breathe properly. He’s given no time to recover before the doors opens and reveals a squad of guys who look like Captian America replicas and girls with their signature skirts.
Mike doesn’t care about them right now. He waits in the car, tapping his fingers nervously against the wheel. His chest does that same ache when he spots the familiar figure amongst the squad.
She has her hair down, her hips sways in sync with with her hair, and that signature smile he can recognize whenever he sees Steve smile. She’s carrying her duffle bag like a shopping bag on her arm. She’s everything Mike wants to be with.
She yells to the team one last time about another cheerleading practice that he can’t focus on before waving them goodbye.
Mike nervously steps out of the vehicle, revealing himself yet hiding behind the door slightly with his head down.
She spots the red baby and jogs towards it. She sees the black hair sticking out above the car door. This isn’t her brother’s brown, slicked to the side hair.
“Am I dreaming or is that you, Wheeler?”
Mike lifts his head up, cringes as her voice echoes through the parking lot. Not because her voice is annoying, but she’s basically announcing it to the world that she’s getting picked up by a loser.
“Hey, Harrington.”
She smiles brightly, giggling like there’s something cute. She pulls the door to the passenger’s side open, leaning against the roof of the car. “What are you doing here? My brother gave you a hard time and sent you here as punishment?”
He shrugs, a nervous and shy smile creeps up on his face. “Something like that.”
She gives another soft giggle, bending her figure as half of her body enters the car. She puts her duffle bag in the backseat without looking. Her figure bending over in a perfect position.
Mike pats the roof of the car quietly, thanking it quietly for covering his vision of her figure. He wouldn’t know how to cover the bulge in his pants if he saw. What the hell is he thinking?
He shakes his head and shakes away any perverted thoughts. They both enter the car and close the doors to each side. She sighs and relaxes against the car seat in exhaustion.
He pulls out from the parking lot and drives. The ride is quiet. To him, it’s uncomfortable. To her, it’s nothing.
He snaps out of his daze by the sound of her voice. “Seriously, Mike, why did you pick me up? It’s my brother’s job, not yours. He’s giving you a hard time, huh?”
Mike stammers, trying to focus on the road instead of his thumping heart. “No, no - My mom and Dustin are at my house, and so is your brother. I was conveniently on the road with Steve’s car after picking up groceries and a few of Dustin’s stuff,” he gestures to the items in the backseat. “And Steve told me to pick you up before you kill us for making you stand in the sun for long.”
She scoffs, yet smiling as she turns her face to him. “I’m killing him for ditching me, that’s what I’ll do.”
He gives a nervous chuckle himself, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders. The sun is peeking through the trees, the rays hits just perfect to her face. She looks eternal.
His drunken draze breaks by Steve’s voice through the supercom on the dashboard. “I better see her in one peace at my house, Wheeler!”
She rolls her eyes playfully and grabs the device before Mike could. “We’re going to Family Video for a bit. Is Robin in today?” His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, as if saying “We are?”.
The car was filled with silence before a sigh can be heard from the other side. “Yes, Robin’s on shift today.”
They pulled up to the store not long after. Now, in the aisle between horror and action. Mike just leans against one the shelves as she slides her figure through one row from top to bottom.
“A Nightmare on Elm Street, or The Life and Times of Rosie the Riveter?” she’s holding two VHS tapes with one on each hand. Mike just blinks and points to one of them.
She shrugs and places back the other VHS tape back to the shelve. She brushes past him and continues looking.
He chose A Nightmare on Elm Street.
Mike trails behind her, building up the courage to make a conversation than acting like he hates being here. He coughs slightly, but she keeps gliding her fingers through each shelve.
“Y’know, I didn’t take you to be a horror fan.”
She glances towards him, smiling softly. “Why’s that?”
“Steve once said you’re a scaredy-cat,” she puts a hand on her chest, acting offended.
“For the record, you should know that Steve hates movie nights with me because I would choose shits that would make him shit his pants!”
Mike just chuckles, hands in his pocket as he follow her to the register. “Yeah?”
“Yeah! I’ll show you, Wheeler. Steve is full of bullshit,” she places the VHS tape on the counter, leaning against it with a gleaming smile.
“I mean, I have to see it myself.”
“See what, yourself?”
“You, watching a horror movie with both eyes open.”
She then smirks, leaning slightly towards him. “Are you saying you want to watch a movie with me, Wheeler?”
Mike’s grin falters and his whole face turns red. His lips and heart feels like it’s going unstable, stammering uncontrollably.
“W-what? No, no! I meant that I just can’t believe that you like horror because… because Steve! Steve said-“
He’s saved by Robin who grabs the VHS tape, smirking like she knows something he doesn’t. “Relax, Wheeler, you have a whole line in front of you if you want to take her out. Don’t rush it.”
The worst thing is that Y/N is laughing along.
Mike would say that he’s great at hiding secrets. Secrets, not feelings. No one says a word about the possibility of Mike Wheeler having a crush on Y/N Harrington. At least that’s what he thought.
He may have fucked up ever since he picked her up from practice a month ago.
Three weeks ago…
Mike was rummaging through the cabinets, swearing under his breath that a plastic of breads can make him stress this much. His plate lay empty with jars of peanut butter and jelly beside it. He was just hungry.
He sighed in defeat, then called out for help. “Hey, Y/N, where did you put the bread again?”
Karen, who was organizing the fridge, poked her head out with a puzzled look. “Y/N is here? You didn’t tell me we were having a guest over, Michael.”
Mike glanced up to his mother, mirroring her puzzled look. His body reacting to her name like it’s forbidden. He stammered nervously and says, “W-what? I didnt have Y/N over.”
“Then why did you…?”
Holly just watched, a devilish grin formed on her face. She caught his slip up and walked away from the kitchen without saying a word.
A week ago…
"Mike, you're pouring the milk into the sugar bowl," Nancy said, not even looking up from the Hawkins Post.
Mike snapped out of it, the white liquid overflowing onto the table. "I-no, I was just... experimenting with surface tension."
“He’s thinking about Y/N!” Holly laughs before running off before he was given time to chase after her.
"Y/N Harrington?” Nancy’s eyesbrows lifts up in surprise, finally looking at him with that 'Big Sister' smirk. "Is that why you came back looking like a roster after picking her up from practice?”
"I didn't! The car... the car was hot!"
"Sure, Mike. And I'm a three-time Olympic gold medalist in 'Believing Your Bullshit’. Just don't name your first-born after her until you actually manage to say 'hello' without choking on your own spit."
Yeah, Mike Wheeler is definitely fucked.
Now, on a Sunday afternoon, he stands on the bleachers in the school gym with the most dumbstruck look on his face. It wasn’t because Steve Harrington’s overwhelming support to his left, nor is it the lame band that’s not even trying to raise applause, but because he’s mesmerize by her, swaying and cheering in the middle of the court.
All those other cheerleaders can hit a standing full on a moving bus and Mike would still be looking at her.
“If I have to hear one more 'Go Tigers' chant while I'm trying to calculate THAC0, I’m going to lose it,” Dustin stays hidden underneath his hat. For once, he’s overwhelmed by Eddie’s idea.
Eddie just wraps an arm around his shoulders, smirking as his gaze falls on Chrissy cheering on court. “Embrace the tiger, Dusty. Roar like you mean it!”
Of course they had their face painted to look like tigers.
“I’m telling you, we look like felony-grade zebras,” Dustin whispers to him behind the hat. Eddie snatches his hat and throws it somewhere amongst the crowd.
“Top tier zebras!” His cheers gets cut of by Dustin, who almost tackles him to the ground.
“That was from Suzie, dipshit!”
The crowd erupts louder when the horn blasted. The cheer squad divided into two lines, making space between them. Behind their formation, a hug orange flag with tigers on it rips in half, revealing Hawkins High’s basketball team. One of them being Lucas Sinclair.
Mike came to support his friend on his championship game, obviously.
Yet he can’t help but feels his heart ache when the cheer squad split and disappear from his sight, sitting at the very front of the bleachers.
The game went smoothly. Shouts of support and rage here and there, and everyone’s face paint slowly disappearing from sweating. Everyone’s pumped with adrenaline and excitement.
In the end, Hawkins High won. The crowded bleacher erupts louder than before. Confetti burst into the room, showering everyone.
After the basketball team finished documenting, people ran down from the bleachers and went to perspective players, a family or a friend.
Dustin was the first to run off. He almost tackles Lucas to the ground. Luckily, Lucas caught him and holds him up. It was a hilarious sight. Dustin shakes him while shouting like a maniac, “My guy, Sinclair! You did it!”
Eddie appears beside the two and says amongst the chaos, “I heard Little Red Riding Hood will be giving it to you tonight,” he smirks before getting his head thrown back by Max, who joins in the hug, mumbling how proud she is. Lucas can feel his face flaring up, but he hugs her just as tight.
Lucas’ family eventually got their own hug. Lucas is receiving love everywhere. The court is chaotic and full of proud family and friends.
“You did well, Lucas,” Mike says as he pulls his best friend into a hug. He accidentally catches the sight across the court over Lucas’ shoulder.
Steve, Robin, and Y/N. Steve’s patting her head, ruffling the hair slightly as she yelps and smacks his hand away. In her hands, a huge bouquet of white roses. There’s at least three dozen of them.
Steve laughs as she smacks his hand, then pulling out a camera and handing it to Robin.
“Do us a favor and capture this, will you, Buckley?”
“Nuh uh, you messed up my hair, asshole!”
Robin gladly takes the camera, wiping the lenses and angles it just right. “You’re fine, gorgeous. It’s him that will ruin the picture.”
“On one, two, three, everyone say Harringtons are the best!”
“Just take the fucking picture, Buckley.”
Then the flash hits, snapping Mike out of his daze.
Mike’s shoulder gets nudge, “Look at the camera, Wheeler.” Max gestures to the already prepared camera in front of them.
From the other side of the court, Y/N glances amongst the crowd, spotting the group of teenagers and a family, holding the successful basketball player with proud smiles. A look of longing appears in her eyes.
She has Steve and Robin, and that’s all that matters.
It’s been a week after the championship game. The aftermath of the victory stays in pride. The hallway is crowded with students packing their things to return home, or to cheerleading practice.
A week of Mike’s new, brave achievement. Apparently he starts being creative in poetry. So, he shares his talent to teh young Harrington without her knowing it’s him.
He has been slipping notes into her locker.
Not only that, but also has been giving himself away unintentionally. He’s late to campaigns, he prefers to take a different different route to class and pass by the gym even though Dustin knows that route smells like a jock’s buttcrack, or when he keeps staring over his friends’ shoulders. It’s actually terrifying.
He’ll be in the middle of a serious conversation about Return of the Jedi, but as they pass the gym, his head swivels like an owl’s. He trips over a trash can because he’s looking at the yellow pom-poms in the distance.
"I was just... checking the weather! Through the gym windows. To see if it's going to rain on the... bike ride home."
Mike’s leaning against the wall while Lucas is rambling about last week’s game. He has his arm around Max, the other is making gestures dramatically. “I’m telling you, the guy seeks for violence. I mean, who does fouls without thinking?!”
Mike can only look over their shoulders, a perfect view of Y/N talking with her friends. She walks up to her locker, then that familiar note slips out. She doesn’t react when she reads it, only putting it back to her locker and only grabs books and stuff she needs. His chest ache.
“Jesus on earth, Mike, are you here with us?” Lucas’ voice snaps him out of his trance, coming back to reality and stammers.
“Uh, yeah, yeah! That guy is so foul…”
Lucas’ face turns puzzled, a bit offended that his best friend wasn’t paying attention the whole time.
Max caught his gaze over her shoulder. She turns her head around to see what he was looking, only to be found with a dead end because it’s difficult to seek a target when the hallway looks like it’s trying to fit the entire population of Rhode Island into a walk-in closet.
"You keep looking back there—is your imaginary friend giving you a better story than I am?"
“His imaginary friend is puberty, Lucas.”
Mike’s eyes widen, eyebrows lifts, face flushed. His hands are gesturing to explain, but it’s just giving his anxiety away. “What? What are you talking about? I didn’t even say anything!”
“That’s the problem! Did you even hear the part where Jason almost got a 'Buy One, Get None' sale on his anatomy for a split second-“
Max cuts him off, speaking in a sarcastically serious voice. “Is it Becky Pattinson? I know her hips are hypnotizing, but honestly, you can do better than-“
He shushes her, hands motioning her to stop as if the whole hallway will hear her. “Shush- No! Ew, gross. I’d rather shit on my hands and clap,” he said before walking away from the couple. They both follow him to wherever he’s going.
“So, it is a girl?”
“No, Lucas, it’s none of your business.”
Mike lead them to a secluded hallway unintentionally. He’s fidgeting with the straps of his backpack, his sneakers echoing in the empty hall as he walks in a hurry.
“So, it is a girl.”
“Max…” Lucas glances at his girlfriend in silent fear, motioning to Mike’s rush in frustration.
Mike probably has had enough keeping his feelings a secret and bubbling it up, because now, he explodes.
He abruptly stops, making the couple almost bumping into him. He turns around, spitting out his frustration.
“Okay, so what if it is? It’s not like I have a chance.”
The couple looks at him in disbelief, almost caught off guard by the sudden words. Lucas steps forward, a hand reached out.
“Mike-“
His voice drops an octave, losing its usual "leader" authority. "It’s stupid. It’s like... she’s living in Technicolor, and I’m still in black and white. She’s the person people write songs about, and I’m the guy who’s just... there. Behind the dungeon master screen."
He breathes, calming down as his grip on his bag tightens. “She’s not Becky, or Eleven, or anyone. She’s better. She’s perfect. Someone I shouldn’t even bother with.”
Max and Lucas exchange glances. This is the core of his insecurity. He’s not just afraid of this girl; he’s afraid of the social vacuum she exists in.
Eventually, they’re sitting on the hall floor, sitting in a circle as they sip on sodas. Lucas and Max are sitting close together, sharing a soda or Max has her feet in Lucas's lap. Mike’s leaning against a locker as he moves his legs side to side.
"It’s not just that she’s a popular cheerleader. It’s that she’s... bright. Like, when she walks into a room, it’s like someone turned up the volume on everything. And I’m just... mute."
Max took one sip of her drink before setting it down, looking at him with the most serious look he has ever seen. "If she’s one of those girls who only cares about her status, Mike, she’s not worth the stomach acid you’re wasting on her. You’re a dork, but you’re a real dork. Don't trade that in for someone who’s basically a mannequin in a Benetton window."
Lucas nods in agreement, pointing a finger towards her. "High school is a dumpster fire. Those girls? The ones you're afraid of? Half of them are terrified that people will realize they're boring.”
Mike knows Y/N isn't a mannequin—she’s kind—but he can't say that without giving her away. He just has to sit there and take the "don't date a shallow girl" lecture while thinking, 'But she's the least shallow person I know.'
He watches Lucas effortlessly put an arm around Max and thinks about how he’d probably vibrate out of his skin if his hand even brushed Y/N’s sleeve.
"It’s like... she’s a VHS tape and I’m a BetaMax. We look similar, we’re trying to do the same thing, but we don't fit in the same machine. If I try to force it, I’m just going to break the tape. I’d rather just... watch from the shelf."
"Is she really that far out of your league?" Lucas asked, his voice dropping the teasing edge. He looked at Max, then back to Mike. "I mean, look at us. Everyone thought Max was too cool for a guy who spends his allowance on comic books, but here we are."
“It’s the opposite, Lucas.”
“Not when we first started.”
"It’s different," Mike whispered, tracing a crack in the school floor with his sneaker. "You and Max... you’re both 'alternative.' You both fit. But this girl? She’s the sun, Lucas. And I’m just some kid with a flashlight whose batteries are dying."
Max softened, reaching over to kick Mike’s shoe gently. "Flashlights are better in the dark, Wheeler. The sun just blinds you. Maybe she’s tired of being the sun.”
Lucas nods, “Yeah. Maybe she wants to be the moon and shines in your darkest night,” he raises his soda can to his girlfriend, hoping to clink it with hers.
He’s met with a stare, his arm falls slowly. “Don’t try to be poetic,” she said, unfazed.
Mike felt a lump in his throat. If only they knew, he thought. If only they knew she was currently wearing the school’s jersey and probably laughing at a joke Steve told her.
"We’re not saying it’s easy, Mike. It’s a suicide mission. But since when do we back down from those? We went into the tunnels, remember? Well... in our games. This is just a different kind of monster. A monster with... really good hair and pom-poms."
Mike nods, his shoulders slump in defeat. He feels weight lifts off his shoulders. It feels nice knowing someone can feel sympathy for him.
“You’re right. Whatever happens, I’ll accept it.”
The couple gives a courageous smile, handing out a hand to stand him up.
“Also, you never told us who she is.”
Mike’s face falters, muttering quietly. “O-oh, that’s-“
He’s cut of by the sound of their familiar curly-haired friend. Before they see him, they should hear him. The sound of squeaky sneakers sprinting down the linoleum, followed by the frantic jingle of a backpack full of metal dice.
Dustin shouldn't just be annoyed; he should be betrayed. To him, a delayed campaign is a crime against humanity.
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! I have been sitting, waiting for fifteen minutes! FIFTEEN MINUTES, LUCAS! Do you know what happens in fifteen minutes? Empires fall! Civilizations crumble! THE DEMOGORGON EVOLVES!"
"Dustin, chill, we were just—"
"DON'T 'CHILL' ME, MAXINE! We are at the Gates of Ravenloft! Mike, you are the Paladin! You are the leader! And where is the leader? Is he at his post? No! He’s in a hallway, having a feeling! We don't have time for feelings! We have a +5 Orcish Warlord waiting to cleave our skulls!"
He looks at Mike’s anxious face and doesn't even pause to ask what’s wrong.
"I don't care if you're having a spiritual awakening or if you've discovered the meaning of life, Wheeler! If you aren't in that chair in sixty seconds, I am letting Will’s wizard fireball the entire party! I'll do it! I'm a madman!"
Dustin didn't wait for an answer. He grabbed the back of Mike’s denim jacket and began hauling him toward the stairs like a captured fugitive.
"Move it, Romeo! The dice are cold, the snacks are disappearing, and Eddie is starting to look at me like he wants to go home! We have a world to save!"
Mike stumbled along, casting one last, pleading look back at Lucas and Max. They stood in the dim hallway, the remnants of Mike’s confession hanging in the air like smoke. Max gave him a small, pitying salute, while Lucas just shook his head.
In the world of Hawkins High, the sun was setting on the popular kids, but in the empty hallway of the school, a much noisier storm was just beginning.
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