Archive of Our Own

The Wheeler dining room looked like it belonged in a catalogue.

Like, genuinely. If Mike squinted, he could almost see the little caption in the corner of his vision:

“Warm Family Moments™ — available at Pottery Barn.”

The table was set properly — not just “plates and forks,” but the good plates, the matching cutlery, the little cloth napkins folded into neat rectangles like Karen was expecting surprise guests from the Royal Family. There was a candle lit in the centre too, glowing softly even though the big light was on, because Karen believed candles were cosy.

Mike believed the candle was there to make the impending doom smell like vanilla.

Because the big light was blinding.

It hung above them like an interrogation lamp, humming faintly, determined to expose every pore and insecurity Mike had ever owned. Ted had turned it on earlier with the confidence of a man who had never, ever in his entire life been overstimulated.

Mike had tried to angle his chair away from it at first, but Karen had clocked it immediately — because Karen Wheeler could sense a bad posture from three rooms away.

She’d passed behind him, smoothed a hand briefly over his shoulder, and murmured softly in his ear like a threat wrapped in love:

“Sit nicely, Michael.”

So now Mike was sitting nicely. Miserably. Squinting like a vampire forced into direct sunlight.

The food smelled good, though. Really good. Like actual home. Roast chicken and rosemary and garlic and gravy — the kind of smell that crawled into your chest and made you feel warm before you’d even eaten anything.

Ted was carving with intense seriousness, tongue pressed faintly to the inside of his cheek like he was performing surgery.

Nancy sat across from Mike, sleeves rolled up, hair clipped back messily. She looked tired in a cool way, like she’d been busy doing adult things all day and didn’t care about the drama of family dinner anymore.

Holly was… Holly.

She had her peas arranged into a little pile like she was building a tiny pea fortress, and every now and then she’d discreetly flick one further away from her plate, like she was hoping if she moved them far enough they’d simply stop existing.

Karen noticed, of course. Karen always noticed.

“Holly,” Karen said mildly, not even looking up from smoothing gravy over her potatoes, “your peas aren’t going to run away if you ignore them.”

Holly looked her dead in the eye. “Yes they are.”

Mike snorted into his water.

Nancy’s mouth twitched. “Sure they will.”

Ted cleared his throat, which was always the warning sign that he was about to start a conversation like a man reading cue cards.

“So,” Ted began, voice steady, “everyone’s been busy.”

Mike blinked at him slowly.

Nancy leaned her elbow on the table. “This is the most Dad sentence you’ve ever said.”

Ted frowned. “It’s a normal sentence.”

“It’s not,” Mike muttered, picking at the chicken skin like it had personally wronged him. “It’s what people say in elevators.”

Karen laughed softly, warm and effortless, like she genuinely found this charming. Which she probably did. Karen loved Ted in a way that made absolutely no sense to Mike, but it was… nice, actually.

It made the whole room feel softer.

Karen lifted her glass of water and smiled around the table, that familiar mom smile that made you feel seen whether you wanted to be or not.

“Nancy’s been doing so well at work,” she said brightly. “And Holly’s had a great week at school.”

Holly perked up immediately. “I got a sticker!”

Karen’s eyes practically sparkled. “You did! A star sticker!”

Holly nodded proudly, cheeks puffing out. “Because I was the fastest at spelling.”

Mike scoffed. “Fastest spelling isn’t a thing.”

Holly’s head snapped toward him. “Yes it is.”

Nancy grinned. “Oh my god. You’re beefing with a third grader.”

“I’m not beefing,” Mike protested. “I’m educating.”

Holly narrowed her eyes. “You’re jealous.”

Mike stared at her. “I’m not jealous of your sticker economy.”

Ted nodded thoughtfully, like he was considering the implications. “Stickers are valuable.”

Nancy choked on her drink.

Karen reached over and patted Ted’s hand like he’d said something profound. “They are.”

Mike looked between them. “You’re all enabling her.”

Holly smirked like a tiny dictator. “Good.”

The whole moment was stupidly normal. Forks clinking against plates. Warm food. Karen’s candle flickering softly while the big light tried to murder Mike in cold blood.

It should’ve been comforting.

It was comforting.

Which was exactly why Mike felt suspicious.

Because warmth in the Wheeler household was usually followed by Karen dropping a bombshell with a smile.

And right on cue—

Karen set her fork down delicately and said, far too casually:

“So! I thought we could talk about next weekend.”

Mike froze mid-chew.

Nancy’s eyes lifted instantly like a deer hearing a twig snap.

Ted sat up straighter like he’d been summoned.

Holly didn’t look up at all, still trying to see if she could discreetly push all her peas into her water glass.

Mike swallowed slowly. “What about next weekend.”

Karen’s smile widened.

“A trip.”

Mike stared at her like she’d said execution.

“A trip,” he repeated, voice cracking slightly.

“Yes!” Karen chirped. “A family trip!”

Nancy made a low noise of dread. “Oh no.”

Ted nodded firmly. “Oh yes.”

Mike’s entire body tightened. “No.”

Karen ignored that like it was background noise.

Ted reached over to grab his phone, which was sitting beside his plate like he’d prepared a full PowerPoint presentation for dinner.

“We’re going to a cabin,” Ted announced proudly, as if he’d personally invented cabins.

Mike went cold.

Nancy went colder.

Mike’s eyes narrowed. “Dad.”

Ted looked at him innocently. “What.”

Mike pointed at him with his fork like he was accusing him of crimes. “Is it haunted.”

Ted rolled his eyes. “It’s not haunted.”

Nancy slapped her hand on the table. “It’s definitely haunted.”

Karen sighed fondly, like this argument was part of the meal. “It’s not haunted.”

Holly’s head popped up. “Are there ghosts?”

Karen smiled sweetly. “No.”

Holly looked genuinely heartbroken. “Ugh.”

Mike leaned forward, dead serious. “Dad, how do you know it’s not haunted.”

Ted stared back, equally serious. “Because I checked.”

Nancy blinked. “…Checked WHERE.”

Ted gestured vaguely with his phone. “The reviews.”

Mike’s face twisted. “The reviews do NOT cover hauntings.”

Ted frowned. “If there was a ghost, someone would mention it.”

Nancy stared at him like he’d just announced the dumbest thing she’d ever heard in her life. “Dad. People don’t want to sound crazy. They’d write something like ‘quirky atmosphere’ and leave it at that.”

Ted began scrolling, lips pursed. “Nobody said quirky atmosphere.”

Mike squinted. “Read them out.”

Ted, delighted to finally have an audience, cleared his throat like he was about to give a lecture.

“They said,” Ted began, reading solemnly, “‘Quiet. Peaceful. Perfect for families.’”

Mike and Nancy exchanged a look so immediate and dramatic it could’ve been choreographed.

Nancy: horror movie opening line.
Mike: we’re going to die.

Ted continued. “‘Lots of space. Very secluded.’”

Mike almost dropped his fork.

“Secluded?” Mike repeated, voice rising. “Dad, secluded is a murder word.”

“It means private,” Ted said patiently.

“It means no one can hear us scream,” Nancy corrected.

Karen took a sip of her water like she wasn’t married to a man actively booking them into a horror film.

Ted scrolled again. “‘Beautiful scenery. Great for outdoor activities.’”

Mike recoiled. “Outdoor activities? Like getting eaten by wolves??”

Ted blinked. “There aren’t wolves.”

Holly’s eyes lit up. “I want wolves.”

Karen immediately: “No wolves.”

Holly pouted. “This trip is boring.”

“It hasn’t even happened yet,” Mike said, exhausted.

Karen reached over and squeezed his hand gently, warm and grounding. “Honey, it’s going to be nice.”

Mike looked at her suspiciously. “Why are you being so nice?”

Karen’s smile didn’t falter for even a second. “Because I love you.”

Mike’s throat tightened.

Then he immediately ruined the moment by narrowing his eyes again. “That’s not why. You’re planning something.”

Nancy snorted. “He’s right, Mom. You’re doing the tone.”

Karen gasped, hand to her chest like she’d been attacked. “What tone?”

“The tone where you act sweet and innocent,” Nancy said, “but you’re actually about to destroy his life.”

Ted, from the other side of the table, nodded once like that sounded reasonable. “Your mother is very persuasive.”

Mike stared at his father. “Dad why do you sound like you’re afraid of her.”

Ted shrugged. “I respect her.”

Karen smiled, deeply pleased. “Good answer.”

Mike sagged in his chair like his bones had given up.

Holly kicked her feet under the table. “Are we gonna have hot chocolate?”

“Yes,” Karen said instantly.

Holly beamed. “Okay. Then I’m excited.”

Mike stared at his little sister like she’d just sold out the entire family for cocoa. “Traitor.”

Holly stuck her tongue out. “I have priorities.”

Ted set his phone down, satisfied, and folded his hands like a man closing a deal.

“So,” he declared, voice firm, “next weekend. Wheeler family ski trip. Cabin. Not haunted.”

Nancy lifted her glass, eyes narrowed. “If I see a ghost, I’m leaving you all behind.”

Holly raised her hand. “Take me with you!”

Karen laughed softly, smoothing Holly’s hair back. “No one is seeing a ghost.”

Mike chewed slowly, staring down at his plate, feeling the weight of it all settling in his chest.

A weekend.

In the snow.

In a cabin Ted insisted wasn’t haunted.

With no escape.

And Karen being too sweet.

He could feel it coming. The shift. Like the air was charging up before lightning struck.

Karen sat back in her chair with a pleased little sigh, candlelight flickering softly against her cheekbones.

“Now,” she said brightly, far too calm, far too delighted—

—and Mike felt his soul tense up in preparation—

“Let’s talk about who we’re inviting…”

Nancy didn’t even wait a full second after Karen said it.

She just slammed her fork into a potato like it owed her money, eyes dark and unblinking, and cut in with the grim certainty of someone issuing a war-time decree.

“Robin.”

Karen blinked. “Robin?”

Nancy nodded sharply, like this was the only sane thing she’d said all evening. “I’m bringing Robin. I need her there if I’m expected to survive.”

Ted looked up from his plate, mildly confused in the way Ted always looked when Nancy spoke like she was making a hostage negotiation.

“Survive?” he repeated.

Nancy didn’t even glance at him. “Yes, Dad. Survive. Because you booked us into the woods, in a cabin that’s definitely haunted, and I am not doing that without emotional support.”

“It’s not haunted,” Ted said again, loyal to his doomed hill.

“It’s haunted,” Mike and Nancy said in perfect unison, without even looking at each other.

Holly perked up. “Who’s Robin?”

Karen smiled brightly, because Karen loved when Nancy had friends and wasn’t rotting away alone in her room out of spite.

“Robin Buckley,” she explained warmly. “She works with your sister.”

Holly’s nose scrunched up. “Is she scary?”

Nancy scoffed. “Yes. In a good way.”

Ted shrugged like this was normal. “If it’ll help you enjoy the trip.”

Nancy pointed her fork at him, potato still impaled, like she’d just found the one thing that might actually convince him.

“It will,” she said firmly. “Because if Robin’s there, and a ghost appears, she’ll mock it until it leaves.”

Mike’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not how ghosts work.”

Nancy glanced at him at last. “You don’t know how ghosts work.”

Mike opened his mouth, then closed it again, because… fair.

Karen hummed thoughtfully, visibly doing the mental math of beds and rooms and how many people could sleep where without anyone being forced to sleep on the floor like a medieval peasant.

“I’m sure we can make room,” she said, eyes soft. “That sounds lovely, sweetheart.”

Nancy’s expression eased just a fraction, like the idea of Robin being there truly did make her feel safer.

Mike clocked it immediately — because despite their constant bickering, he did have eyes.

He didn’t comment on it.

Because he didn’t want to get stabbed with a fork. And also, because he totally knew everything there was to know about them already.

Ted nodded, satisfied, and lifted his glass like this conversation had somehow turned productive.

“Good,” Ted said. “Nancy brings Robin.”

Holly lifted her hand quickly. “I want to bring someone too.”

Karen smiled gently. “Who would you like to bring, honey?”

Holly looked around the table dramatically, like she was considering her options.

“Derek.”

Mike’s head snapped up instantly. “Absolutely not.”

Holly frowned. “Why not?”

“Because he’s… Derek,” Mike said like that explained everything.

Ted frowned faintly. “Who’s Derek again?”

“Derek Turnbow,” Karen supplied automatically, because Karen knew all of her children's friends’ full government names like she was keeping a file on them.

Ted nodded slowly, vaguely remembering. “Quiff. Glasses.”

Mike blinked. “Dad, that’s such a weird way to identify him.”

Ted shrugged. “It works.”

Nancy snorted. “Please don’t let Derek come. He’s loud. And irritating.”

Holly leaned forward, eyes bright. “He’s not irritating.”

Mike stared at her. “Why do you want him there?”

Holly shrugged innocently. “He talks to me.”

Mike’s face twisted. “Why are you having conversations with Derek Turnbow?”

Holly smiled sweetly. “Because he talks to me like I’m a person.”

Mike made a sound of betrayal. “I talk to you like a person.”

“You talk to me like I’m an annoying bug,” Holly corrected immediately.

Nancy nodded. “She’s not wrong.”

Mike stared at them both, horrified. “You’re ganging up on me.”

Karen reached over and squeezed Mike’s hand again, because she couldn’t help herself.

“You do love her, sweetheart,” she said gently.

Mike’s jaw clenched. “Yes. Against my will.”

Holly grinned like she’d won.

Karen chuckled softly and looked at Holly. “Maybe we’ll invite Derek over another time, okay? For something... without Mike.”

Holly pouted dramatically. “Fine.”

Ted, mercifully, continued the discussion like they were planning a military operation.

“So far,” he said, counting on his fingers, “it’s us, Nancy, Holly—”

“Obviously,” Mike muttered.

“And Robin,” Ted finished.

Karen nodded thoughtfully. “That’s one extra person. That’s fine.”

Her eyes flicked toward Mike again.

And Mike felt it immediately. That shift in energy. Like Karen’s attention had snapped back into place, laser-focused, like she’d been waiting for the moment to corner him.

Mike’s spine went rigid.

Nancy clocked it too, because Nancy had grown up in this house. She could smell Karen Wheeler’s plotting from a mile away.

She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms, watching Mike with the patient cruelty of a big sister who knew she was about to be entertained.

Karen smiled.

Not evil. Not outwardly manipulative.

Just… warm.

The kind of warm that made Mike’s stomach twist.

“And Michael,” Karen said softly, sweet as syrup.

Mike stared at his plate. “No.”

Karen blinked. “No?”

“No,” Mike repeated, because maybe if he said it enough times the universe would accept it.

Karen’s eyebrows lifted, and she laughed lightly like he was being silly. “Oh, honey. You don’t have to look like I just told you the house is on fire.”

“It might be,” Mike muttered darkly.

Ted frowned. “It’s not on fire.”

Nancy didn’t even look up. “Yet.”

Karen ignored them both with practiced ease.

“I just thought,” she continued, smile warm and completely innocent, “it might be nice for you to have someone your age there. Someone to hang out with.”

Mike’s eyes narrowed. “I have a sister.”

Nancy smiled without humour. “Don’t put that evil on me.”

Karen continued right over them. “Marsha’s son is lovely, you know. Boris.”

Mike’s face twisted like he’d just been told he had to eat a spoonful of dirt.

“Boris,” he repeated, voice full of disgust.

Holly made a face. “That’s not a real name.”

“It is a real name,” Karen said, even though she was smiling like she knew how ridiculous it sounded too. “And he’s a lovely boy.”

Nancy raised an eyebrow. “Is this the same Boris you tried to set me up with last year at the barbecue?”

Karen waved a hand. “That was different. You were scowling the entire time. He was intimidated.”

Nancy stabbed her broccoli. “Good.”

Mike stared at Karen with wide, desperate eyes. “Mom, please don’t say his name like he’s an option.”

Karen’s smile widened. “He’s a musician, Michael.”

Mike’s jaw dropped. “That makes it worse.”

“It does not,” Karen insisted. “He plays guitar, he writes songs—”

Nancy snorted loudly. “A failed musician.”

Karen gasped. “Nancy!”

Nancy shrugged, wholly unbothered. “You said he still lives in his mom’s basement.”

Mike pointed at his sister like she’d just delivered the most important truth of the century. “Exactly.”

Karen looked personally wounded. “He’s finding himself.”

Nancy muttered, “In his basement.”

Ted nodded thoughtfully, like he was considering it as a valid career path. “Basements are practical.”

Mike stared at his father. “Why are you like this.”

Ted shrugged. “It makes sense. It’s below ground. Good insulation.”

Nancy looked like she was going to pass away.

Karen leaned forward slightly, tone still bright and breezy, like she was discussing what kind of dessert they should have.

“I’m just saying,” she continued, “Boris would be a very nice guest, and you could—”

Mike couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t spend a whole weekend trapped in the snow with a stranger named Boris while his mother watched him like she was waiting for sparks to fly.

He could already picture it: Karen’s eager little smile. Ted making small talk about the weather. Nancy refusing to look at him. Holly asking Boris if he’d ever kissed anyone.

He physically couldn’t survive it.

His mouth moved before his brain caught up.

“I have a boyfriend!”

The words hit the table like a dropped plate.

Silence.

Pure, total silence.

Even the big light seemed to hum louder, leaning in like it wanted the gossip too.

Mike froze, eyes wide, heart slamming against his ribs like it was trying to escape through his throat.

Nancy went perfectly still.

Holly’s face lit up with unholy delight.

Ted stopped chewing halfway through a bite.

Karen’s eyes widened—

Then her entire face softened into something radiant.

“Oh,” she breathed, like Mike had just handed her the best news of her life. “Oh, Michael.”

Mike wanted to melt into the chair.

“N— no,” he stammered, because the panic was immediate and loud. “I mean— I just— I don’t want to invite Boris—”

Nancy’s voice came out low, shocked, and dangerously amused. “Oh my god.”

Holly slapped her hand on the table. “I KNEW IT!”

Mike whipped his head toward her, horrified. “YOU DID NOT!”

“I DID,” Holly insisted, smug and loud. “You’ve been acting weird for years!”

Karen reached across the table and grabbed Mike’s hand in both of hers, squeezing it like she was trying to physically keep him from bolting.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly, voice thick with emotion, “why didn’t you tell us?”

Ted blinked again, still processing. “A boyfriend.”

Nancy’s grin slowly started to spread, sharp and delighted, like she could taste the chaos in the air.

Mike’s throat went dry.

Karen’s eyes shimmered. “Who is he, honey?”

Mike’s brain scrambled.

Name. Name. Invent someone. Fix this. Fix—

But the first name that existed in his head wasn’t Boris.

It was Will.

It was always Will.

“It’s Will,” Mike blurted.

The second it left his mouth, he wanted to die on the spot.

Nancy’s eyebrows shot up like she’d been waiting for it.

Holly squealed.

Ted nodded slowly, like this was a completely reasonable development. “Will Byers.”

Mike stared at his dad, voice cracking. “Why are you so calm.”

Ted shrugged. “He’s a good kid.”

Karen’s smile turned blinding. “Oh, honey…” she whispered, like she was about to cry. “That makes so much sense.”

Mike’s stomach dropped into the floor.

Nancy leaned forward, absolutely gleaming. “Yeah. It does.”

Mike’s whole body folded in on itself, shoulders curling inward, face burning like he’d been set on fire.

This was a lie.

A catastrophic, life-ending lie.

And his family were reacting like it was the best thing that had ever happened.

Mike stared at his plate like it might open up and swallow him whole.

He genuinely wanted to sink into the chair and never come back out.

“Well!” Karen chirped, voice bright and decisive. “You’re bringing Will then! That’s that sorted!”

Mike’s soul left his body.

He sank down even further in his chair, chin dropping toward his chest, shoulders caving in like he was trying to physically fold himself into nothing. If it was humanly possible to evaporate on the spot, he would’ve done it.

Nancy made a small, satisfied noise through her nose. A laugh she was swallowing down purely out of sibling cruelty.

Holly clapped her hands once, delighted. “YES!”

Mike’s head snapped up slightly, eyes wide and panicked. “No— wait— Mom—”

Karen waved him off with a happy little laugh, like he was being silly. “Michael, don’t be dramatic. It’ll be lovely! Joyce will be thrilled—”

Karen was already mentally rearranging sleeping arrangements. Ted was already accepting Will Byers into the Wheeler family like he was a rescue dog. Holly was already mentally picking out what embarrassing questions to ask Will on the drive up.

And Nancy?

Nancy looked like she was having the time of her life.

Mike slowly sank back into his chair again, staring down at his plate like it had personally betrayed him.

Shit.

He’d done it.

He’d actually done it.

Now he just had to figure out how to text Will Byers, the person he’d been quietly in love with for approximately a million years, and say:

Hey. So. Crazy thing. You’re my boyfriend now. Please don’t kill me. Also please come on holiday with my family.

Mike’s hands went cold.

He picked up his fork again with the shaky determination of a man preparing for his own execution, forcing himself to chew a bite of chicken even though it tasted like ash in his mouth.

Because the truth was simple.

He was trapped.

And now he had to convince Will to play along for the weekend.

Fuck.

Nancy lifted her glass again, still smirking like a demon. “Good luck, Mike.”

Holly grinned. “Tell him I said hi!”

Mike stared at the table, burning alive from the inside out, and thought dimly—

I’m going to die.

And this time, it wouldn’t even be the ghost in the cabin that killed him.

It would be Will Byers replying to his text.

He swallowed hard.

And kept chewing, because what else was he supposed to do?

Mike practically levitated up the stairs.

The second Karen had started humming happily to herself and Ted had gone back to eating like he hadn’t just accepted a new son into the family at the dinner table, Mike had pushed his chair back with the quiet urgency of a man escaping a crime scene.

He mumbled something that might’ve been goodnight — it came out more like a strangled noise — and fled before anyone could stop him.

Now he was safe.

Or… as safe as he could possibly be, considering his mother had just casually signed Will Byers up for a weekend of Wheeler Family Bonding Activities and his life was actively falling apart.

Mike’s room welcomed him like a hug.

It was dim, thank god — fairy lights strung along the top of his walls casting everything in soft little pools of warm gold. The big light was off. The air smelled like his vanilla perfume and clean laundry and the faint ghost of stale crisps he definitely wasn’t going to acknowledge.

His bed was a mess in the way only Mike’s bed could be. Blankets piled in layers, pillows shoved into corners, duvet slightly twisted like it had been fighting for its life all week. It looked lived-in. It looked safe. It looked like his.

Mike shut the door behind him, leaned his forehead against the wood for a second, and breathed out slow through his nose like he was trying to exorcise his own soul.

A cabin.

A weekend.

Snow.

Skiing.

Potential ghosts.

His family.

And, apparently, Will.

Mike’s stomach dropped again, even though it had already been on the floor approximately seven times tonight.

He turned slowly, like an animal creeping back into its den, and trudged toward his bed with the kind of dramatic exhaustion usually reserved for people returning from war.

He didn’t even bother changing properly. He kicked his shoes off, peeled his jumper over his head, and crawled into the nest of blankets like his body had been magnetised toward it.

The second his knees hit the mattress, he sank.

Relief rushed through him, immediate and physical. His shoulders unclenched. His jaw softened. His breathing stopped sounding like he’d been sprinting from a bear.

This was where he belonged. Not on a mountain. Not in a haunted cabin Ted found online. Here. In the warm. In the soft. In the place where the only danger was Holly bursting in without knocking.

Mike grabbed the nearest blanket and dragged it over himself, wrapping it tighter around his shoulders, squeezing it like it could physically hold him together.

Then, because he was hopeless and pathetic and it was basically a reflex at this point, his hand reached for the hoodie.

Will’s hoodie.

It lay crumpled near the foot of the bed like it had been tossed there casually, like it hadn’t been sitting in Mike’s room for weeks and slowly turning into something sacred.

It was dark blue, soft from wear, sleeves slightly stretched at the cuffs. It still smelled like Will, faintly — clean detergent and something warmer underneath it, something distinctly him. Like calm. Like safety. Like the kind of person who always knew what to say.

Will had left it here weeks ago, on accident.

Probably.

Or maybe he’d forgotten about it entirely.

Maybe it wasn’t even important to him.

Mike had decided, quietly, firmly, with no intention of ever giving it back—

that it was his now.

He pulled it over his head and let it swallow him whole.

The fabric was too big, sleeves hanging past his hands, the hood heavy against the back of his neck. It made him feel small and warm and stupidly comforted, like he’d been wrapped in something that wasn’t just clothing but presence.

Mike dragged the blanket tighter, the hoodie sandwiched between him and warmth, and stared up at his ceiling.

His fairy lights blinked lazily above him like they were trying to soothe him into not having a breakdown.

It almost worked.

Then his phone buzzed faintly from where it sat on his bedside table, face down like it was also embarrassed for him.

Mike stared at it.

His stomach twisted.

Because he didn’t need to look.

He already knew what was waiting for him there.

A contact.

A name.

A tiny little heart that should’ve been innocent and sweet, but now felt like a loaded gun aimed directly at his forehead.

Mike slowly reached out and picked his phone up, the movement cautious, like it might bite him.

The screen lit his face in pale blue light. It made the room feel colder for a second. Like reality creeping back in.

He tapped his pin in with stiff fingers, unlocking it.

One. Two. Three. Four.

His thumb hovered.

Then he swiped.

Contacts.

Scroll.

He didn’t even have to search. His eyes found it instantly, like they’d been trained on it. Like it had been living in his phone and his brain rent-free for years.

There it was.

Sitting there like it hadn’t spent the entire evening lurking in the back of his thoughts, waiting.

will♡

Mike stared at it.

Just stared.

The little heart made his throat tighten. It always did. He’d put it there ages ago without thinking too hard about it — like it was normal, like it meant nothing.

Like he hadn’t been in love with Will Byers since he was twelve years old and couldn’t even spell the word properly.

Now it felt like it was mocking him.

will♡
Oh yeah, Mike? That Will? The one you just told your entire family is your BOYFRIEND?

His thumb hovered over the name.

His breathing went shallow.

His blanket was wrapped tight around him like armour, the hoodie heavy on his skin, warm and suffocating all at once. He could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

If he tapped it, he’d have to do something.

He’d have to call.

Or text.

Or… commit to the lie his mouth had created at dinner like a reflex.

Mike swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the screen.

He didn’t press it yet.

He just stared.

Let himself sit there in the quiet of his room, cocooned in stolen fabric and fairy light warmth, watching that one contact name like it was a cliff edge.

Mike groaned like the sound could physically drag him out of his own skin.

It wasn’t a dramatic little sigh, either.

It was the full-body kind. The kind where your soul slumps over and flops flat on the floor, arms spread, face down, accepting defeat.

Because really— how long could he put it off for?

He couldn’t just… never speak to Will again. That would be suspicious. Also impossible. Also would ruin his life in an entirely different way.

Mike Wheeler did not have the emotional stability to cut off Will Byers. Mike Wheeler barely had the emotional stability to exist in the same room as Will Byers without acting like a malfunctioning robot.

He stared at Will’s contact again, thumb hovering.

will♡

It looked so innocent. So sweet. Like it didn’t represent every single poor decision Mike had ever made, past and future.

He thought about texting.

Texting felt… safer. Less immediate. Like he could throw the message into the void and then bury himself under his blankets until the universe decided whether or not he deserved to live.

But he didn’t text Will when it mattered.

Not really.

They texted plenty, sure— stupid memes, quick updates, the occasional “are you alive” when one of them disappeared for too long. But when Mike actually had something important to say, something that made his stomach twist and his heart punch his ribs like it wanted out—

He called.

Because hearing Will’s voice made everything feel less terrifying.

Because Will always picked up.

Because Mike didn’t know how to be normal about him.

He squeezed the blanket tighter around himself, the hoodie swallowing his hands, and whined quietly into the fabric like a dying animal.

“Ugh,” Mike muttered, voice muffled, dramatic.

He stared at the call icon.

Hovered.

Paused.

It’s Will. It’s fine. It’s literally Will. It’s always fine.

Right?

He took a breath.

Then, before he could think himself out of it, before his brain could kick in and slam the emergency brakes, his thumb moved.

Pressed.

Call.

The phone started ringing.

Mike’s heart stopped.

Oh my god.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god—

He held the phone away from his face for half a second like it had personally betrayed him. Like he could glare at it and make it un-ring.

The dial tone sounded like a countdown.

He stared at the screen as if it might suddenly offer him an “undo” button.

Maybe he should cancel it.

Maybe he should hang up.

Maybe he should throw the phone out of the window and move to another country.

His thumb hovered over the end call button, sweating.

Cancel. Cancel. Cancel—

The ringing stopped.

The line clicked.

Mike went completely still.

For one horrific second there was just soft background noise, like Will had shifted the phone in his hand, like he’d been doing something and Mike had interrupted it.

Then—

“Mike?”

Will’s voice.

Warm and familiar, soft around the edges like it always was when he said Mike’s name. Like it belonged to him. Like it had been made to settle in Mike’s chest and make it ache.

Mike’s spine locked up so hard he thought he might actually snap in half.

Shit.

He lay there in his bed like a corpse, phone pressed to his ear, Will’s hoodie swallowing him whole, blanket wrapped tight around him like armour.

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Will, on the other end, waited. Patient. Always patient.

“…Hey,” Mike finally managed, voice strangled. “Hi. Hey.”

There was a pause. A tiny one. Like Will could hear something in his tone that wasn’t normal.

“You okay?” Will asked gently, and Mike could hear the faint smile in it. The warmth. The automatic concern.

That was the problem.

Mike could’ve called him at three in the morning and said he needed help burying a body and Will would’ve gone, Okay. Where are you?

Mike squeezed his eyes shut.

No.

He couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t just drop it on him like a bomb—

But also he kind of had to because his mother had already emotionally booked Will a ticket to their haunted little murder cabin.

Mike swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” he lied immediately. “I’m fine.”

Another pause.

Will didn’t buy it. Mike could tell. Will never bought it. Will knew him too well. It was sickening.

“…You don’t sound fine,” Will said carefully.

Mike made a noise of frustration, shifting under the blankets. His toes curled into the sheets like he could ground himself through sheer force of will.

“I’m— I’m fine,” he repeated, weaker this time, like saying it twice would make it true.

Will hummed softly. “Okay…”

That okay was loaded. That was Will’s I’m listening but I know you’re full of shit okay.

Mike’s stomach flipped violently.

He stared at the ceiling again, at the fairy lights blinking above him like they had any right to look peaceful while he was actively dying.

How did he even start?

Hi Will. My mom thinks you’re my boyfriend. Wanna come skiing?

Mike’s throat tightened.

He took a shaky breath.

“…So,” Mike started, voice cracking on the first word like an idiot.

Will made a soft noise of encouragement. “Yeah?”

Mike squeezed the hoodie sleeve in his fist like it was a lifeline.

“We—” he tried again, then stopped because he was about to combust.

On the other end, Will waited. Silent. Steady. Present.

Mike hated how safe it felt.

And he hated even more that he’d probably set that safety on fire ten minutes ago at the dinner table.

He swallowed again, voice small, miserable.

“We had dinner,” he said.

Will gave a quiet laugh. “Okay?”

“And,” Mike continued, because he couldn’t stop now, he couldn’t go back, he was already falling, “Mom brought up this family ski trip thing.”

Will hummed again, like he was picturing it. “A ski trip?”

“Yes.” Mike’s voice went sharp with panic. “And— and Dad booked a cabin.”

“A cabin,” Will repeated.

“Yes,” Mike said quickly. “In the mountains. In the snow. And I’m pretty sure it’s haunted.”

There was a beat.

Then Will snorted. Actually snorted. Like a real laugh escaped him before he could catch it.

Mike felt his chest squeeze painfully.

“Haunted?” Will echoed, amused now.

“Don’t laugh,” Mike whined, instantly defensive. “It’s the vibe. Dad read the reviews and one of them said ‘secluded’ and that is not a word you use unless you want to die.”

Will’s laugh softened into something warm, fond. “Okay, yeah. That’s fair.”

Mike exhaled shakily, like that tiny agreement was keeping him alive.

“And then,” Mike rushed on, because the momentary comfort was dangerous and he needed to get this over with before he chickened out, “Mom started talking about who we were inviting and Nancy said she’s bringing Robin which is— whatever— fine— and then Mom tried to set me up with her friend’s son Boris.”

Will went quiet.

“…Boris?” he repeated slowly.

Mike’s face crumpled in disgust even though Will couldn’t see it. “Yes.”

Will’s voice sounded like he was smiling. “Boris is—”

“A crime,” Mike interrupted immediately. “Boris is a crime. And Mom said he’s a musician and Holly said he’s a failed one and—” Mike’s voice rose, frantic, “—and I panicked.”

Silence.

Will didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t laugh.

Just listened.

Mike squeezed his eyes shut again.

Here it was.

Here was the moment.

He breathed in.

Then out.

Then, in one miserable rush, like ripping off a plaster:

“And I told my family I have a boyfriend.”

Silence.

Dead, horrible silence.

Mike’s heart actually crawled up into his throat.

On the other end of the line, Will didn’t speak for a second.

Mike could hear him breathe. Soft. Controlled.

Then—

“You what,” Will said quietly.

Mike whimpered. “I panicked.”

Will let out a slow breath. “Mike…”

“I KNOW,” Mike squeaked. “I KNOW. It was stupid. I didn’t even mean to. It just came out. Like word vomit.”

Another pause.

Will’s voice was softer when he spoke again. Carefully calm.

“…And who did you tell them your boyfriend was.”

Mike pressed his forehead into his pillow.

He wanted to disappear.

He wanted to become one with the mattress and never return.

“…You,” Mike admitted, barely audible.

It was so quiet his voice almost didn’t count as sound.

There was another pause.

Longer this time.

Mike’s whole body went tense, bracing for impact.

Will didn’t yell.

He didn’t sound angry.

If anything—

He sounded… stunned.

“…Me,” Will repeated, like he was trying the word out, like it didn’t quite fit in his mouth.

Mike squeezed the blanket tighter, voice turning desperate.

“And Mom went full psycho supportive mom and she just— she just decided you’re coming, Will. She said it’s sorted. She’s gonna call your Mom. She thinks it’s perfect and everyone’s acting like it makes sense and I’m going to die.”

On the other end, there was a faint sound — like Will shifting, like he’d sat up straighter.

Mike could almost picture it. Will in his room, phone pressed to his ear, brows furrowed, thinking hard.

Then Will spoke again, voice low.

“…Okay.”

Mike froze.

“…Okay?” he echoed, disbelief ringing through the syllable.

Will sounded steady. Grounded. Like he wasn’t even considering saying no.

“Yeah,” Will said quietly. “Okay.”

Mike’s heart slammed.

“You’ll— you’ll do it?” Mike’s voice came out thin, fragile, like he didn’t trust the world not to collapse. “You’ll— pretend?”

Will was silent for a moment, then his voice softened in a way that made Mike’s chest ache.

“I mean,” Will said, almost carefully, “I don’t really want you to have to go on a trip with Boris.”

Mike let out a strangled noise that might’ve been laughter or might’ve been the final sound of his soul leaving his body.

“I hate you,” Mike whispered, even though he didn’t.

Will’s voice warmed, amusement curling in. “No you don’t.”

Mike’s face burned. He dragged Will’s hoodie sleeve over his mouth, hiding in it like it could save him.

“…So,” Will continued gently, “when is it?”

Mike swallowed, voice still horrified.

“Next weekend.”

Will hummed again. Thoughtful. Unbothered. Like this was a normal plan.

“Okay,” he said, calmer than Mike had ever been in his entire life. “I’ll come.”

Mike stared up at his ceiling, fairy lights blinking softly above him, and felt the reality of it settle like a weight on his chest.

Will was coming.

His fake boyfriend.

His real… everything.

Mike let out the smallest, weakest, most devastated exhale of his life.

“…Oh my god,” he whispered.

Will’s laugh was quiet. Warm.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Oh my god.”

And Mike knew, with absolute certainty—

He was done for.

Mike Wheeler hated airports.

No— hate was too mild.

Airports were a special kind of psychological warfare designed specifically to test the limits of human sanity. Everything about them felt wrong. Too loud, too bright, too many people moving in every direction like they’d all forgotten how to walk normally. The air smelled like overpriced perfume and warm plastic and the ghost of stale coffee. The fluorescent lights were somehow worse than anything else— clinical, buzzing, determined to expose him as a fraud in front of God and everyone.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t leave.

Once you were there, you were trapped. Herded along like cattle, shoved through security, forced to take your shoes off in front of strangers like it was normal. You couldn’t even sit comfortably because every chair was bolted to the floor at a weird angle, as if comfort was illegal.

Mike clutched his boarding pass so hard the paper was beginning to crumple at the edges.

His backpack felt too heavy, his hoodie felt too thin, his nerves felt like exposed wires.

He kept swallowing, throat dry, trying to breathe through his nose like that would help. It didn’t. It never did.

His family moved around him in their usual orbit of chaos.

Holly was practically vibrating with excitement, chattering nonstop about snow and hot chocolate and whether they’d see a “real bear” (Karen had said no. Mike had said I hope so, so it kills me and Nancy had kicked him again).

Nancy walked a few steps ahead with her headphones half on, pretending she wasn’t part of this family even as she absolutely was. Robin was with her, matching her stride easily, snarking under her breath in a way that made Nancy laugh despite herself.

Ted trudged along behind, wheeling one suitcase with the solemn determination of a man on a mission.

Karen floated between them all like the loving overseer of an extremely dysfunctional little flock.

And Will—

Will was beside Mike.

Of course he was.

Because Will Byers had arrived that morning looking entirely too put together for someone who had agreed to a fake dating weekend with Mike’s terrifying family like it was a casual favour. He’d shown up at the door with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair slightly damp from the shower, smiling that soft smile that made Mike’s brain short circuit.

Karen had hugged him like he’d been part of the family since birth.

Ted had said, “Morning, Will,” like this was normal.

Holly had grinned and said, “Hi, Mike’s boyfriend,” like she was trying to kill him on purpose.

And now Will was here, in the airport, walking just close enough that Mike could feel his warmth through his coat.

And he was being…

He was being too good.

Like, scarily good.

Whenever Mike’s foot tapped too fast, Will’s hand would drift close, fingers brushing his knuckles like a quiet reminder: I’m here. Whenever Mike’s breathing got shallow, Will would step a fraction closer, shoulder almost touching his, grounding him without even saying anything.

Like he could read Mike’s anxiety through the air.

Like he’d done it his whole life.

Which, he kind of had.

Mike’s heart was doing cartwheels in his ribcage, and he hated it. He hated how safe it made him feel. He hated how much he wanted to lean into it and never move again.

They came to a stop in the security line— a long, winding snake of irritated people and crying toddlers and businessmen who looked like they’d combust if someone touched their suitcase.

Mike froze.

His whole body went rigid.

Will clocked it instantly.

“You okay?” Will asked quietly, voice soft enough that it didn’t feel like it was echoing around the whole terminal.

Mike swallowed hard, nodding too fast. “Yeah.”

Will’s eyes flicked over his face. Calm. Steady. Concerned.

“You don’t look okay.”

Mike’s throat tightened. “I’m fine.”

That was Mike’s favourite lie.

Will didn’t argue. He never argued. He just adjusted, like he was shifting into place around Mike’s anxiety the way a blanket settled around someone cold.

He stepped closer, shoulder brushing Mike’s.

And then he did something that made Mike’s brain absolutely blue screen.

Will reached down, casually, like it meant nothing, and threaded their fingers together.

Mike’s entire nervous system rebooted.

His hand was suddenly warm. Anchored. Held.

His heartbeat slammed into the palm of Will’s hand like it was trying to confess a crime.

Mike stared down at their fingers, stunned.

Will squeezed once, gentle.

“You’re okay,” Will murmured.

Mike’s mouth opened, closed, opened again.

He wanted to say don’t do that, because it was going to kill him.

But he also wanted to say never stop.

Instead what came out was a weak, strangled whisper.

“…You’re insane.”

Will’s mouth twitched. “Maybe.”

Mike swallowed again, eyes darting around like he was checking to see if anyone had noticed.

Unfortunately, his mother was alive.

Karen Wheeler turned her head at the exact worst moment and spotted them holding hands.

Her face did this thing— softened, lit up, beamed so brightly Mike swore the entire airport could feel it.

“Oh,” she breathed, hands clasping against her chest like she’d just witnessed the birth of a miracle. “Oh my god.”

Mike’s soul tried to exit through his ears.

“Mom,” Mike hissed under his breath, cheeks flushing hot.

Karen didn’t even pretend to be normal about it. She leaned in slightly, eyes sparkling, voice dropping like she was sharing something sacred.

“You two are just the sweetest thing,” she whispered.

Mike’s eyes widened, horrified. “Stop.”

Will, traitor that he was, didn’t even look embarrassed.

He looked… amused.

Fond, even.

Like he was enjoying this.

Like he enjoyed making Mike explode.

Will kept holding Mike’s hand, thumb rubbing soothing circles over his knuckles— boyfriend behaviour so effortless it felt illegal.

Mike’s stomach flipped again.

“This is a fake relationship,” Mike whispered desperately, like the universe needed the reminder.

Will’s eyes flicked toward him, warm and calm. “Yeah,” he murmured.

Then he squeezed Mike’s hand again.

And Mike almost collapsed on the spot.

They shuffled forward in line.

Closer to security.

Closer to the part where Mike had to take off his shoes in public and put his laptop in a tray and pretend he wasn’t seconds from a full mental breakdown.

Mike’s fingers tightened around Will’s without him even meaning to.

Will didn’t complain.

He just adjusted his grip, grounding him again.

“You want me to take your bag?” Will offered quietly, gaze flicking to the backpack strap biting into Mike’s shoulder.

Mike shook his head too fast. “No, I— I can do it.”

Will didn’t push. He just nodded and shifted his body slightly so he stood between Mike and the crowd, like he was shielding him from the chaos without making it obvious.

It was subtle.

But it was real.

And it was making Mike’s brain catch fire.

They reached the front.

The security guard barked orders like he was having the worst day of his life. People shuffled, trays clattered, shoes came off, belts came off— it was a humiliation ritual disguised as procedure.

Mike’s palms went damp immediately.

He hated this part.

He hated the conveyor belt. Hated how exposed it felt. Hated how everyone acted like this was nothing.

His breathing started to go shallow again before he could stop it.

Will noticed. Of course he noticed.

He leaned in, voice low, steady.

“Hey,” he murmured, thumb tracing one slow circle on Mike’s knuckle. “Just copy me, okay? One step at a time.”

Mike’s throat tightened.

He nodded jerkily.

Karen, behind them, watched with watery-eyed joy like she’d brought front-row seats to the world’s cutest romantic comedy.

“That’s it,” she cooed softly, unable to help herself. “Will, you’re so good with him.”

Mike wanted the floor to open up.

“Mom,” he hissed again, voice cracking. “Please—”

Karen smiled innocently. “What? It’s true!”

Ted, behind her, nodded like he agreed with the weather. “He’s very patient.”

Nancy’s voice drifted from behind them, amused and sharp. “Mike’s not hard to handle, he’s just fragile.”

“Shut up,” Mike snapped automatically.

Robin snorted. “This is honestly the most I’ve ever liked him.”

Mike whipped his head around, scandalised. “Hey!”

Will’s laugh was quiet, warm.

Mike’s face went even hotter.

It was too much. Everything was too much. The noise, the lights, the line, his family, the way Will’s hand was in his, the way it felt like the most natural thing in the world—

Mike swallowed hard, trying not to shake.

Will squeezed his hand again, grounding him in the chaos.

“You’re doing good,” Will murmured, like Mike was something worth taking care of.

Mike’s chest tightened painfully.

“Stop,” Mike whispered again, but it came out smaller. Less angry. More desperate.

Will’s eyes flicked down to him, soft and steady.

“No,” he said simply.

And for some reason— for some awful reason—

That made Mike feel like he could breathe.

They stepped forward together.

One tray. One belt. Shoes off. Backpack down. Hoodie through the scanner.

Mike’s heart hammered, but Will stayed right there, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, like he could physically keep Mike anchored to the ground.

And Karen Wheeler watched it all with shining eyes and a smile so wide it was almost dangerous.

Mike Wheeler had never been so anxious in his life.

And he had also— horrifyingly —

never felt so held.

The cabin was haunted.

Mike knew it the second they stepped through the front door.

It wasn’t even, like… a dramatic haunting. It wasn’t blood dripping down the walls or a creepy little girl whispering in the corner or a chandelier swinging ominously as thunder cracked outside.

It was worse than that.

It was subtle.

The kind of haunted that lived in vibes.

The kind of haunted where everything looked normal at first glance— rustic, cosy, “mountain retreat” in that very expensive, Pinterest-board way— but you could feel something slightly… wrong, like the air had been left out too long and gone stale.

Ted pushed the door open with the satisfied confidence of a man who had been vindicated.

“See?” he announced immediately, wheeling one suitcase over the threshold. “Not haunted.”

Mike stepped inside and felt his soul recoil like a cat being offered a bath.

The warmth hit him first— the cabin was already heated, radiators ticking faintly, a fire crackling lazily in the stone fireplace straight ahead. It smelled like pinewood and old smoke and something sweet underneath it, like cinnamon or old books.

There were wooden beams across the ceiling. Thick rugs on the floor. A chunky knitted throw draped over a sofa like it was there specifically for aesthetic purposes. The whole place was lit by warm lamps instead of overhead lights, which was the only reason Mike hadn’t immediately turned around and sprinted back into the snow.

But still.

The vibes were off.

The cabin had… presence.

Not in a comforting way.

In a way that made Mike’s skin prickle faintly and his shoulders tighten, like the house itself was watching him come in and going, oh. this one’s anxious. tasty.

Nancy walked in behind him, pausing on the threshold like she was also taking inventory of her surroundings.

Mike glanced at her, eyes wide.

Nancy glanced back.

They didn’t need to speak.

They shared the same exact thought:

This place has seen murders.

Holly, of course, was having the time of her life. She burst into the living room like a tiny tornado, boots thumping against the floor, eyes huge as she spun in a circle.

“Oh my god!” she squealed. “It’s like a movie cabin!”

Mike whispered, deadpan, “Yeah. A horror one.”

Karen glided in after her, already softening at the sight like she’d walked into a magazine spread. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, scarf wrapped neatly around her neck.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” Karen breathed, eyes shining. “Ted, you did such a good job.”

Ted straightened instantly like he’d just been awarded a medal. “I told you.”

Nancy muttered, “Yeah, you told us. Repeatedly. Like a ghost in a loop.”

Ted ignored her with practiced ease and started dragging luggage toward the staircase.

Robin, meanwhile, wandered in after Nancy with the slow, cautious movement of someone who had stepped into a haunted house before and knew exactly what to look for.

She turned in a slow circle, eyes scanning. She stared at the staircase. The corners. The high windows with the dark outside pressed up against them like a threat.

Then her eyes landed on the wall above the fireplace.

There was a painting there.

A big one.

Old-fashioned, oil-painted, framed in something heavy and ornate.

A man and a woman posed stiffly like they hated each other but were committed to the aesthetic. The man was wearing some kind of waistcoat. The woman had her hair pinned up tight. Both of them had pale faces and dark eyes, painted with just enough detail to make them look… almost real.

Mike felt his throat tighten.

Nancy squinted at it. “Oh, absolutely not.”

Ted glanced up briefly. “It’s just a painting.”

Mike stared at it harder.

The eyes were too shiny.

Too… present.

Robin, who had been drifting side to side like she was conducting an experiment, stopped directly under the painting and lifted her chin, staring up at it for a long, silent moment.

She moved slightly to the left.

Then to the right.

Then back again.

Mike watched, breath held, because he already knew.

He already knew what she was going to say.

Robin nodded once, slow and decisive, like she’d just confirmed a scientific theory.

“Yup,” she said plainly.

Nancy crossed her arms. “Don’t—”

Robin pointed up at the painting without looking away.

“The eyes follow you.”

Nancy shut her eyes like she was in physical pain.

Mike whispered, “I hate it here.”

Robin nodded gravely, completely serious. “Haunted.”

Ted rolled his eyes, already walking away with a suitcase. “It’s not haunted.”

Karen, traitor that she was, looked delighted rather than concerned. “Oh, Robin,” she laughed softly, “don’t scare Holly.”

Holly looked up at the painting, eyes huge, then grinned like a tiny gremlin. “I’m not scared. I can fight a ghost.”

Mike stared at her. “With what? Your math homework?”

Holly shrugged. “I’ll throw it at them.”

Will, who had been quiet up until now— hovering near Mike like he always did, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, scarf slightly crooked from where Karen had fussed with it five minutes ago— leaned in just a little, voice low so only Mike could hear.

“If it makes you feel better,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to the painting, “I’ll protect you from the haunted Victorian couple.”

Mike’s heart did that stupid little flip again, even now, even here, in the murder cabin.

He shot Will a look, cheeks still pink from the cold.

“I’m being serious,” Mike whispered.

Will’s mouth twitched, amused. “I am too.”

Mike narrowed his eyes. “No you’re not.”

Will’s smile softened, warm in the firelight. “A little.”

Mike tried very hard not to smile back.

He failed instantly.

Robin, still staring at the painting, added, completely deadpan, “If either of them starts moving, I’m setting it on fire.”

Karen gasped. “Robin!”

Robin looked at her innocently. “What? Fire cleanses.”

Nancy muttered, “She’s right.”

Ted’s voice boomed from somewhere near the stairs. “Nobody is setting anything on fire!”

Mike stood frozen in the middle of the living room, taking it all in.

The crackle of the fireplace. The heavy wooden walls. The snow pressing cold and dark against the windows. The smell of pine and cinnamon and something… old.

The warm lamps. The too-quiet corners. The painting that absolutely, definitely, without a doubt wanted him dead.

The cabin wasn’t horrible.

It was kind of pretty, actually.

In a way.

But the vibes were undeniably off.

Mike tightened his grip on his backpack strap and thought, with grim certainty—

He should’ve brought sage.

Karen went into motion immediately, because Karen Wheeler could not exist in a new space without instantly trying to mother it into submission.

“Okay!” she announced brightly, clapping her hands once like she was a camp counsellor trying to wrangle a group of feral children. “Everyone settle in— shoes off if you want, coats can go on the hooks, I’ll make some tea… or hot chocolate.”

Holly’s head snapped up so fast Mike swore he heard her neck crack.

“Hot chocolate?” Holly repeated, eyes sparkling like she’d just been offered a million pounds.

Karen smiled indulgently. “Hot chocolate.”

Holly’s hands flew to her cheeks. “With marshmallows?”

Karen laughed softly, already shrugging off her coat. “Of course with marshmallows. Holly— do you want extra?”

Holly gasped like she’d been asked if she wanted to breathe air. “YES!”

And then she bolted, small boots thudding against the wooden floor as she chased Karen into the kitchen like a tiny, sugar-fuelled shadow.

Mike watched her go with the tired fondness of someone who would die for his sister but also wished she came with a mute button.

The cabin settled into that strange post-arrival chaos — luggage being dragged across the floor, Ted stomping snow off his boots by the door like it was personally offending him, Karen rummaging through cupboards as if she’d lived here her whole life.

Nancy wandered toward the sofa with the resigned energy of someone preparing to endure a weekend with ghosts, family bonding, and Mike Wheeler whining.

Robin followed her like an excited little menace, eyes still flicking up at the haunted painting every few seconds as if she was waiting for it to blink.

Mike, meanwhile, did the only thing he could do.

He gravitated toward the fireplace.

Because it was warm.

Because warm meant safe.

Because if he sat close enough to the fire, maybe he could pretend the cabin wasn’t trying to eat him alive.

He lowered himself onto the couch gingerly, like the cushions might be cursed, and tucked his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie, shoulders curling in as the heat kissed his face.

It was… nice.

The fire crackled lazily. The whole room glowed in that warm orange flicker. The air felt softer in the light of it, like the cabin was trying to convince him it was harmless.

Mike almost believed it.

Almost.

Then the couch dipped beside him.

Mike’s stomach flipped.

Because of course it did.

Will sat down like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just walked into Mike’s family holiday and slid into place beside him like he belonged there. Like he hadn’t been doing that the entire trip up — steady, calm, comforting, too good at this.

Will’s thigh brushed Mike’s.

Their knees touched.

Just barely.

But it was enough to make Mike’s brain instantly start screaming.

He stared very hard at the fireplace, like if he focused on the flames long enough he might achieve enlightenment. Or spontaneously combust. Either would be fine.

Will shifted slightly, getting comfortable, and—

Oh god.

Oh god.

His arm.

Will’s arm went behind Mike, draping along the back of the couch like it was normal. Like it was casual. Like it wasn’t making Mike’s entire nervous system spark and crackle like the fire itself.

It wasn’t even fully around him.

It was just… there.

Warmth. Presence. Space being claimed.

Mike’s mouth went dry.

Yeah okay. Sure. Yeah.

This was fine.

This was totally fine.

Will glanced over at him, eyes soft, a faint little smile tugging at his mouth like he could feel Mike spiralling beside him.

“You warm enough?” Will asked quietly.

Mike’s voice came out strangled. “Yeah.”

Will hummed. “Good.”

Mike wished he’d stop being good. Mike wished he’d be normal and awkward and terrible at this.

Instead he sat there looking like he belonged at Mike’s side, like his arm behind him wasn’t an accident at all, like he’d done it a thousand times.

Mike’s stomach flipped again.

On the other side of the room, Robin flopped down dramatically beside Nancy with the enthusiasm of someone entering her natural habitat.

Nancy had barely sat before Robin was already rearranging herself — kicking off her boots, scooting closer, and then shamelessly hauling her legs up to rest across Nancy’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Nancy barely reacted, just automatically adjusting her hands to hold Robin’s ankles like she’d done it a million times.

Mike clocked it and felt deeply offended.

The audacity. The comfort. The ease.

Robin grinned, looking around the cabin like she was taking roll call.

“So!” she announced brightly. “Who’s getting murdered first?”

Ted’s voice carried faintly from the hallway, exhausted. “Nobody is getting murdered.”

Robin ignored him immediately.

Nancy didn’t even hesitate.

“Mike,” she said, quick as a gunshot.

Mike’s head snapped around, outraged. “Excuse me?”

Nancy’s eyes flicked over him, unimpressed. “You don’t have final girl energy.”

Mike gasped loudly, scandalised, like she’d slapped him across the face.

“I absolutely do!”

Robin’s grin widened into something evil. “Oh, no— she’s right.”

Mike’s jaw dropped. “You don’t even know me!”

Robin tilted her head, studying him like she was analysing a bug.

“I know enough,” she decided. “You’d hear a noise in the hallway and immediately go, ‘hello? is anyone there?’ and then you’d die.”

Mike pointed at her with a shaking hand. “Okay first of all, rude—”

Nancy cut him off, deadpan. “You’d also trip over absolutely nothing.”

Mike spluttered. “I do not trip!”

Will, traitor that he was, made a small sound beside him.

Not quite a laugh.

But close.

Mike whipped his head toward him in betrayal. “Don’t.”

Will tried to keep his face neutral. He failed immediately. The corner of his mouth twitched.

Mike’s cheeks burned. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

Will’s eyes softened, affectionate in a way that made Mike’s chest ache.

“I am,” Will murmured.

And then, like he couldn’t help himself—

Will’s hand lifted and rested briefly on Mike’s shoulder.

Just a simple touch. A steadying thing.

Mike froze.

Robin watched it and practically vibrated with delight.

Nancy’s eyebrows shot up, amused despite herself.

Karen’s voice floated from the kitchen, cheerful and oblivious.

“Holly! Don’t eat all the marshmallows before the drinks are even done!”

Holly squealed back, “I’M NOT!”

Mike sat stiff as a board, Will’s arm still behind him, firelight warming his face, haunted painting watching from above, and his family casually deciding his fate like they were talking about the weather.

He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way his heart was slamming around inside his chest like it wanted out.

Ted made a noise as he lowered himself into the armchair that could only be described as deeply paternal.

It was the kind of groan that didn’t come from pain, necessarily, but from the sheer act of existing as a man over forty. Like his joints had collectively filed a complaint the second he tried to sit down.

Mike heard it and felt irrationally irritated.

Because Ted Wheeler always acted like sitting down was an Olympic sport.

Ted leaned back, settling in with the satisfaction of a man who believed he’d earned this rest purely by showing up. The firelight flickered across his face, turning him warm and soft and annoyingly peaceful.

Then he looked up.

Right at Mike.

Then at Will.

Then back at Mike.

And with absolutely zero warning — none, whatsoever — he gestured lazily between them like he was indicating two options on a menu.

“So,” Ted asked, voice easy, fond, impossibly casual. “How long have you two been together then?”

Mike’s blood turned to ice.

He made a noise that was half cough, half choking on air.

“Uh—” he spluttered, because his mouth was moving and his brain was not. “Dad—”

Karen’s head popped up from the kitchen doorway like a meerkat sensing drama. “What?”

Nancy’s eyes lit up again, instantly entertained.

Robin sat up straighter, grinning like she’d just been handed a front-row ticket to the show.

Will didn’t move.

Of course he didn’t move.

Will stayed perfectly calm beside Mike, all warm presence and soft eyes and knowing. Like this wasn’t a bomb that had just been dropped in Mike’s lap.

Mike tried to recover. Tried to speak. Tried to form a sentence that didn’t sound like a dying animal.

But Ted wasn’t finished.

“Because,” Ted continued, wiping his glasses on his shirt like he was about to deliver a completely normal piece of fatherly wisdom, “I’ve been waiting for this to happen since you were about fifteen.”

Mike felt his soul leave his body so violently it probably hit the ceiling.

He turned toward Ted with wide, horrified eyes. “WHAT?”

Ted slid his glasses back on, blinking slowly like this was obvious information.

“What?” Ted repeated, genuinely confused by Mike’s reaction.

Nancy made a sharp little laugh into her hand.

Robin let out a delighted oh my god under her breath.

Karen’s face softened into something triumphant and emotional, like she’d just been proven right in court.

Ted waved a hand vaguely, still looking at Mike and Will like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“You’ve been attached at the hip for years,” Ted said, like he was explaining basic math. “Will was basically living in our house.”

Mike gaped. “He was my best friend!”

Ted nodded like that was exactly his point. “Yes.”

Mike’s hands flailed uselessly in front of him, because what else could he do with this information except physically fight it.

“That— that’s not—” Mike stammered, voice cracking. “That’s not the same thing!”

Ted squinted at him mildly. “Sure it is.”

Nancy leaned forward, smug as sin. “Oh, it’s so the same thing.”

Mike snapped his glare to her. “Don’t.”

Robin chimed in, too pleased with herself. “It’s actually kind of adorable how you thought it wasn’t obvious.”

Mike’s throat went tight. “It wasn’t obvious!”

Will’s shoulder shook beside him.

Just barely.

Like he was holding back laughter.

Mike felt personally attacked.

“Will,” Mike hissed, whispering like it was an emergency. “Stop.”

Will turned his head slightly, eyes warm, lips twitching.

“I’m not doing anything,” Will murmured, which was a lie.

Mike looked like he might faint.

Ted, oblivious to the carnage he was causing, leaned back again with a content sigh, hands resting on the arms of the chair like a king on his throne.

“I mean,” Ted went on conversationally, “you were always dragging him over. Or calling him. Or looking miserable until he showed up.”

Mike’s face burned so hot he was convinced his skin was about to peel off.

“I did not—”

“Yes you did,” Nancy said instantly.

Karen pressed a hand to her chest, eyes misty like she was witnessing the sweetest thing in the world. “Oh, honey…”

Mike pointed at Ted again, trembling. “Dad, why are you saying this now?”

Ted blinked slowly. “Because you asked.”

“I didn’t ask!”

Ted frowned. “Well someone asked.”

Mike looked at Will, betrayal absolute. “Did you ask.”

Will’s eyes went wide, innocent. “No. Mike, you did.”

Holly appeared in the doorway at that exact moment holding a mug of hot chocolate almost as big as her head, marshmallows piled up like a threat.

She took one look at Mike’s face and grinned wickedly.

“He’s gonna explode,” she announced happily.

Mike let out a strangled sound of despair and dropped his face into his hands, shoulders curling inward as if he could physically fold himself out of existence.

He could still feel Will beside him. Warm. Steady. Calm.

Could still feel the faint brush of Will’s knee against his.

Could still feel Will’s arm along the back of the couch like it belonged there.

Like he belonged there.

Mike muffled into his hands, voice dying. “I hate all of you.”

Ted chuckled softly, fond and amused.

“No you don’t,” he said.

Mike’s soul left his body again.

So.

They’d ended up in a double bedroom.

Which— fine. Whatever. Normal. Totally normal. People shared rooms on family holidays all the time.

Except Mike Wheeler had never once in his life shared a room with Will Byers in a context where the words boyfriend and together had been spoken out loud by multiple members of his family while a haunted painting watched from above the fireplace like it was taking notes.

So no.

Not normal.

Mike stood in the doorway with his duffel bag hanging off his shoulder like it weighed a thousand pounds, staring at the room like it had personally betrayed him.

It wasn’t huge, but it was nice. Rustic wooden walls, a thick rug underfoot, a little lamp on each bedside table casting soft light across the bed. There was one window, curtains drawn, but the cold still pressed through the glass in a way that made Mike’s bones ache preemptively.

The bed itself was…

A double.

One bed.

One mattress.

Two pillows side by side like they were mocking him.

Mike felt his stomach drop.

Behind him, Nancy drifted past in the hallway like a shark.

Robin followed, grinning. Karen was there too, holding folded towels like she was running a hotel and not an organised crime operation.

Holly had already claimed the only single room in the cabin with the ruthless efficiency of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

And Mike knew— knew— that it wasn’t a coincidence.

Because that single room could’ve gone to Nancy. Or Robin. Or even him, because he was the one most likely to have a dramatic stress-induced heart attack in the night.

But no.

Holly got it.

Because Holly was ten years old and therefore, apparently, needed her own bed more than Mike Wheeler needed emotional stability.

Mike’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“This feels intentional,” he muttered.

Nancy didn’t even pretend to be innocent. She just smirked in passing and said, far too cheerfully, “Goodnight, lovebirds.”

Mike’s head snapped toward her. “Nancy—”

She vanished down the hallway before he could commit violence.

Karen smiled brightly, fully unhelpful. “Sleep well, sweetheart!”

Mike stared at her, horrified. “Mom.”

Karen’s expression softened into something too pleased. “What? You’ll be comfortable. The bed is big.”

Mike wanted to fling himself out the window.

Robin wiggled her fingers at him as she passed like she was saying goodbye to a dying soldier. “If you hear whispering in the walls, don’t follow it!”

“I hate you,” Mike called after her, voice cracking with genuine despair.

Robin’s laugh drifted back. “No you don’t!”

Ted’s voice boomed faintly from somewhere further down the hall. “Lights out in ten!”

Mike’s soul left his body again.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Mike was left standing in the bedroom.

With Will.

Alone.

In a haunted cabin.

In the freezing cold.

Because of course it was freezing cold. The rest of the cabin had been warm, the fire crackling in the living room, Karen bustling around with hot chocolate like a domestic goddess. But up here, away from the hearth, the cold sank into the walls like it lived there.

The air felt sharp, biting at Mike’s cheeks the second he stepped inside.

He shivered involuntarily.

Tried to pretend he didn’t.

Tried to pretend his skin wasn’t crawling with the uncomfortable awareness of everything.

The dark corners.

The creaky floorboards.

The way the cabin groaned faintly as it settled, old wood shifting in the night.

The kind of sound that made your brain go: that was a person. that was definitely a person.

Mike swallowed hard, eyes flicking instinctively to the shadows in the corners of the room.

He wasn’t scared.

He wasn’t.

He was a seventeen-year-old boy, not a five-year-old child afraid of the dark.

He was not scared.

He was just—

Alert.

Cautious.

Suspicious of the possibility of being murdered.

That was normal.

Will, meanwhile, set his bag down calmly by the dresser like this was just another day. Like the room wasn’t giving off serial killer energy in a way that made Mike want to wrap himself in three blankets and a crucifix.

He rolled his shoulders once, glanced around, and smiled faintly.

“This is nice,” Will said, voice low, warm.

Mike stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

“Nice,” Mike echoed.

Will turned toward him, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Yeah?”

Mike gestured vaguely at the entire room.

“It’s… cold,” he said, because he couldn’t admit it was haunted without sounding insane. “And creepy. And I’m pretty sure the floorboards are plotting against us.”

Will’s mouth twitched. Amused.

“I don’t think the floorboards are plotting.”

Mike narrowed his eyes. “That’s what they want you to think.”

Will laughed quietly, breath puffing faintly in the cold air, and Mike’s chest tightened stupidly because even Will laughing sounded warm enough to heat the entire room.

Mike dumped his bag down with a thud, trying to act casual.

Trying to act like he wasn’t slightly terrified of the fact they were in a double bed situation in a house that might contain ghosts.

Trying to act like this wasn’t the most insane weekend of his life.

He turned toward the window again, staring at the dark glass.

Outside, the mountains stretched out in shadowy silence, the snow reflecting faint moonlight like it was glowing. It was beautiful, in a terrifying, isolated way.

The kind of beautiful that made you go: wow. nobody would find the body out here for months.

Mike shivered again.

This time, not from the cold.

He crossed his arms, trying to make himself look unbothered.

Will’s voice cut through the quiet behind him, soft.

“You’re scared.”

Mike froze.

Slowly, painfully, he turned his head toward Will.

“I’m not scared,” Mike said immediately, too fast. Defensive. Offended.

Will just looked at him.

That look. That gentle, steady, annoyingly knowing look that always made Mike feel like Will could see right through his skin and into his ribs.

Will’s lips twitched like he was trying not to smile.

“Okay,” Will said, voice calm.

Mike’s jaw tightened. “I’m not.”

Will stepped a little closer, quiet on the rug, and Mike hated how he felt the warmth of him before he even touched him.

“I can see your eyes darting around,” Will murmured. “Like you’re expecting something to jump out at you.”

Mike opened his mouth—

Closed it.

Because… he was. A little.

He swallowed hard, refusing to give in.

“It’s called being observant,” Mike muttered.

Will’s smile softened.

“Mm,” he hummed, clearly not buying it. “Sure.”

Mike’s cheeks heated again, irritation and embarrassment tangling together. He shifted awkwardly, tugging his sleeves down over his hands.

“I’m fine,” he insisted one last time, voice quieter now.

Will’s gaze stayed on him, warm and steady.

Mike hated how much it comforted him.

Will tilted his head slightly.

“…Do you want the lamp on?” Will asked gently.

Mike blinked, startled.

Because that wasn’t a tease.

That was just… Will.

Seeing him. Offering.

Making it easier without making him feel stupid.

Mike’s throat tightened.

He looked away quickly, staring at the bed like it was his mortal enemy.

“…Maybe,” he admitted, barely audible.

Will didn’t comment. Didn’t smile. Didn’t make it a thing.

He just reached over and flicked the lamp on.

Warm, soft light bloomed across the room, chasing the shadows back a little, making everything look less haunted and more… normal.

Mike breathed out slowly, relief loosening his chest.

Will’s voice was quiet beside him.

“There,” he said. “Better?”

Mike swallowed hard, still refusing to look at him because if he looked at him he might actually explode.

“…Yeah,” Mike whispered.

Will’s presence lingered close, steady and calm, like he wasn’t going anywhere.

And even though the cabin was freezing and dark and absolutely haunted—

Mike’s heartbeat slowed, just a little.

Because Will was there.

And Will, apparently, was going to notice everything.

Even the parts of Mike that tried so hard to pretend they didn’t exist.

Will hesitated for half a second, like he was weighing something up.

Like he’d been doing that a lot lately— quietly calculating what Mike needed before Mike even knew how to say it out loud.

He shifted where he stood beside his bag, fingers curling around the strap, voice gentle in that way that always made Mike feel like his chest was being pressed between two hands.

“If you want,” Will started carefully, eyes soft, “I can sleep downstairs. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, or—”

Mike whipped his head toward him so fast it was a miracle he didn’t sprain something.

He stared at Will like he’d just announced he was going to walk into the blizzard barefoot for fun.

“Will,” Mike said, voice cracking with pure disbelief.

Will blinked, brows lifting slightly. “What?”

Mike gestured wildly between them, the bed, the lamp, the entire haunted cabin like it was Exhibit A in a court case.

“I just admitted,” Mike hissed, horrified, “that I’m going to need the lamp on.”

Will’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile.

Mike leaned in a fraction, eyes wide and earnest in the most pathetic way possible.

“And you think,” he continued, voice rising like he was genuinely offended by the suggestion, “that I want to be in here alone?”

Will froze.

Just for a second.

Like the words had landed in his chest and sunk in deep.

Because Mike hadn’t just said don’t leave.

Mike had said stay.

The silence stretched a beat, filled only by the quiet tick of the radiator and the faint creak of the cabin settling around them like it was listening too.

Will’s gaze stayed on Mike’s face, warm and steady, something softer flickering in his eyes.

“…Okay,” Will said quietly, voice almost a whisper.

Mike’s shoulders dropped immediately, relief so strong it made him dizzy.

“Okay,” Mike echoed, as if he needed to hear it twice to believe it.

Will’s smile was small. Fond. A little helpless, like he couldn’t stop it even if he tried.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Will murmured.

Mike swallowed hard, cheeks burning, suddenly painfully aware of what he’d just admitted.

That he didn’t want to be alone.

That he wanted Will there.

That he felt safer with him.

He turned away quickly like it would hide the embarrassment, dropping his bag onto the floor with a thud that was far too aggressive for the moment.

“I wasn’t—” Mike started, flustered. “I didn’t mean it like—”

Will’s quiet laugh cut him off.

“I know,” Will said gently. “It’s okay.”

Mike huffed, dragging a hand through his hair, muttering to himself like he could talk his way out of his own feelings.

“It’s just… this cabin is weird,” he grumbled. “And my family is weird. And— and there’s definitely ghosts.”

Will’s smile widened.

“I’ll fight them for you,” he offered softly, like he was being completely serious.

Mike glanced back over his shoulder, brows furrowed. “You can’t fight a ghost.”

Will shrugged. “I can try.”

Mike’s lips twitched despite himself.

Then he caught himself smiling and immediately looked scandalised, like his own face had betrayed him.

“I hate you,” he muttered, weak.

Will’s eyes softened even more.

“No you don’t,” he murmured again, quiet and certain.

Mike’s heart did that horrible little flip in his chest.

He stared at Will for a second too long.

Then his gaze dropped, because he couldn’t look at him and stay sane.

“No. I don’t.”

Will didn’t tease him for it.

He just nodded once, calm as anything, and started unpacking like it was settled. Like it was normal. Like Mike hadn’t just handed him something huge in the simplest possible way.

Mike watched him for a moment, throat tight, warmth blooming in his chest that had nothing to do with the heater.

The cabin might’ve been freezing.

And haunted.

And full of terrifying creaks and shadows and the vague threat of murder.

But Will was here.

Mike moved like he was approaching a wild animal.

The bed wasn’t even doing anything wrong. It was just… a bed. A normal bed, with clean sheets and fluffy pillows and a duvet that looked thick enough to actually do its job.

But Mike Wheeler didn’t trust anything in this cabin.

Not the floorboards. Not the wind. Not the painting downstairs that definitely wanted him dead. And absolutely not a bed that was trying to lure him into vulnerability.

He stripped down to his shirt and sweats as quickly as possible— because taking off clothes in front of Will, even casually, even with his back turned, felt like playing with fire.

He kept his movements stiff and efficient, like if he acted calm his body might believe him.

It didn’t.

His skin was already cold from the room, and the second he slid under the covers, the sheets kissed his legs with that initial chill that made him flinch.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, shivering despite himself.

“Oh my god,” he muttered instantly, offended. “Why are they freezing.”

Will’s soft laugh came from behind him. “They’re not freezing.”

“They’re freezing,” Mike insisted, voice muffled as he yanked the duvet up higher like he was trying to cocoon himself into safety. The fabric rustled loudly in the quiet room. “Why couldn’t my parents have picked somewhere warm?”

Will’s voice softened. “There’s a fire downstairs.”

“Downstairs is a different universe,” Mike grumbled, shoulders curling inward as he pulled the blankets around himself tighter, like he could physically compress warmth into his bones. “Up here is where the ghosts live.”

Will made a small sound, amused, and Mike felt his cheeks heat even though he couldn’t see him.

“You’re really stuck on the ghost thing, huh?”

Mike’s eyes narrowed at the ceiling. “Because it’s real.”

Will’s laughter was quiet again, breathy, warm. The sound crawled into Mike’s chest like it belonged there.

Mike hated how much it calmed him.

He shifted on the mattress, trying to get comfortable. The bed creaked faintly beneath him, old wood and old springs making a tiny, suspicious noise.

Mike froze.

His whole body went rigid.

“…Did you hear that,” he whispered.

Will paused. “The bed?”

Mike stared at the darkness like it had personally threatened him. “Yes.”

Will’s voice was gentle. “It’s just creaky, Mike.”

Mike’s throat tightened. “Creaky beds are haunted beds.”

Will snorted. “That’s not a thing.”

“It’s absolutely a thing,” Mike insisted, blanket pulled up to his chin now like a shield. “That’s how it starts. First the bed creaks, then the door slowly opens on its own, then a Victorian ghost woman whispers my name.”

Will hummed thoughtfully. “She’d probably call you ‘Michael.’”

Mike let out an angry little noise. “Don’t encourage her.”

Will laughed softly again, and Mike could hear him moving around the room— the faint rustle of fabric, the sound of him shifting his bag, probably changing into something comfortable.

Mike stared at the lamp on the bedside table, the warm glow spreading across the wood-paneled walls. It made the room look less threatening, but not by much.

Not when everything felt too big and too quiet and too… charged.

Because the bed was enormous.

And Will was in the room.

And Mike could already feel the empty space beside him like a magnet pulling.

He swallowed hard, trying to ignore it.

Trying not to think about the fact that Will was going to get into this bed. With him. In the dark. In the cold.

Mike’s heart thudded.

He shifted again, pulling the blanket tighter as if warmth was the only thing he was worried about.

He wasn’t.

He was worried about the way his entire brain had been rewired over the last few days into Will proximity = danger.

Not danger like harm.

Danger like if Will breathes too close to me I might die on the spot.

Behind him, Will’s footsteps padded softly across the rug.

Mike tensed immediately.

He hated himself for it.

He pretended he didn’t.

Will reached the other side of the bed and paused, like he was checking in without asking outright. Like he was giving Mike the space to breathe.

Mike didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes firmly on the ceiling, like the wooden beams were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

Then the mattress dipped.

The bed shifted, weight settling beside him.

Mike’s stomach flipped so violently he thought he might actually float.

Will slid under the covers with quiet ease, the duvet lifting slightly, then settling back down around them.

Warmth followed him instantly— like Will’s body heat was its own little sun.

Mike tried not to react.

Tried not to turn his head.

Tried not to inhale too obviously, because he could smell him, faintly. Clean soap. Laundry detergent. Something soft underneath it that was just… Will.

Mike’s fingers curled tighter in the blanket.

Will adjusted his pillow with a soft rustle.

Then, after a beat, his voice came in low and gentle, close enough that Mike could feel the warmth of it on the back of his neck.

“You still cold?”

Mike’s voice cracked, weak. “Yes.”

Will hummed like that was expected. Like he’d already known.

“Come here,” Will murmured.

Mike’s entire body locked up.

He didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Because come here was such a dangerous thing to say. It was too intimate. Too easy. Too natural. Like Will said it all the time. Like Mike belonged there.

Like they weren’t pretending at all.

Mike swallowed hard, staring at the ceiling so intensely it almost hurt.

“I’m fine,” Mike lied immediately.

Will didn’t argue.

He just shifted slightly closer, shoulder brushing Mike’s through the blankets.

Mike’s breath caught.

Will’s arm moved behind him again— not fully around him, not trapping him, just there, warm and steady and offering.

“You’re shivering,” Will said quietly, voice soft with fact rather than judgement.

Mike’s cheeks burned hot. “No I’m not.”

Will’s hand brushed his side through the blanket like he was testing the truth. Like he couldn’t help himself.

Mike nearly leapt out of his skin.

Will paused instantly, withdrawing slightly.

“Sorry,” Will murmured, gentle. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

Mike’s throat tightened.

Because he wasn’t freaked out.

Not really.

He was just… overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed by the warmth. By Will’s closeness. By how easy it would be to just turn over and curl into him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Overwhelmed by the fact that Will was offering it.

He swallowed hard, voice small.

“I’m not freaked out,” Mike muttered.

Will’s voice was barely a whisper. “Okay.”

Mike’s hands tightened around the blanket again.

The cold was real. The sheets still chilled against his legs. But Will was warm beside him. Steady. Present.

Mike hesitated.

Then, like his body made the decision before his brain could interfere, he inched backward just slightly.

Just enough that his shoulder pressed into Will’s chest.

Just enough that Will’s warmth wrapped around him more fully.

Mike’s breath went shaky.

Will went still for half a second.

Then, carefully— like he was handling something fragile— Will’s arm slid around Mike.

Slow.

Gentle.

Not forcing. Not demanding. Just settling across his waist like it belonged there.

Mike’s entire body lit up.

Every nerve, every muscle, every thought in his brain screaming at once.

He hated it.

He loved it.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to melt.

Will’s hand rested against his stomach through the fabric of his shirt, warm and steady.

His thumb moved once, slow and soothing.

Mike exhaled a shaky breath.

Will’s voice was quiet, almost sleepy. “Better?”

Mike swallowed hard.

“…Yeah,” he whispered.

Will hummed softly, satisfied. “Good.”

Mike let his eyes close for half a second, just to breathe. Just to feel the warmth against his back, the weight of Will’s arm around him, the way his chest rose and fell behind him like a steady rhythm.

They weren’t even fully cuddling.

Not really.

It was more like… Mike had backed into him. Like Will had caught him without question.

But it felt like everything.

Mike’s brain spun, frantic and tender all at once.

He could feel the heat of Will’s skin through the blanket. Feel the way Will’s chin hovered near his hair. Feel the faint brush of his breath against the side of his head.

And Mike, pathetic and weak, curled his fingers into the edge of the duvet and thought—

Oh my god.

Oh my god oh my god.

Will Byers was holding him.

Like it was normal.

Like it was nothing.

Like it was real.

Mike swallowed hard, heart hammering, and tried to pretend he wasn’t losing his mind.

He failed.

Spectacularly.

Because— oh my god.

What was happening.

Mike lay there perfectly still, like if he moved even an inch the universe might remember he wasn’t supposed to have this and rip it away from him like a punishment.

Will’s arm was around his waist. Solid. Warm. Heavy in the best, most terrifying way. Like an anchor. Like a seatbelt. Like a claim.

And Mike could literally feel Will’s breath against the back of his neck.

Not just hear it.

Feel it.

Soft little puffs of warmth that ghosted over his skin every time Will exhaled, like the air itself was touching him. Like Will was close enough that there was no space left for Mike’s thoughts to breathe.

Mike’s brain stuttered.

He could feel the pulse in his throat.

He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, into his ears, into his face, turning him into something humiliatingly warm and alive.

His best friend.

Because Mike felt the need to remind himself — aggressively, violently, like it was a chant he could cling to —

Will was his best friend.

Will was not his boyfriend.

Not really.

Will was not his boyfriend, and Mike was currently being spooned in a haunted cabin while the lamp glowed softly and the snow pressed against the window and Will’s breath made his skin tingle like it was being kissed. But yeah. Best friend. Totally.

This was not romantic.

This was—

This was survival.

This was warmth. That’s all. Just warmth. Just practical.

Mike swallowed hard, throat dry.

And worse?

His stomach was doing something completely traitorous.

Not the nausea kind, thank god.

The other kind.

The stupid kind.

The kind that fluttered, light and dizzying, like butterflies had taken up residence inside him and were now actively throwing a party.

Mike’s chest felt tight. Too full. Like his ribs were struggling to hold everything in.

He stared at the ceiling, eyes wide, frozen, trying to focus on literally anything else.

The wooden beams.

The faint shadows in the corners.

The soft hum of the radiator.

The quiet crackle of the lamp’s warmth.

Anything but Will’s hand resting on his stomach.

Anything but the weight of Will’s body behind him.

Anything but the fact that if Mike tilted his head back even slightly, he’d probably brush his hair against Will’s lips and die instantly.

Will shifted behind him— only a little.

Mike’s entire body jolted like he’d been electrocuted.

Will’s grip tightened for a second, reflexive, pulling Mike just a fraction closer as he settled again.

Then Will exhaled slowly, longer this time, breath warming the back of Mike’s neck.

Mike’s eyes fluttered half shut, his whole body begging to relax even as his brain screamed danger danger danger.

Will’s breathing began to change.

Slower.

Deeper.

His chest rose and fell behind Mike in a steady rhythm, warm and comforting in a way that made Mike’s throat ache.

Will was… drifting.

Like this was normal.

Like holding Mike like this was just what you did when someone was cold.

Like Mike didn’t feel like a live wire in his arms.

Mike couldn’t relate.

Mike was not drifting. Mike was having a spiritual crisis.

He lay there, stiff as a board, trying not to breathe too loudly, because he didn’t want Will to know he was awake. He didn’t want Will to know how fast his heart was going. How his stomach kept flipping. How his whole body felt like it was lit from the inside out.

Will’s nose brushed faintly against the back of Mike’s head as he breathed.

It was so small. So accidental.

So intimate Mike thought his soul might actually leave his body.

Mike swallowed hard again, throat burning.

Best friend, he reminded himself, like he was reciting scripture. Best friend. Best friend. Best friend.

Will hummed softly in his sleep, barely even a sound, and his arm tightened unconsciously around Mike’s waist like it was instinct.

Like he belonged there.

Mike’s eyes stung a little, out of nowhere, and that was new and horrifying in a completely different way.

He blinked hard, staring at the ceiling.

What if Will really did think this was nothing?

What if Will was just… kind. Warm. Protective. Like he always was.

What if Mike was the only one losing his mind.

Mike’s chest tightened again at the thought, sharp and stupid.

He pressed his lips together, willing himself to calm down.

To be normal.

To breathe.

But Will’s breathing was so steady behind him. So warm. So close. It wrapped around Mike like a lullaby whether he wanted it to or not.

Mike’s hands, still curled into the duvet at his chest, slowly unclenched.

His shoulders eased a fraction.

Will’s thumb moved once against his stomach— a slow, unconscious soothing motion.

Mike’s eyelids fluttered again, exhausted.

And for one small second, in the warmth and the dark and the hum of the cabin settling around them—

Mike let himself melt into it.

Just a little.

Just enough to feel Will’s body behind him and think, helplessly—

Oh my god.

This is going to ruin me.

The next morning was absolutely no better.

Mike knew this the second he opened his eyes and realised two things at once:

One— it was bright.

Not big light bright, thank god, but bright enough that the cosy darkness had been replaced by morning light filtering through the curtains in that annoying, cheery way mornings always seemed to do. Like the sun didn’t care that Mike Wheeler had spent the entire night being held by his best friend like a Victorian romance novel and was now emotionally unstable.

And two—

The cabin was… awake.

It had sounds.

Life sounds.

The kind of sounds that meant other people had been conscious for an unreasonable amount of time already.

He could hear faint movement downstairs — cupboards opening, something clinking, Ted’s stupid dad cough somewhere in the distance, Karen’s voice murmur-soft and cheerful like she hadn’t ruined Mike’s life by making Will his fake boyfriend.

Mike stared blankly at the ceiling for a second, eyes gritty with sleep, brain sluggish.

Then he remembered.

The bed.

Will.

The arm around his waist.

The breath on his neck.

The warmth.

The fact that Mike had, at some point, actually fallen asleep with Will holding him like it was normal.

Mike went rigid instantly.

He didn’t move right away.

He couldn’t.

Because Will was still there.

Still warm behind him, still pressed close, still breathing slow and steady against his hair.

His arm was still around Mike’s waist, hand resting against his stomach through the fabric of his shirt like it had never left.

Mike’s stomach flipped. Again. Because of course it did.

Will shifted slightly, sleepy and soft, nose brushing the back of Mike’s head.

Mike’s soul tried to vacate.

Then Will’s voice, thick with sleep, rumbled quietly behind him.

“Morning,” he murmured.

Mike stared at the wall directly in front of him like it was about to offer him instructions on how to survive.

“…Morning,” Mike croaked back, voice rough.

Will hummed softly, warm breath brushing his neck.

Mike clenched the blanket like it was a flotation device.

He should move. He should get up. He should put distance between them before his brain combusted.

But Will’s arm tightened gently for half a second, like he was instinctively pulling Mike closer, and Mike—

Mike did not have the strength to fight a sleepy Will cuddle.

He just lay there, stiff and silently suffering, until Will finally loosened his hold and stretched behind him with a quiet exhale, blinking slowly.

Mike rolled over immediately like he’d been shot out of a cannon.

He faced the other way so fast he nearly snapped his own spine.

Will watched him, eyebrows lifting slightly.

Mike coughed. Pretended that was normal. Like he hadn’t just reacted like a startled squirrel.

“We should—” Mike mumbled, voice cracking. “We should go downstairs.”

Will’s mouth twitched, amused. “Okay.”

Mike didn’t look at him.

He grabbed his hoodie and threw it on like armour, because if he was going to face his family, he needed protection.

Then he dragged himself out of bed and toward the door with all the enthusiasm of a man walking toward his own execution.

Will followed calmly, because Will was an actual psychopath.

Downstairs, the cabin had transformed overnight into something that looked like the inside of a breakfast commercial.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and toast and something vaguely cinnamon-y that made Mike immediately resent his parents for being this functional at the crack of dawn.

The counters were stocked. Not just with the sad little basics — no, this was a full spread. Cereal boxes, bowls lined up, fruit on a plate like they were about to host guests, a pot of oatmeal steaming faintly on the stove.

Ted and Karen had clearly woken up at an hour that Mike considered criminal and decided to be productive about it.

Mike trudged into the room like a sleep-deprived ghost.

Holly was already at the kitchen island, sat on her knees on one of the stools like she was too excited to even sit properly. She was shovelling cereal into her mouth in a way that would’ve made a doctor cry.

Milk dripped down her chin.

Mike grimaced from across the room on instinct.

“Holly,” he said immediately, voice thick with disgust, “you’re eating like you’ve been raised by wolves.”

Holly looked up, cereal clinging to the corner of her mouth, eyes bright and unbothered.

“I’m hungry.”

“That’s not an excuse to behave like an animal.”

Holly shrugged, then tipped the bowl and drank the milk straight out of it like a gremlin.

Mike stared at her, horrified. “Oh my god.”

Nancy, stood by the stove, didn’t even look up.

She was stirring the oatmeal with one hand, phone in the other, scrolling through Instagram with the calm ease of someone who’d done this exact multitasking manoeuvre a thousand times.

“Stop staring,” Nancy said flatly, without turning. “You’re gonna make it worse.”

“I’m traumatised,” Mike whispered.

Robin was leaned into Nancy’s side like she’d been built there, head resting comfortably on her shoulder, her arms loosely wrapped around Nancy’s waist from behind. She was giggling at a video Nancy had paused on — some idiot falling off a sled and screaming the entire way down a slope.

Robin wheezed softly, shaking with laughter.

Nancy didn’t laugh out loud, because Nancy Harrington-Wheeler or whatever her full government name was never laughed out loud—

but the corner of her mouth twitched in a way that was absolutely a smile.

“What an idiot,” Robin muttered fondly, pressing her cheek closer into Nancy’s shoulder.

Nancy hummed, still scrolling. “That’s you in twenty minutes.”

Robin snorted. “No it’s not.”

Nancy finally glanced at her, deadpan. “Robin. You fall over on flat ground.”

Robin looked personally attacked. “I do not!”

Nancy lifted her eyebrow. “You literally tripped over a rug yesterday.”

Robin gasped. “That rug was aggressive.”

Mike watched them for a second, tired and vaguely sickened by how comfortable they were.

Then he remembered he had been held all night by Will Byers and immediately lost the right to judge anyone.

At the small table in the corner, Ted and Karen sat nursing coffees like a pair of peaceful woodland creatures.

Karen looked annoyingly serene — hair clipped back, cheeks still pink from the cold, mug cradled in her hands like she was in a hallmark movie.

Ted looked like he’d been awake for three hours already, which made Mike want to call the police.

Ted lifted his mug in Mike’s direction in greeting, voice gravelly.

“Morning, buddy.”

Mike blinked at him. “Why are you so awake?”

Ted frowned. “It’s morning.”

Mike narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Karen laughed softly. “We wanted to get everything ready before you all woke up.”

Nancy finally spoke again, still stirring oatmeal with the mechanical precision of someone barely conscious. “You mean before we all woke up at a normal hour.”

Ted sipped his coffee, unbothered. “I woke up at six.”

Mike looked horrified. “Six?”

Holly chimed in happily, mouth still full. “I woke up at five!”

Mike’s soul tried to escape. “Oh my god. Why?”

Holly shrugged like it was obvious. “I’m excited.”

Mike stared at her like she was a different species. “You should be arrested.”

Karen smiled indulgently. “He’s just grumpy because he’s not a morning person.”

Mike pointed at her. “I’m not grumpy. I’m correct.”

Robin lifted her head off Nancy’s shoulder just long enough to grin at Mike. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

Mike’s face went hot instantly.

Because yes.

Yes he did.

Because the truck was named Will and it had been breathing on his neck all night.

“I’m fine,” Mike said too quickly, voice cracking.

Nancy snorted. “Sure.”

Robin’s grin widened like she could smell weakness. “Did you sleep okay?”

Mike opened his mouth—

Then froze.

Because Will was right behind him.

And Will had been quiet up until now — hovering like he always did, calm and present in that way that made Mike want to scream.

Now, though, Will was moving. Quiet footsteps across the kitchen floor.

Mike turned slightly, and his stomach flipped again because Will was at the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair still slightly messy from sleep, making tea like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He had a mug out already.

Will poured hot water in, dropped a teabag in, stirred it slowly like he had all the time in the world.

Then, like it was nothing, he added sugar.

Milk.

Not too much. Just enough.

Exactly the way Mike liked it.

Mike stood there like a statue.

His brain malfunctioned.

His soul left his body and went to stand by the haunted painting upstairs for a break.

Will turned slightly, catching Mike staring, and smiled faintly.

“Tea,” Will said simply, holding it out like an offering.

Mike’s hands moved automatically, taking the mug before he could remember how to speak.

The warmth seeped into his palms instantly, grounding him, soothing his stupid nervous system.

Mike stared down at it like it might explode.

“…You didn’t have to do that,” he mumbled, because he had to say something or he would combust.

Will’s expression stayed soft. “I wanted to.”

Mike’s stomach did another somersault.

Karen, from the table, made the most delighted little noise under her breath, like she’d just witnessed a baby deer take its first steps.

“Oh,” she whispered, eyes shining.

Mike felt his face go nuclear.

“Mom,” Mike hissed, because she didn’t even try to hide it. She didn’t even pretend.

Karen pressed her hand to her chest like she’d been struck with emotion. “It’s just so sweet.”

Ted sipped his coffee again, calm as ever. “He takes good care of you.”

Mike nearly dropped the mug.

Mike’s voice came out strained. “It’s just tea.”

“It’s not just tea,” Karen whispered like she was witnessing true love.

Mike wanted to launch himself into the snow outside.

Holly, meanwhile, took one look at Mike’s face and grinned around a mouthful of cereal.

“He’s blushing,” she announced happily.

Mike snapped, scandalised. “I am not!”

Nancy’s smirk turned lethal. “He is.”

Robin cackled.

Will, traitor that he was, just looked at Mike over the rim of his own mug, eyes warm, amused, entirely too calm.

Mike huffed into the mug, blowing gently across the surface like he could cool the tea down and cool himself down at the exact same time.

It didn’t work.

His cheeks were still hot, the embarrassing kind of warm that refused to fade, so he kept the mug lifted high enough to hide half his face behind it like a coward.

He glared over the rim at his family like they were a jury.

“Shut up,” Mike muttered, voice muffled by ceramic. “What’re we doing today, exactly? What is there to actually do here?”

He expected— hoped — they’d say something like sit inside and read quietly or lie down and never move again.

Karen Wheeler, unfortunately, was not built for inactivity.

Karen smiled brightly, the kind of smile that meant she had plans and those plans involved movement.

“Oh!” she chirped, clapping her hands once like an excited teacher. “Plenty of things!”

Mike’s stomach dropped.

Karen pointed toward Holly, who was currently sat at the island licking milk off her spoon like a tiny creature raised by raccoons.

“Your dad and I are taking Holly sledding,” Karen beamed.

Holly perked up instantly, eyes shining. “YES!”

Karen turned her attention back to Mike, smile widening.

“Which you’re obviously welcome to join,” she added warmly.

Mike pictured it immediately.

Him, trudging through snow that reached his knees, dragging a sled behind him while Holly screamed with joy and tried to launch herself down a hill like a missile. Ted insisting it was “good exercise.” Karen taking photos. Everyone laughing at Mike when he inevitably fell over and disappeared into a snowbank.

Mike’s soul tried to crawl out of his skin.

“…I’m good,” Mike said weakly.

Karen’s smile didn’t falter even slightly. “Aw, honey.”

Mike stared at her like she was personally attacking him. “I’m not built for the outdoors.”

Ted looked up from his coffee, neutral. “Nobody’s built for the outdoors. You adapt.”

Mike stared at his father. “That’s terrifying.”

Robin, meanwhile, had wandered to the fridge like she lived here now. She swung the door open and began rummaging through it with the ease of someone raiding a kitchen at 8am like a raccoon with rights.

“I’d like to formally announce that I’m not sledding,” Robin declared, voice echoing slightly as she leaned inside. “I value my spine.”

Nancy, stood by the stove, didn’t even glance up. She was pouring oatmeal into two bowls with the bored precision of someone who’d done this ten thousand times.

“I found a cool hike,” Nancy said casually, like she hadn’t just uttered Mike’s worst nightmare.

Robin’s head snapped up, eyes wide with delight. “She did!”

Mike made a noise of disgust, shoulders curling inward. “Ew.”

Nancy finally looked up, unimpressed. “What?”

“Exercise,” Mike mumbled into his tea like it was a curse word. “In my free time. Voluntarily. In the snow.”

Robin pulled a carton of berries out of the fridge and grinned wickedly. “I mean… the snow part does add flavour.”

Mike glared at her. “You’re all insane.”

Nancy set the bowls down on the counter with a soft clink, then pointed her spoon at Mike like she was accusing him of crimes.

“You’re literally the laziest oaf I know.”

Mike gasped, scandalised. “Excuse me—”

“I say that with love,” Nancy added immediately, completely unconvincing.

“You didn’t say it with love,” Mike shot back. “You said it like you were narrating a documentary about sloths.”

Robin, cheerful traitor, leaned against Nancy’s side and tossed a berry into her mouth.

“I’ve seen sloths,” Robin said thoughtfully. “They do have Mike energy.”

Mike looked personally wounded. “I hate you.”

Robin grinned, pulling her bowl toward her. “No you don’t.”

Mike’s eye twitched.

Ted, ignoring all of them like he’d reached the point in his life where chaos was background noise, squinted at his phone screen with intense focus.

“Okay,” Ted murmured, scrolling. “There’s—”

He pulled his phone further away from his face like he was trying to view it from a safer distance.

Mike watched, tired and offended. “Dad, you need glasses.”

Ted frowned. “I have glasses.”

“Then you need better glasses.”

Ted ignored that too, squinting harder.

“There’s skiing,” Ted announced slowly, like he’d deciphered ancient text. “Snowboarding… there’s a town nearby… ice skating—”

Mike perked up instinctively at the last part, before he could stop himself.

Karen’s head whipped around so fast it was terrifying.

“Oh!” Karen gasped, eyes lighting up like she’d just struck gold. “Mike! You love ice skating!”

Mike froze.

Because… yes.

He did.

He did love ice skating, unfortunately. It was one of those childhood things that had stuck, something he was actually good at, something that made him feel light and sure-footed and free.

And Mike hated that Karen remembered.

He hated even more that she was now looking at him like she’d discovered the key to his soul.

“You haven’t been in so long,” Karen continued excitedly, already fully building the plan in her mind like she was writing a script. “Oh, you should go! You should!”

Mike’s stomach flipped with dread.

Then Karen’s gaze slid— very casually — to Will.

Will, who was standing at the counter sipping his own tea quietly like he wasn’t currently ruining Mike’s entire nervous system by existing.

Will looked up as Karen’s eyes landed on him, polite smile already in place.

Karen absolutely beamed.

“You and Will could go together,” she said brightly, like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like she wasn’t setting Mike up for emotional collapse on ice.

Mike slowly turned his head toward his mother with wide eyes.

“No.”

Karen gasped, hand to her chest. “Why not? It would be so sweet!”

Mike’s voice came out thin, miserable. “Because I would die.”

Nancy, cruel and amused, leaned on the counter and smirked. “You’d be fine.”

Robin grinned, popping another berry in her mouth. “No, no, he’d definitely fall and then dramatically cling to Will’s arm like a baby deer.”

Mike looked betrayed. “Why are you like this.”

Robin shrugged. “I’m a truth teller.”

“No, you’re not. I’m literally good at it?”

“When you were nine.” Nancy buts in.

Karen, unstoppable, clapped her hands again, excitement building.

“Oh! And then you can go to the little café afterwards! Get hot chocolate! Maybe take pictures!” She looked like she might actually cry again. “Oh, it’s perfect.”

Ted hummed, still reading. “It says there’s a rink in town. Open until six.”

Karen nodded rapidly. “There you go!”

Mike stared at the kitchen island like it might open up and swallow him.

This was happening.

This was really happening.

He could already picture it — the rink, the cold air, the sound of blades on ice, the way Will would probably lace his skates for him like some kind of husband.

Mike’s stomach twisted so hard he thought he might throw up.

He lifted his tea again, hiding behind it, voice muffled and defeated.

“…Fine,” he muttered.

Karen’s face lit up like she’d just won the lottery.

“Yes!”

Mike glanced toward Will, cheeks still warm, eyes panicked.

Will met his gaze.

And the traitor smiled.

Not smug.

Not teasing.

Just… soft. Warm.

Like he was already looking forward to it.

Mike’s heart slammed.

“Oh my god,” he whispered into his mug, like a prayer.

Will’s eyes crinkled slightly, fond.

“Yeah,” Will murmured back, quiet enough that only Mike could hear. “Oh my god.”

After breakfast, Mike and Will escaped.

Not in a dramatic “we’re fleeing the country” way— though Mike did briefly consider it when Karen started talking about hot chocolate photo opportunities again— but in the quiet, exhausted way of two people retreating to the only safe place left in the cabin.

Which, unfortunately, was now…

Their room.

Mike still had not emotionally recovered from the concept of their room.

He didn’t like it. He didn’t want it. He couldn’t handle it.

He followed Will up the stairs like a man walking to the gallows, feet thudding heavily on the wood, and as soon as the bedroom door shut behind them he exhaled, long and slow, like he’d been holding his breath since yesterday.

The room was warmer now than it had been the night before— the heater had finally decided to do its job — but it still felt cold enough that Mike’s breath puffed faintly when he talked. The lamp was off, daylight spilling in through the curtains in that pale winter way, making everything look soft and sleepy.

Mike tossed his coat onto the chair in the corner and immediately started gathering his winter gear like he was preparing for battle.

Hat.

Gloves.

Scarf.

Another scarf, because he didn’t trust the first scarf.

He’d barely had his scarf in his hands before the anxiety of today’s plan hit him again like a wave.

Ice skating.

In public.

With Will.

With his mother expecting photographic evidence like this was some kind of documentary.

Mike wrapped the scarf around his neck with intense focus, staring into the mirror on the wall like it was his enemy. In his head, he’d pictured it looking… effortless. Cool. Cute. Like he belonged in a winter romcom.

In reality, he looked like a child being bundled up against his will.

The scarf bunched up weirdly. The ends refused to sit right. The knot looked like it had been tied by someone with no hands.

Mike scowled at his reflection, lips pushed into a pout so dramatic it could’ve been rehearsed.

He tugged at it again, trying to make it lie flatter.

It didn’t.

He tugged again.

It got worse.

Mike huffed, offended on a personal level.

Behind him, Will sat on the bed lacing up his boots with calm, steady movements like he hadn’t a care in the world. Like he wasn’t about to send Mike into cardiac arrest by existing.

His sleeves were pushed up slightly, hands moving quickly, fingers sure. He looked annoyingly good even doing something as boring as tying shoes.

Mike hated him.

Mike loved him.

Mike wanted to scream.

He yanked the scarf again, scowling.

“You do realise,” Mike muttered, voice sharp with misery, “that if we don’t come back with pictures now, my mom will kill us?”

Will’s chuckle came warm and easy from behind him.

“Yeah,” Will said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Obviously.”

Mike narrowed his eyes at the mirror, still wrestling with the scarf like it had insulted him.

Will finished tying one boot, then the other, and leaned back slightly on his hands.

Then, casually— far too casually—

“What kind of boyfriend would I be,” Will continued, voice soft with amusement, “if I didn’t take pictures of you?”

Mike’s throat closed.

His entire body short-circuited.

He had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop the squeak that tried to claw its way out of his mouth.

Because boyfriend. Again.

So easy. So natural. Like Will had been saying it his whole life.

Mike’s face went hot instantly. He stared at his reflection with wide eyes as if the mirror might save him.

It didn’t.

“Shut up,” Mike mumbled quickly, voice cracking as he dropped the scarf with a defeated little flop.

The scarf landed on the dresser like it had given up too.

Mike glared at it.

“It won’t— it won’t play ball,” he grumbled, like the scarf was a sentient being refusing to cooperate out of spite.

Will’s laugh softened into something fond.

Mike hated that too.

He hated that Will was looking at him like he was cute. Like his stupid scarf struggle was endearing. Like Mike wasn’t actively fighting for his dignity.

Mike tried again anyway, because he was stubborn.

He grabbed the scarf and looped it around his neck again with aggressive determination.

It still looked wrong.

He puffed out another annoyed breath and started undoing it, hands clumsy and irritated, like he was dismantling a bomb.

Will watched him for a second longer.

Then he shifted.

The mattress dipped lightly behind Mike.

Mike’s stomach flipped because it always did when Will moved.

Before Mike could turn around, Will’s voice came closer, right behind him.

“Here,” Will said gently. “Let me.”

Mike froze.

His hands paused mid-scarf.

His pulse slammed.

“No,” Mike said automatically, too fast. “I can— I can do it—”

Will made a quiet sound that was half laugh, half I’m not letting you suffer when I can help.

Mike could feel him step up behind him, close enough that his warmth brushed Mike’s back even through layers.

Mike’s brain turned to static.

Will’s hands came into view in the mirror— fingers warm, steady, careful as they reached for the scarf.

Mike watched the reflection like he was watching a crime unfold.

Will’s hands didn’t rush. Didn’t yank. They moved with quiet patience, smoothing the fabric and guiding it into place like he’d done this a thousand times.

Like it was normal.

Like Mike wasn’t standing there with his entire soul shaking.

“Hold still,” Will murmured softly.

Mike’s mouth went dry. “I am still.”

Will’s lips twitched in the mirror. “You’re vibrating.”

Mike gasped, offended. “I am not vibrating.”

Will’s hands paused for a split second, fingers still resting lightly against the scarf at Mike’s throat.

His voice dropped, warm and gentle.

“You are,” Will murmured. “It’s kind of cute.”

Mike’s heart committed a felony.

He made a strangled noise, cheeks blazing. “Don’t say that.”

Will hummed softly, entirely unbothered.

He looped the scarf properly this time, tugging it snug and neat, making it sit exactly how Mike had pictured it in his head— effortless, cosy, romcom-worthy.

Mike stared at his reflection, stunned.

It actually looked… good.

Will adjusted it one last time, his knuckles brushing lightly against Mike’s jaw.

Mike’s breath caught.

It wasn’t even intentional.

It was barely a touch.

But it was enough to make Mike feel like he’d been struck by lightning.

Will’s eyes met his in the mirror.

For a second, everything went quiet.

Just the two of them, close enough that Mike could see the faint warmth in Will’s gaze, the way his expression softened like he couldn’t help it.

Then Will’s voice came low and gentle, almost absent-minded.

“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

Mike swallowed hard.

His mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Will’s hands moved down, smoothing the scarf once more, tugging the ends so they sat neatly across Mike’s chest.

“You’ll be warm enough like that,” Will added quietly, voice practical but still soft. “Your neck always gets cold.”

Mike’s throat tightened.

Because of course Will knew that.

Of course he did.

Mike’s voice came out tiny. “You— you don’t have to do that.”

Will tilted his head slightly, still behind him, still close.

“Do what?”

Mike’s eyes darted in the mirror, flustered. “Be… like that.”

Will’s smile turned fond.

“Like what?” he asked gently, clearly enjoying this.

Mike huffed, glaring down at the scarf like it was the problem and not the boy behind him.

“You know,” Mike muttered. “Helpful. And… boyfriend-y.”

Will’s laugh was quiet and warm, right near Mike’s ear.

“That’s the point,” Will murmured.

Mike’s heart punched his ribs. Because yeah, sure it was. When there was actually people to see it.

He spun around too quickly, facing Will now, eyes wide and accusing.

“You’re too good at this,” Mike whispered like it was a threat.

Will’s eyebrows lifted innocently. “At what?”

Mike gestured wildly at his own neck. “That. All of it.”

Will’s expression softened, like he couldn’t help himself.

He reached up again, fingers brushing the scarf once more, making sure it was snug.

“You were struggling,” Will said simply. “I helped.”

Mike’s cheeks went even hotter.

He stared at Will for half a second too long.

Will looked back, calm and warm and steady.

Then, in the quietest voice— soft enough it felt like it belonged to them alone—

Will added, “Besides… you look really pretty like this.”

Mike’s soul left his body so fast it probably slid down the stairs.

His face went nuclear.

His mouth opened.

His voice came out as the world’s most pathetic whisper.

“Will.”

Will’s mouth twitched, amused.

“What?” he asked softly, like he wasn’t actively destroying Mike’s life.

Mike stared at him, devastated. “You can’t say things like that.”

Will blinked slowly. “Why not?”

Mike’s throat tightened. His brain short-circuited.

Because you mean it. Because I want you to mean it. Because I can’t survive if you mean it.

Instead Mike did what he always did when he was overwhelmed.

He huffed dramatically and turned away like a wounded animal.

“We need pictures,” Mike muttered, voice muffled, grabbing his gloves off the dresser with aggressive urgency. “Come on. Car. Before my mom kills us.”

Will laughed softly behind him.

“Yes, sir,” Will said, warm and fond.

Mike’s stomach flipped again.

The ice rink was cute.

Annoyingly cute.

Like, aggressively cute in that “this is definitely the setting of a Hallmark movie where a city girl falls in love with a guy who owns a Christmas tree farm” kind of way.

Fairy lights were strung everywhere — looping over wooden beams, wrapped around railings, dotted along the little booth where you paid for tickets. They twinkled against the snow piled up outside like someone had tried to make winter look romantic on purpose. There were speakers playing cheesy, overly-happy music that sounded like it had been selected by someone who’d never experienced real human suffering.

And there were people.

So many people.

Couples holding hands like it was legally required. Kids darting around like feral little penguins.

Mike stood at the entrance, taking it in with a tired, suspicious squint.

“This is… a lot,” he muttered.

Will, beside him, looked like he was trying not to smile.

“It’s cute,” Will said softly.

Mike scoffed, defensive purely on principle. “It’s cheesy.”

Will’s eyes crinkled. “Cute and cheesy can exist at the same time.”

Mike shot him a look like he’d just betrayed him. “Don’t.”

Will just smiled wider.

They ended up at the benches along the edge of the rink, where the rental skates sat in neat little rows like they were waiting to ruin someone’s day.

Mike picked up a pair and immediately frowned.

They looked… cheap.

Not broken-cheap. Just… questionable. Like if he went too fast, the blade might detach and launch itself into someone’s kneecap.

Mike turned one skate over, inspecting it with the intensity of someone examining a weapon.

Will sat down next to him and pulled his own skates on like he was putting on normal shoes, completely unconcerned.

Mike eyed Will’s skates too.

Then eyed his own.

Then narrowed his eyes at the little label on the inside.

“These are definitely a size too big,” Mike muttered.

Will glanced over, calm. “Are they?”

Mike shoved his foot inside one and wiggled it, grimacing. “Yes. I can feel the extra space.”

Will’s mouth twitched. “Maybe you just have small feet.”

Mike glared. “I don’t have small feet.”

Will hummed innocently. “Sure.”

Mike made an offended little noise and yanked on the laces aggressively, tightening them so hard he was fairly certain he was cutting off his own circulation.

He tied the knot with a sharp tug, then did the other skate with the same concentrated irritation, like if he stared hard enough he could will the skates into fitting him properly.

The laces finally held.

Mike sat back, huffing.

Will was already finished and watching him with that stupid soft look that made Mike’s stomach flip.

Mike pretended he didn’t notice.

He stood carefully, wobbling slightly just from the unfamiliar rental fit, and immediately grabbed the bench for balance like it was a life-saving device.

The blade scraped against the rubber mat with a horrible sound.

Will stood beside him with much less confidence.

His feet went out from under him slightly and he made a small, undignified noise as he windmilled his arms.

Mike’s head snapped toward him on instinct.

Will froze, cheeks already pink.

“I’m fine,” Will said quickly.

Mike stared at him. “…You’re not fine.”

Will’s ears went red. “I’m fine.”

Mike’s lips twitched. Because of course this was the thing that embarrassed Will Byers. Not fake dating his best friend in front of his terrifying family. Not being declared the Wheeler’s future son-in-law by Ted in the living room. Not surviving a haunted cabin.

No.

It was the ice skating.

Mike sighed dramatically, straightening himself as much as he could.

“Oh my god,” he muttered. “You’re one of those.”

Will blinked. “One of what.”

“One of the people who’s secretly terrible at something,” Mike said, voice full of accusation, “and pretends they’re not.”

Will opened his mouth to argue—

Then immediately wobbled again.

He grabbed the bench with both hands, jaw clenched.

Mike stared at him for a beat.

Then, quietly, very gently, because he wasn’t actually cruel—

Mike reached out and grabbed Will’s sleeve.

“Okay,” Mike said, tone shifting into something more focused, more sure. “Hold on.”

Will looked at him, eyes wide and a little embarrassed. “Mike, you don’t have to—”

“Will,” Mike cut him off, voice firm, because if he didn’t sound confident he might explode. “If you fall and crack your skull open, my mom will blame me for the rest of my life.”

Will blinked. “That’s… not how—”

“Yes it is,” Mike insisted. “Karen Wheeler will hold it over my head until I’m forty.”

Will’s mouth twitched, amused despite himself.

“Fine,” Will conceded quietly. “Help me, then.”

Mike’s heart did a stupid little somersault.

Because it wasn’t just help me.

It was the way Will said it like he trusted him.

Like it was obvious Mike would catch him.

Mike swallowed hard, ignoring his own traitorous body, and stepped carefully toward the rink entrance.

“Okay,” Mike said, gently tugging Will with him. “We’re going to go slow.”

Will eyed the ice like it had personally threatened him.

It was smooth and bright under the fairy lights, reflecting colours and movement, the sound of blades cutting through it like constant whispering.

“Okay,” Will repeated, voice quieter.

Mike stepped onto the ice first.

His body remembered instantly.

It was like muscle memory lit up in his legs, like he’d been doing this his whole life. His feet steadied. His knees bent slightly. His balance settled into place like a click.

Mike exhaled slowly.

He’d forgotten how much he loved it.

Will stepped forward after him.

And immediately looked like a baby deer trying to walk for the first time.

His legs went stiff. His shoulders tensed. His hands shot out instinctively, fingers curling around Mike’s arm like it was the only solid thing in the universe.

Mike’s face went hot.

Because Will was holding him.

Actually holding him.

In public.

On an ice rink lit up like a romance movie.

Mike’s brain screamed: THIS IS A DATE. THIS IS A DATE. THIS IS A DATE.

His mouth said, very calmly, like he hadn’t just short-circuited:

“Don’t lock your knees.”

Will blinked, gripping Mike tighter. “What.”

“Your knees,” Mike repeated, voice slightly strangled. “You’re standing like a plank of wood. Bend them a little.”

Will frowned, concentrating, and shifted his weight. His grip tightened for a second as he tried to adjust.

Mike’s heart slammed.

He forced himself to keep his gaze on Will’s skates instead of Will’s face, because if he looked at Will’s face, he’d notice the blush creeping into his cheeks and then Mike would die.

“Okay,” Mike murmured. “Now— just… small steps.”

Will stared at him like he was insane. “On blades?”

“Yes,” Mike said, offended. “It’s not that hard.”

Will’s mouth opened— but then he took a step and wobbled violently.

Mike grabbed his hand.

Not his sleeve.

Not his arm.

His hand.

Fingers threading together like it was instinct.

Like it was natural.

Like Mike wasn’t about to implode.

Will’s breath caught.

Mike’s breath caught too, because apparently they were both useless.

“Mike,” Will whispered, voice low and startled.

Mike swallowed hard, cheeks burning, staring straight ahead as if the ice in front of him was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Just— shut up,” Mike muttered, voice barely audible. “You’re gonna fall.”

Will’s grip tightened around his fingers.

He didn’t let go.

Mike didn’t either.

They moved slowly, inch by inch.

Mike guided him like he actually knew what he was doing — which he did, annoyingly — pulling Will gently forward, keeping their pace steady.

“Lean slightly forward,” Mike instructed quietly. “Not back.”

Will made a faint noise of disbelief. “Leaning forward feels like I’m choosing death.”

Mike huffed. “Leaning back is choosing death. Forward is control.”

Will stared at him, then nodded slowly like he was accepting that as law.

He leaned forward a fraction, grip still tight on Mike’s hand.

They shuffled again.

Will’s foot slid slightly smoother this time.

He blinked, surprised.

“That—” Will started.

“See?” Mike said smugly, and then immediately ruined it by flushing brighter when Will smiled.

Will’s smile was small at first, uncertain.

Then it widened, warmth spreading across his face like sunlight.

“Oh,” Will breathed, quieter now. “Okay. That’s… better.”

Mike’s chest did something stupid.

“Yeah,” Mike muttered, pretending his voice wasn’t shaking. “Obviously.”

Will’s laugh was soft, breath fogging in the cold air.

They kept going.

Slow circles along the edge of the rink, Mike leading, Will following, their hands still linked between them.

Every so often Will would stumble slightly and Mike would steady him automatically, fingers tightening, body moving without thinking.

And every time Mike did, Will would look at him like he was something solid and safe.

Mike didn’t know what to do with that.

He kept his eyes forward, cheeks warm, heart hammering.

Around them, people skated past in flashes of laughter and music and glittering lights.

Mike barely noticed any of it.

Because Will was right there.

Close enough to hear his breathing.

Close enough to feel the pull of his hand.

Close enough that every time Mike looked at him, it felt like he was stepping onto thinner and thinner ice.

After a few minutes, Will’s grip loosened slightly.

Not because he let go.

But because he was less terrified.

More stable.

Mike glanced over cautiously, brows furrowed. “You good?”

Will’s cheeks were still pink from the cold— and maybe something else — but he nodded.

“I think,” Will admitted quietly, “I’m getting it.”

Mike’s mouth twitched. “You’re welcome.”

Will’s eyes softened. “Thanks.”

The word was simple.

But it landed heavy in Mike’s chest, warm and strange.

Mike swallowed hard.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, because he was an idiot—

Mike gave Will’s hand the smallest squeeze.

“You’re doing good,” he murmured.

Will’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

He smiled again, quieter this time.

“…So are you,” Will said back.

Mike almost fell over.

He recovered quickly, snapping his gaze away, voice instantly defensive.

“I’m literally amazing at this,” Mike muttered. “I’m perfect. I’m the best.”

Will laughed— actually laughed — and it was warm and bright and gorgeous in a way that made Mike’s stomach somersault all over again.

“Okay,” Will teased softly, “don’t let it go to your head.”

Mike sniffed. “Too late.”

Will’s fingers tightened around his again.

And together, they skated on— slow and careful and absolutely, definitely, totally not like a date.

Even though Mike’s heart was doing everything in its power to convince him otherwise.

Will did, annoyingly, keep his word.

Because of course he did.

Because Will Byers was apparently the kind of person who said something once and then actually followed through like a functional human being, which was disgusting behaviour in Mike’s opinion.

They’d only been on the ice for maybe ten minutes before Will, having gained approximately one (1) ounce of confidence, decided he was now skilled enough to multitask.

Which meant—

He was now attempting to take pictures.

While ice skating.

Like an idiot.

Mike clocked it the second Will’s grip on his hand loosened and he shifted his weight toward the rail, fingers clutching it like it was the last stable thing in the universe.

Mike was about to make a comment— something smug and rude, obviously— when Will reached into his coat pocket with his free hand and pulled his phone out.

Mike’s stomach dropped.

“No,” Mike said immediately.

Will blinked, phone half out. “What?”

Mike’s eyes widened in horror. “No.”

Will frowned slightly, like he couldn’t believe Mike was being dramatic (as if Mike had ever been anything else). “Mike—”

“You’re not doing that,” Mike interrupted, voice sharp, skating closer just to glare at him properly. “You can barely stand.”

Will’s mouth twitched. “I’m standing.”

Will’s skates slid slightly.

He flailed.

His elbow smacked the railing with a small clack.

He recovered, cheeks turning pink.

Mike stared at him with deep judgement.

“…You’re standing the way a newborn giraffe stands,” Mike muttered.

Will narrowed his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Mike repeated flatly. “Put the phone away.”

Will held the rail tighter, stubborn. “I promised your mom pictures.”

Mike’s stomach flipped— partly with dread, partly with something warm and stupid, because he remembered.

Mike scoffed, trying to hide it. “My mom will survive without photographic evidence of me almost dying on ice.”

Will’s gaze flicked over Mike’s face, soft and amused.

“I don’t think you’re dying,” Will murmured.

Mike pointed at him. “You are.”

Will rolled his eyes, shifting his grip on the railing so he could hold his phone up.

Mike watched, horrified, as Will lifted it and pointed it directly at him.

Mike’s soul evacuated.

“Will!” Mike hissed.

Will’s finger hovered over the camera button, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Hold still.”

Mike’s eyes widened. “Do NOT get my face.”

Will blinked. “What?”

Mike pointed at him again, deeply serious. “Don’t. Get. My face.”

Will’s eyebrows shot up, amused. “Why not?”

Mike made a noise of frustration. “Because I’ll look stupid!”

Will’s smile widened. “You don’t look stupid.”

Mike’s cheeks heated. “Will.”

Will laughed quietly, then angled the phone down with exaggerated care.

“Okay, okay,” Will promised, voice warm. “No face. Just… vibes.”

Mike narrowed his eyes. “Vibes?”

Will nodded like this was a professional photoshoot. “Yeah. Aesthetic.”

Mike squinted, suspicious. “You don’t know what aesthetic means.”

Will gasped softly, offended. “Excuse you.”

Mike scoffed. “You’re literally about to take a blurry picture of my torso.”

Will raised the phone again, steadier this time, and Mike could see his hand trembling ever so slightly.

Mike’s stomach sank.

He was going to fall.

He was absolutely going to fall.

And then Karen would have pictures of it forever.

Mike started gliding toward him on instinct, ready to catch him like this was his full-time job now.

“Will,” Mike warned.

Will ignored him, phone pointed now, the camera making that faint little click sound as he tapped.

Mike’s eyes widened.

“Oh my god,” Mike hissed, scandalised. “You just took it!”

Will smiled, soft and pleased, looking down at his screen. “I did.”

Mike skated closer, reaching out immediately. “Let me see.”

Will held the phone away from him like he was keeping a toy from a cat. “No.”

“Will!”

Will laughed, leaning his shoulder against the rail like he was relaxed, like he wasn’t one bad movement away from eating ice.

Mike grabbed his wrist carefully— carefully, because if he yanked too hard Will would die — and tried to tug the phone down.

Will resisted with surprising strength, eyes bright with amusement.

“This is abuse,” Mike muttered, fighting for his life and dignity at the same time.

“It’s not abuse,” Will said calmly. “It’s art.”

“It’s blackmail,” Mike snapped.

Will’s smile turned wicked. “Maybe.”

Mike made an offended noise and leaned in closer, trying to peer at the screen.

Will turned his body slightly, shielding it with his shoulder like a gremlin protecting treasure.

Mike’s face went hot again, partly from frustration, partly because Will was standing there grinning at him like this was the cutest thing in the world.

“Will,” Mike said, low and deadly. “If that photo is ugly I will throw your phone into the snow.”

Will blinked innocently. “I thought you were the one scared of the outdoors.”

“I will brave the elements out of spite,” Mike snapped instantly.

Will laughed again, delighted.

Then he finally turned the phone slightly, letting Mike see.

The picture was…

Actually good.

Annoyingly good.

It wasn’t blurry. It wasn’t crooked. It wasn’t a horrifying close-up of Mike’s chin or something equally offensive.

It was Mike near the edge of the rink, fairy lights behind him, the soft glow reflecting on the ice, his scarf sitting perfectly now thanks to Will’s stupid helpful hands. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the railing, looking like he was in a winter catalogue.

He looked—

Mike’s stomach flipped painfully.

He looked… pretty.

Like, genuinely.

Like the kind of pretty Mike didn’t know what to do with.

Mike’s throat went dry.

His brain tried to reboot.

Will watched him carefully, eyes soft, smile small.

“Well?” Will asked gently.

Mike blinked hard, tearing his gaze away like the phone had burned him.

“…It’s fine,” Mike muttered, voice cracking.

Will’s smile widened slightly. “It’s fine?”

Mike scoffed, forcing his face back into a scowl. “It’s fine. Don’t get cocky.”

Will hummed, amused. “Okay.”

Mike skated away quickly, because standing that close to Will while looking at a photo where he looked good and Will looked proud about it was going to kill him.

He got about three feet away before Will’s voice floated after him.

“Turn around.”

Mike froze, heart slamming.

“What?”

Will lifted his phone again, bracing himself with one hand on the rail. “Turn around. I want another one.”

Mike stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

“No.”

Will’s eyebrows lifted. “Mike.”

Mike huffed, offended. “You’re going to fall.”

“I won’t,” Will lied.

Mike narrowed his eyes. “You’re shaking.”

Will looked down at his hands like they’d betrayed him. “…I’m cold.”

Mike scoffed. “That’s not cold. That’s fear.”

Will grinned. “Okay, yeah. It’s fear.”

Mike rolled his eyes so hard it hurt, then very slowly, reluctantly, turned around.

He posed for exactly half a second.

And by pose, he meant he stood still and glared.

Will laughed softly and snapped another picture.

Then another.

Mike tried to maintain his scowl, tried to keep his face hard and unimpressed, tried to pretend he wasn’t enjoying the way Will’s eyes crinkled when he smiled at him.

Tried to pretend his stomach wasn’t doing backflips.

It was.

Will lowered the phone slightly, looking at the screen, then back at Mike.

His smile softened into something warm and stupidly fond.

“You look really nice,” Will said quietly.

Mike’s heart did a somersault so violent it almost threw him off balance.

He wobbled slightly.

Will’s eyes widened. “Mike—”

“I’m fine!” Mike snapped instantly, mortified that he’d almost fallen after clowning Will all day.

Will’s mouth twitched, trying not to laugh. “Sure.”

Mike skated back toward him, cheeks hot, voice low and furious.

“Stop saying things like that.”

Will blinked innocently. “Like what?”

Mike gestured vaguely at Will’s face. “Compliments.”

Will’s smile widened. “Why?”

“Because,” Mike hissed, desperate, “I— I can’t—”

He stopped. Swallowed hard. Reset.

Will watched him, patient, curious.

Mike’s face burned even hotter.

He grabbed the railing beside Will and leaned on it, pretending he didn’t need the support too.

Then, after a beat, in a quieter voice, almost begrudging—

“…Fine,” Mike muttered. “You can get my face.”

Will stilled.

Just for a second.

Like he hadn’t expected Mike to give in.

Then his eyes softened in a way that made Mike’s chest ache.

“Yeah?” Will asked, voice gentle.

Mike didn’t look at him. He stared at the ice like it had personally wronged him.

“Yes,” Mike mumbled, cheeks flaming. “Just— don’t take a million.”

Will’s laugh was quiet, warm. “No promises.”

Mike gasped, offended. “Will!”

Will lifted the phone again, grin wide now, and Mike hated how much he liked it.

He let himself skate a little further out this time, away from the railing, trusting his own balance. The fairy lights glowed above him, cheesy music playing, people laughing and gliding past.

And Will kept taking pictures.

Careful ones, this time— stopping himself from moving too much, bracing with the rail, making sure he didn’t fall.

Mike caught glimpses of Will’s face between snaps, saw the way his smile kept flickering back into place whenever Mike looked over.

Like he was enjoying this.

Like he was happy.

Mike’s stomach fluttered again, warm and traitorous.

He skated back closer, slower now, and Will lowered his phone a little, eyes meeting Mike’s.

For a second, it felt quieter than it should’ve been.

Like the rink and the lights and the music faded just slightly.

Will’s gaze was soft, his cheeks pink from the cold, hair slightly messy under his hat.

Mike’s heart stumbled.

Will smiled at him— small and real.

And Mike, pathetic and helpless, let the butterflies win.

Just a little.

“Okay,” Mike muttered, voice softer than before. “That’s enough.”

Will’s grin widened. “No it’s not.”

Mike rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide his smile now.

“Yes it is,” he insisted weakly.

Will tucked his phone back into his coat pocket, still smiling like he’d just gotten away with something.

Mike skated closer, their shoulders almost brushing.

Will leaned in slightly, voice low so only Mike could hear.

“You’re cute when you pretend you don’t like it.”

Mike’s entire body short-circuited.

He made a strangled noise of protest.

“Shut up,” Mike whispered, cheeks blazing.

Will just laughed.

And somehow— horrifyingly —

Mike giggled right back. It slipped out before he could stop it.

Just a little one — sharp and surprised, like his body had betrayed him entirely. Like it had escaped without permission, without Mike’s usual careful control over every sound he made around Will Byers.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t even particularly dignified.

But it was real.

And Will heard it.

Will’s head snapped up like he’d been waiting for it. Like he’d been watching Mike the whole time, quietly collecting every little moment of softness like it was something precious.

His face lit up— properly lit up — eyes bright, cheeks still pink from the cold, mouth splitting into this wide, pleased beam that made Mike’s stomach do that awful fluttery thing all over again.

“See?” Will said, voice warm and triumphant like he’d just proven a point. “Cute.”

Mike’s cheeks flared instantly.

He tried to shut his face back down into neutrality, like he could rewind time and become unimpressed again. He furrowed his brows hard, lips pursing, but it was useless because the giggles were still trapped in his throat, threatening to spill out again.

“Shut up,” Mike repeated, voice cracking slightly as he fought it.

Will’s grin only got worse.

Like he could smell weakness.

Like Mike’s suffering was fuel.

Mike pushed himself toward the edge of the rink with a little more speed than necessary, skating past a couple holding hands and a toddler doing aggressive little stomps on the ice. The fairy lights above them blurred into soft streaks of gold as he moved, the music turning tinny and distant behind the sound of blades scratching the ice.

Will followed— less gracefully.

Still upright, technically, but with the cautious stiffness of someone who didn’t trust his own feet. He kept his hand half-hovering near the railing the whole time like it was his emotional support object.

Mike slid to a stop at the edge with a soft scrape and grabbed the rail, steady and easy.

Will stopped beside him and immediately grabbed it with both hands like it had personally saved his life.

Mike shot him a look, smug despite himself.

Will looked back, expression completely unashamed.

“This is evil,” Will said simply, staring down at the ice like it was plotting against him.

Mike’s lips twitched again. “You’re being dramatic.”

Will turned his head slowly, eyes narrowed. “Mike. I watched a seven-year-old fly past me earlier while doing jazz hands.”

Mike snorted— caught himself — then cleared his throat aggressively like he hadn’t just almost laughed again.

Will’s grin reappeared instantly, softer this time. Fond. Like he’d won something.

Mike rolled his eyes, cheeks still warm, and stepped carefully off the ice onto the rubber matting with that clunky, awkward rental-skate shuffle.

The second his blades hit solid ground, his posture changed— shoulders loosening slightly, the tension easing from his body. He felt stupidly proud of himself for not falling once.

Will, unfortunately, did not look proud.

Will looked like he’d just survived a natural disaster.

He clung to the railing as he stepped off, moving like the floor might disappear beneath him at any moment. His grip was tight, knuckles a little pale, and when both skates finally hit the mat, he exhaled so hard it was basically a death rattle.

Mike stared at him.

Then, because he was incapable of being normal, he said brightly:

“You lived.”

Will shot him the flattest look imaginable. “Barely.”

Mike’s smile grew against his will. “You did great.”

Will blinked at him, suspicious. “Was that… sincere?”

Mike scoffed, instantly defensive. “No.”

Will hummed like he didn’t believe him for a second.

They made their way back toward the benches, shuffling like two idiots in rental skates. Mike moved with much more ease — annoying ease, actually — while Will kept glancing down at his feet like he was expecting them to betray him again.

Mike sat down first, tugging his gloves off and stuffing them into his coat pockets. His fingers were warm from movement, his cheeks still flushed from the cold and… other things.

Will sat beside him, shoulders relaxing the second he was safely seated, and leaned forward to start fumbling with his laces.

His fingers were clumsy from the cold. The knots were tight. He frowned in concentration, jaw set in this quiet stubborn way that made Mike’s brain short-circuit all over again.

Mike watched him for half a second too long.

Will’s tongue pressed faintly to the inside of his cheek as he tugged the lace loose, brows furrowing.

Mike’s stomach fluttered.

God.

Will was unfairly attractive.

Mike tore his gaze away and reached for his own laces instead, focusing hard, pretending his face wasn’t still burning.

Will, beside him, finally got one skate undone and let out a small sound of victory.

Then he glanced sideways at Mike.

And Mike felt it immediately — the weight of Will’s eyes on him, warm and amused.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Mike muttered without thinking.

Will’s voice came out soft, still smiling. “Like what?”

Mike tugged his laces harder than necessary, mumbling, “Like you’re about to say something annoying.”

Will’s smile widened, slow and pleased.

“I was,” Will admitted.

Mike’s head snapped toward him, horrified. “Don’t.”

Will’s eyes crinkled again, cheeks pink, and he leaned a little closer— not enough to be obvious, not enough to make it a thing—

just enough that his voice dropped into something quieter. Something private.

“Your laugh,” Will murmured. “It’s my favourite.”

Mike’s entire brain evaporated.

His hands froze mid-knot.

His heart tripped over itself.

“Will,” Mike whispered, scandalised, voice barely holding together. “You can’t just— say that.”

Will blinked innocently, expression far too calm for someone committing crimes.

“Why not?” he asked, soft.

Mike’s throat tightened.

Because it means something. Because you mean it. Because I want you to mean it. Because I’m going to die.

Instead Mike did the only thing he was capable of doing in the face of too much emotion:

He scowled.

“Well—” Mike muttered, tying his skate lace with aggressive focus, “I hate your laugh.”

Will made a quiet sound, suspiciously close to a giggle.

“Liar.”

Mike’s eyes narrowed. “You snicker. Like a cartoon villain.”

Will gasped, offended. “I do not!”

“You do,” Mike insisted, finally getting his own skates loose. “It’s like— like you’re plotting something.”

Will tugged his skate off with a little struggle, then leaned back, eyebrows raised. “I am plotting something.”

Mike froze.

“What?”

Will’s mouth twitched. “I’m plotting how many pictures I can take before you start whining again.”

Mike gasped so loud a girl two benches away glanced at him.

“Will!”

Will laughed, bright and warm, and Mike’s stomach flipped again, helpless.

He didn’t even have the energy to pretend he hated it.

Mike pulled his skates off and shoved his feet back into his boots, grateful for the solid weight of them. He laced them quickly, movements sharp and practiced, then stood up and held a hand out automatically— not even thinking.

Will looked up at it.

His gaze flicked from Mike’s hand to Mike’s face.

Mike instantly went rigid, realising what he’d done.

He tried to snatch his hand back.

Too late.

Will’s expression softened, something gentle and pleased flickering through his eyes.

He took Mike’s hand.

Warm fingers sliding into Mike’s like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Mike’s breath caught.

He stood there, holding Will’s hand, heart hammering like it wanted to escape.

Will squeezed once, a quiet little thank you without words, and let Mike tug him up.

They stood close for a second— too close.

Mike could smell him again, faint soap and winter air.

Will’s cheeks were still flushed. His eyes still bright.

His smile still soft.

And Mike, because he was losing the war against his own face, felt his lips twitch upward again.

Will noticed instantly.

Of course he did.

Will’s grin turned downright smug.

“There it is again,” Will murmured.

Mike’s brows furrowed, trying desperately to summon his scowl back into place. “There’s what.”

Will tilted his head, gaze warm.

“Cute,” he said softly.

Mike’s cheeks burned hotter.

He tried to glare. It failed.

“Shut up,” Mike whispered again, but his voice was weaker now. Less offended. More… helpless.

Will just laughed quietly, shoulder bumping Mike’s as they started to shuffle off toward the exit.

“Yeah,” Will murmured, fond. “Okay.”

And Mike hated himself for it—

but he didn’t let go of Will’s hand once.

By the time they got back, the sun was already starting to sink.

Not fully dark yet— not the kind of night that swallowed everything whole — but that soft, early winter dusk that turned the snow outside the cabin windows pale blue and made the fairy lights strung along the porch glow a little brighter by comparison.

The air outside had been sharp enough to sting Mike’s cheeks. Their breath had come out in foggy little clouds as they trudged up the steps, boots crunching against packed snow. Mike’s scarf was still wrapped neatly around his neck— still sitting perfectly, because Will had fixed it and apparently Mike’s neck now belonged to Will Byers as a concept.

And they were tired.

Not the kind of tired that came from doing something miserable.

The kind of tired that came from having a day.

Warm drinks. Cold air. Laughing more than Mike wanted to admit. Will clinging to him on the rink like Mike was a safety rail. Pictures. Too many pictures. Mike’s face hurting slightly from smiling in spite of himself.

And, worst of all—

Their hands were still intertwined.

Not even in the dramatic, obvious way.

Just… natural. Habitual. Like it had happened without either of them noticing and now neither of them had the willpower to undo it.

Mike didn’t know who had started it.

Probably Will.

It was always Will.

Or maybe Mike had offered his hand again when they stepped off the rink and never took it back because the truth was he liked it. He liked the warmth. He liked the steadiness. He liked the way it made the world feel smaller.

Either way, they reached the door like that.

Hand in hand.

Like a problem.

Mike pushed the front door open and the cabin swallowed them up in warmth immediately.

The smell hit first— that cosy, lived-in mix of coffee, cinnamon, and something buttery like Karen had been baking again because she was physically incapable of not providing snacks.

The fire in the living room was still going, low and crackling. Lamps glowed softly instead of overhead lights, which Mike silently thanked whatever gods existed for. The haunted painting above the fireplace still looked like it wanted him dead, but Mike was too warm and slightly too happy to feel fully threatened by it right now.

The cabin was quiet in that evening way. Calmer. Settled.

Robin and Nancy were curled up on the couch together under one shared blanket like they were two cats who’d decided personal space was a myth.

Robin had her knees tucked up, mug clutched in both hands, steam curling up past her face. Nancy was tucked against her side, shoulder pressed into Robin’s, talking quietly between them with that low, intimate murmur that made Mike feel like he was intruding just by existing.

Ted had taken up residence in the armchair near the fire, book in hand.

Except Ted was turning the pages way too quickly to be reading it properly.

He flipped to the next page. Scanned it for approximately half a second. Flipped again. Repeat. Like he was speedrunning literature.

Mike narrowed his eyes at him.

Ted noticed the stare and immediately pretended he hadn’t been doing anything suspicious, frowning at the book with deep concentration like he was studying for an exam.

Mike did not buy it for a second.

Karen was in the kitchen— of course she was — moving around like she was running a café rather than living in a haunted cabin on a mountain. She was wiping down counters that didn’t need wiping, rearranging a plate of biscuits that had already been rearranged three times today, humming softly to herself like her life was perfect and her son wasn’t actively losing his mind.

Holly was nowhere to be seen.

Which meant she was either napping upstairs…

Or planning something.

Mike didn’t know which was more terrifying.

Karen turned the second the door clicked shut behind them, eyes lighting up like she’d been waiting.

“Oh!” she beamed, hands immediately fluttering to her chest. “Welcome back, boys!”

Mike barely got his boots off before Karen was already fussing like a mother hen on crack.

“How was it? Did you have fun? Are you freezing? Do you need anything?” she fired off, moving toward them with the speed of a homing missile. “Tea? Water? Hot chocolate? A snack? A blanket? A—”

“Mom,” Mike said automatically, exhausted. “Breathe.”

Karen laughed softly, completely ignoring him, her gaze flicking between them with delighted interest.

And then—

Her eyes dropped.

Straight to their hands.

Intertwined. Still holding.

Mike felt his soul briefly leave his body.

He tightened his grip on Will’s hand on instinct— which made it worse. Which made it so much worse because now it looked like he was doing it on purpose.

Karen’s smile turned impossibly soft.

Like she was witnessing wildlife.

Like she was seeing two baby penguins huddle together for warmth.

Mike’s cheeks heated instantly.

Will, traitor that he was, didn’t flinch.

He didn’t pull away.

If anything, he looked… calm. Warm. Like he’d forgotten they were even holding hands until Karen clocked it.

He gave Karen a polite little smile.

“We had fun,” Will said gently.

Karen’s eyes crinkled. “Oh, good.”

Mike cleared his throat, voice too sharp. “It was fine.”

Robin lifted her head slightly over the couch blanket, eyes instantly glittering with curiosity. “Did you fall?”

Mike glared. “No.”

Robin’s grin widened. “Did Will survive?”

Will leaned his head slightly, smiling. “Barely.”

Robin cackled.

Nancy didn’t even look up, just muttered, “I told you,” into her mug like she’d predicted this from miles away.

Ted turned a page way too fast and said, without looking up, “Good.”

Mike narrowed his eyes. “Dad, are you reading a book or are you just flipping paper for fun.”

Ted frowned at the page like Mike had deeply offended him. “I’m reading.”

Mike squinted. “No, you’re not.”

Ted didn’t answer.

Because he wasn’t.

Karen clasped her hands again, still beaming, eyes flicking between them like she physically couldn’t stop herself.

“Did you get pictures?” she asked eagerly. “Please tell me you got pictures.”

Mike’s stomach dropped again.

Because yes.

They got pictures.

They got… so many pictures.

He glanced at Will automatically, as if Will was the keeper of evidence. Which, apparently, he was.

Will’s smile turned fond, almost amused, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

He shifted his grip slightly so he could pull his phone out with his free hand, still holding Mike’s like it was normal, like it belonged.

Mike watched in horror as Will unlocked his phone.

Karen practically floated closer.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, delighted. “Show me!”

Will stepped forward slightly, polite and sweet, and held the screen out.

Karen leaned in like she was inspecting priceless art.

Mike stood stiffly beside Will, cheeks burning so hot he was convinced the fire was jealous.

Robin sat up straighter on the couch, eyes wide. “OHHH let me see!”

Nancy leaned too, pretending she didn’t care, but her eyes were absolutely on the screen.

Ted— Ted looked up from his book. Immediately. Like a meerkat sensing danger.

Mike wanted to die.

Will swiped through the camera roll slowly.

The first picture was exactly what Mike had feared.

A candid shot of Mike near the edge of the rink, scarf neat, fairy lights behind him, cheeks pink from the cold.

He looked… good.

He looked like he belonged there.

He looked like the kind of boy who had a boyfriend who took pictures of him.

Mike’s throat closed.

Karen made the softest noise in the world, like she’d just been emotionally shot.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh my god.”

Mike’s eyes widened. “Mom, don’t—”

Karen ignored him completely, pointing at the screen. “Look at you! Oh, sweetheart, you look so handsome!”

Mike’s entire face went nuclear.

Will’s thumb paused on the screen for a second, like he was giving Karen time to admire it.

Like he agreed.

Mike could feel the heat rush up his neck again, stomach fluttering traitorously.

Nancy leaned closer, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“Okay,” she admitted, grudging. “That’s actually a good picture.”

Mike stared at her in disbelief. “Why are you being nice.”

Nancy shrugged. “I’m not. I’m just acknowledging the facts.”

Robin snatched her mug up and took a sip like she needed hydration to handle this. “I’m gonna throw up,” she announced cheerfully.

Karen gasped, scandalised. “Robin!”

Robin grinned. “In a good way.”

Will swiped again.

Another picture— Mike mid-glide on the ice, arms slightly out, hair messy from his hat, smile half-hidden like he’d been laughing at something Will said.

Mike felt his stomach twist.

Because he could remember that exact moment. Will wobbling, Mike mocking him, Will grinning back like he didn’t care.

Karen’s eyes shone again.

“Michael,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You look so happy.”

Mike’s entire body stiffened.

He tried to scoff it off, to throw up some defensive sarcasm like a shield.

“I— it’s just ice skating,” Mike muttered.

Will’s fingers tightened around Mike’s hand.

Just a little.

Small enough that no one else would notice.

Big enough that Mike felt it everywhere.

Will’s voice, soft and easy, slipped in.

“He was really good,” Will said calmly, like he was just stating a fact. “He kept saving me from dying.”

Robin choked on her drink.

Nancy snorted.

Ted hummed, fondly amused.

Karen looked like she might cry again.

Mike turned slowly toward Will, horrified. “Don’t say that like I’m some kind of… hero.”

Will’s smile twitched. “You were.”

Mike’s throat went tight.

“Will,” Mike hissed under his breath, desperate. “Stop.”

Will blinked innocently. “What?”

Mike stared at him.

Will looked back like he had no idea what he was doing.

Liar.

Karen clapped her hands softly, bursting with excitement again.

“Oh! Oh! Are there any of you two together?” she asked, voice bright and hopeful.

Mike nearly fell over.

“No,” Mike said instantly, too fast, too loud. “Nope. None. Not a single one. Doesn’t exist.”

Robin’s grin turned wicked. “He’s lying.”

Will, still smiling faintly, swiped again.

And there it was.

A picture of them both reflected in the rink barrier— Will holding the phone up awkwardly with one hand, the other hand gripping Mike’s. Mike was turned toward him, mid-protest, face scrunched up in outrage.

Will looked amused.

Mike looked like he was about to commit a crime.

They looked—

They looked like something.

Karen made a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a squeal.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. “Oh my god.”

Mike’s face went so hot he was convinced it could melt the snow outside.

He tried to pull his hand away instinctively.

Will didn’t let him.

Just held on.

Just stayed.

Robin pressed her fist to her mouth, eyes sparkling. “I can’t— I can’t do this, this is too much.”

Nancy’s mouth twitched. “They’re ridiculous.”

Ted nodded, deeply satisfied, and finally said something useful for the first time all day.

“Told you.”

Mike whipped his head toward his father. “Don’t you dare.”

Ted went back to his book like a man at peace.

Karen was still staring at the picture, smiling so softly it was almost painful.

“You two…” she whispered, then looked up at them with shining eyes. “That is precious.”

Mike’s voice cracked. “Please stop using words like that.”

Karen laughed, stepping back like she’d finally remembered how to breathe.

“Okay, okay,” she said, still glowing. “Go get warm. Take your coats off. I’ve got snacks. And I can make you more tea.”

Mike muttered, exhausted. “You’re obsessed.”

Karen beamed. “Yes I am. You’re perfect together.”

Mike couldn’t breathe.

Not properly.

Not in the way a normal person breathed when their mother looked them dead in the eye and said, with full sincerity and a smile that could power the entire cabin—

“You’re perfect together.”

Mike’s cheeks went red-hot so fast it felt like a physical wave. Like someone had lit a match under his skin. His heart did something stupidly pathetic in his chest— a flutter, a stutter, a full-body oh no, like it was trying to throw itself into Will’s hands and be done with it.

Perfect together.

Perfect.

Mike’s brain tried to latch onto the logic of it. Tried to grab it like a railing.

She thinks we’re together. She thinks it’s real. That’s why she’s saying it.

That was the whole point of fake dating. That was the objective. That was the goal.

So why did it feel like he’d been punched in the lungs?

Why did it feel like it meant something?

Mike’s gaze flicked toward Will’s phone again, to the picture still on the screen for just a second too long.

Them. Reflected in glass. Hands intertwined. Will smiling. Mike looking flustered and alive and stupid.

They did look good together.

Shit.

They looked like they belonged together.

Mike’s stomach flipped violently.

No. No no no.

That was stupid.

It was stupid, because they were friends. Best friends. That was why it looked easy. That was why it looked natural. That was why Will’s hand didn’t feel wrong in his, why Will laughed at him like he’d been doing it forever, why Will’s warmth felt like home.

It was because they were friends.

Not because—

Not because anything else.

Mike swallowed hard, throat dry, and forced himself to look away from the evidence of his own downfall.

Karen was still beaming.

“I mean it,” she added, voice soft and full of that terrible motherly certainty. “Perfect.”

Mike’s mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Because what do you even say to that without sounding insane?

No we’re not, it’s all fake, please stop saying things that make my heart do backflips—

Mike cleared his throat. Tried again.

“Mom,” he managed, voice cracking slightly in a way that made it worse. “Please.”

Karen laughed, delighted, like he was adorable. Like his suffering was cute.

“Oh, honey,” she sighed.

Nancy, from under the shared blanket with Robin, made a quiet, smug noise like she’d been living for this.

Robin lifted her mug in a lazy little salute. “The romance of it all. Incredible. Ten out of ten.”

Mike shot her a glare that could’ve killed a lesser person.

Robin just grinned wider.

Ted turned a page in his book too quickly to be believable and murmured, without looking up, “Mhm.”

Mike wanted to throw himself into the fire.

Will— steady, calm, unbearable — squeezed Mike’s hand again.

Gentle.

Grounding.

Like he’d felt Mike’s panic spike and decided to anchor him back to earth without making a big deal out of it.

Mike hated that it worked.

Hated that the second Will squeezed, the chaos in his chest eased just a fraction.

Hated that he wanted it to happen again.

Hated that the warmth of Will’s fingers wrapped around his in a way that made him feel… held.

Safe.

Like he wasn’t going to fall apart.

Will leaned in slightly, his voice dropping low, warm in Mike’s ear like it belonged there.

“Come on,” Will murmured. “Let’s go upstairs before your mom makes a scrapbook.”

Mike made a strangled noise of despair that was both a laugh and a whine, because the image of Karen sitting at the kitchen table with scissors and glue and a caption reading MY BABY’S LOVE STORY was genuinely the most terrifying thing he’d ever imagined.

“She will,” Mike whispered, horrified, because it wasn’t even a joke. It was a prophecy. “She absolutely will.”

Will’s quiet laugh rumbled close, warm and soft against Mike’s skin.

“I know,” Will said fondly.

Mike couldn’t look at him.

Because if he looked at him, he’d see the smile. The warmth. The easy affection that Will wore like it was nothing.

And Mike didn’t trust himself not to do something insane, like lean in. Or say something stupid. Or admit the truth that kept pressing up against his ribs like it wanted out.

So he let Will tug him gently away instead.

They stepped past the couch, past Robin and Nancy curled up together like they were in their own world, past Ted pretending to read, past Karen still glowing like she’d just witnessed a miracle.

Mike’s hand stayed in Will’s.

Of course it did.

It wasn’t even a conscious choice anymore.

Will’s thumb brushed over Mike’s knuckles once as they walked, slow and soothing.

Mike’s pulse jumped.

He tried to act normal. He really did.

He tried to pull his shoulders back, to stop his cheeks from burning, to stop his heart from behaving like it was auditioning for a love song.

He failed.

Spectacularly.

They reached the bottom of the stairs.

Mike glanced back once, because he was a glutton for punishment.

Karen was still smiling to herself in the kitchen, moving around like she was floating. Like she was already planning dinner. Like she was already mentally telling Joyce about how beautiful Will and Mike looked together.

Mike’s stomach twisted again.

Perfect together.

Mike’s eyes flicked forward to Will, who was already stepping up the first stair, tugging him gently along.

Will looked back over his shoulder, just a little, eyebrows lifting in a silent question.

You coming?

Mike’s throat tightened.

He nodded quickly and followed.

Halfway up the stairs, Will’s hand tightened around his again, small and careful, like he was making sure Mike didn’t slip.

Mike stared down at their hands, tangled together like they’d always belonged that way.

And his brain tried again, quieter this time. Softer. More dangerous.

What if she’s right?

Mike’s breath caught.

No.

That was stupid.

That was so stupid.

They were friends. That was why it felt easy. That was why it felt natural. That was why Will was good at this.

Because Will was good.

Because Will was kind.

Because Will was—

Because Will was Will.

Mike swallowed hard, heart fluttering stupidly, and told himself he was overthinking again.

He always overthought.

He always spiralled.

It meant nothing.

It was just fake dating.

It was just a weekend.

It was just—

Will squeezed his hand again, gentle and grounding.

And Mike, helpless, hated that it felt like everything.

Will pushed the door open with his shoulder, the wood giving that soft little creak that still made Mike’s spine tighten on instinct.

Even after a whole night in this room, the cabin still felt like it watched them. Like it listened. Like it stored things in its walls.

Will didn’t seem bothered at all.

Of course he didn’t.

He stepped inside and started flicking the lamps on one by one — click, warm light blooming into the corners, chasing the shadows back. Click, the second lamp coming on near the dresser. Click, the one by the bed.

Mike watched it happen through half-lidded eyes like it was a ritual.

A Will Byers routine.

Make the space softer. Make it warmer. Make it feel safe.

Like Mike needed it.

Like Will knew he needed it.

The second the room was lit properly, Mike’s body just… gave up.

He crossed to the bed and collapsed face-first with a groan that could’ve come from the deepest part of his soul. The duvet puffed around him as he landed, arms falling out to either side like he’d been physically defeated.

He buried his head into the pillows, pressing his face into the fabric like he could smother every thought in his brain.

He wanted to disappear into the bed and never come back.

Maybe he could live in the mattress. Permanently.

Maybe the haunted painting downstairs would forget he existed.

“Mike?” Will’s voice came softly, closer now. “You okay?”

Mike made a noise into the pillow.

It might’ve been a word.

It might’ve been a groan.

It might’ve been the sound of his soul detaching and floating out the window into the snow.

Will walked closer, boots soft on the rug, and Mike felt the mattress dip beside him as Will sat down.

Not far.

Not distant.

Right there.

Like he belonged.

Mike’s stomach did that stupid little flip again, even though he was face-down and trying to commit to being dead.

Will chuckled under his breath, fond and quiet.

Then his hand moved.

Mike felt it before he fully processed it — warm fingers sliding gently into his hair, combing through it with slow ease. Not tugging. Not messing it up on purpose. Just… there.

Steady.

Comforting.

Like it was muscle memory.

Like Will had always known exactly how to touch Mike in a way that made him melt.

Mike resented it immediately.

He resented how easy it was for Will. How naturally he did these things, like it didn’t even occur to him that it was intimate. That it might mean something.

And he resented how it made his heart kick into overdrive anyway.

Like his body didn’t care about logic.

Like his body had decided Will was home and that was that.

Will scratched gently at Mike’s scalp, fingertips moving in slow circles, and Mike made the smallest sound of relief without meaning to.

It slipped out of him. Quiet. Uncontrolled.

Will’s chuckle deepened, pleased.

Mike hated him.

Mike leaned into it anyway, forehead pressing further into the pillow as if he could get closer to Will’s hand through sheer determination.

His brain was screaming, his body was purring.

Pathetic.

Absolutely pathetic.

He kept his face buried, voice muffled when he finally spoke.

“…Perfect together,” Mike mumbled, so quiet it almost got swallowed by fabric.

Will’s fingers paused for a fraction of a second, like he hadn’t been sure he’d heard it.

Then the gentle motion resumed, softer now, and Will snorted quietly.

“Is that what’s got you trying to bury yourself alive?” Will asked, voice warm with amusement.

Mike squeezed his eyes shut and groaned again, like the answer physically hurt.

Will’s hand kept moving, scratching lightly in that spot that made Mike’s whole body soften.

Mike’s voice came out smaller this time. Barely a whisper.

“Yes.”

There was a tiny lull after that.

Not uncomfortable.

Just… heavy. Settling.

Will’s fingers stayed in his hair, slow and steady, and Mike could hear the faint rhythm of Will’s breathing beside him, warm and calm and annoyingly normal.

Mike’s chest tightened.

Because it was normal for Will.

That was the problem.

Will was always like this.

Will was always kind. Always attentive. Always gentle. Always— there.

Mike’s family had just pointed at it and called it love, and now Mike couldn’t stop replaying it like a cursed audio loop in his head.

Perfect together.

Perfect together.

Mike swallowed hard.

He shifted slightly so he could turn his head enough to speak without suffocating himself, still refusing to fully look at Will because he didn’t trust his own face.

His voice came out low and rough, caught between exhaustion and something sharper.

“You make it look so easy,” Mike muttered.

Will’s hand slowed.

Not stopping— just pausing like he was listening harder now.

“What?” Will asked softly.

Mike let out a quiet huff, half laugh, half misery.

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely with one arm without lifting his head properly. “All of it. The— the hand holding. The pictures. The… boyfriend stuff.”

He cringed even as he said it, because God, he sounded insane.

But it was true.

Will made it look effortless.

Like he’d been built for it.

Like he wasn’t faking anything at all.

Mike’s throat tightened.

“You just—” Mike continued, voice still muffled, “you just do it. Like it’s nothing. Like you’ve done it a thousand times.”

Will was quiet for a second.

Mike could feel him thinking, the way his fingers stayed threaded through Mike’s hair but barely moved, like he’d slowed down to answer properly.

Then Will’s voice came low, gentle.

“Because it is easy,” Will said.

Mike’s stomach twisted.

He forced out a weak, disbelieving laugh.

“No,” Mike muttered. “It’s not. It’s… it’s insane.”

Will’s fingers resumed their slow motion, scratching lightly now like he was soothing the thought out of Mike’s head.

“It is,” Will insisted softly. “It always has been.”

Mike froze.

The words landed in his chest like a soft weight.

It always has been.

Mike’s heart stuttered, painfully caught.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe properly.

Will didn’t push. Didn’t rush. He just… kept going, voice warm and calm beside him like it was the simplest truth in the world.

“I’m not doing anything new,” Will murmured. “Not really.”

Mike’s brows furrowed, confused and flustered all at once.

“Yes you are,” Mike whispered, because his brain was short-circuiting. “You’re— you’re holding my hand. You’re— you’re calling me cute. You’re— you’re—”

He ran out of words.

Because there weren’t any that didn’t sound too honest.

Will’s chuckle was quieter now. Not teasing. Just soft.

“I’ve always taken care of you,” Will said gently. “I’ve always wanted you to be warm. Or safe. Or… okay.”

Mike’s throat went tight, the back of his eyes prickling faintly with something he refused to name.

Will’s fingers moved a little deeper into Mike’s hair again, careful and grounding.

“The only difference now,” Will continued, voice almost thoughtful, “is that everyone’s watching.”

Mike swallowed hard.

“And it feels different,” Mike admitted, voice small, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Will’s hand paused again for half a second.

Then Will hummed, soft and understanding, and his fingers scratched just a little slower.

“Yeah,” Will murmured. “It does.”

Mike’s stomach fluttered, warm and awful.

He pressed his face back into the pillow again like it could hide him from his own thoughts.

“I hate it,” Mike muttered.

Will’s voice was quiet, fond. “You don’t.”

Mike made a noise of defeat into the fabric.

Will’s chuckle warmed the space between them.

His hand stayed in Mike’s hair, steady as a heartbeat.

And Mike, even as he tried to bury himself alive, couldn’t stop leaning into it — because it felt like the only safe thing in the entire haunted cabin.

Mike’s voice came out so quiet it barely counted as sound.

“No,” he admitted, the word soft and scraped raw, like it had been sitting in his throat all weekend waiting for the courage to exist. He refused to lift his head. Refused to look at Will. Like if he looked at him, he’d see the truth too clearly and it would kill him.

Will’s fingers were still in his hair. Still warm. Still steady.

Mike swallowed hard.

“I don’t,” Mike repeated, a little clearer this time, but still small. Still fragile. “At all.”

The room went quiet around them.

Not silent — the radiator still ticked faintly, the cabin still creaked like it was alive — but quiet in the way that mattered. Quiet in the way that felt like the world had stepped back to make space for something.

Will didn’t say anything for a moment.

His hand stayed in Mike’s hair, fingers moving slower now, gentler, like he was holding onto something delicate.

Mike’s heart hammered so hard it made him dizzy.

He could feel the warmth of Will beside him. Could feel his attention like sunlight on skin.

Then Will’s voice finally came, low and careful.

“Mike,” he murmured.

Mike’s throat tightened at the sound of his name. He made a small noise, barely a response, the closest thing to yeah? he could manage without breaking.

Will’s fingers brushed through his hair once more, then stilled completely.

“Can you look at me?” Will asked softly.

Mike’s stomach flipped so violently it was almost painful.

He shook his head instantly, burying his face further into the pillow like it could save him.

“No,” Mike whispered, miserable.

Will didn’t laugh.

Didn’t tease.

He just… breathed.

Mike felt the mattress shift slightly as Will moved closer, close enough that his warmth wrapped around Mike’s side.

“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do,” Will murmured, voice steady and gentle. “Okay?”

Mike’s throat burned.

Because Will was like that.

Always careful. Always kind.

It made Mike want to scream.

It made Mike want to crawl into him.

Mike swallowed hard, fingers gripping the duvet like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“I want to,” Mike whispered.

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

And the second they existed, Mike’s whole body went cold with fear.

Will went very still.

So still Mike could feel it— the way the air changed, the way Will’s breath hitched subtly like something had just landed in his chest.

“You want to?” Will repeated quietly, like he needed to make sure he’d heard right.

Mike squeezed his eyes shut, face still turned into the pillow, cheeks burning so hot he thought he might melt through the mattress.

“I want to look at you,” Mike admitted, voice cracking. “I just— I can’t. I’ll— I’ll die.”

A soft sound left Will. Not quite a laugh.

More like… something tender. Something fond.

“You’re not going to die,” Will murmured.

Mike let out a pathetic little whine into the pillow. “I am.”

Will’s hand moved again, but not in his hair this time.

It slid gently to Mike’s shoulder.

A warm, steady touch.

Will’s thumb brushed once, soothing.

“Okay,” Will said quietly. “Then don’t look at me.”

Mike blinked, confused.

Will shifted again, even closer— close enough that Mike could feel the edge of Will’s chest against his back, could feel the heat of him like it wanted to seep into Mike’s bones.

Will’s voice dropped, softer. Right near Mike’s ear.

“But you can still…” Will paused, like he was choosing his words carefully. Like he was giving Mike every possible escape route. “…You can still have what you want.”

Mike’s brain short-circuited.

His heart stumbled.

His fingers tightened around the duvet.

“What I want,” Mike repeated weakly, like he didn’t trust the words.

Will hummed, low and steady.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “You said you don’t hate it. That you don’t want me to stop.”

Mike’s stomach fluttered, traitorous and dizzy.

He swallowed hard.

“I don’t,” Mike whispered again. “I don’t want you to stop.”

Will’s breath brushed the back of his neck, warm.

“Okay,” Will whispered.

And then—

Will’s hand slid under Mike’s chin.

Not forcing. Not grabbing. Just guiding.

Two fingers, gentle, lifting his chin just a fraction so Mike wasn’t fully buried anymore.

Mike’s breath caught, sharp and shaky.

Will leaned in so slowly it felt unreal, like he was giving Mike a hundred chances to pull away.

Mike didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Will’s lips brushed the edge of Mike’s hair first— a soft, almost weightless touch near his temple. A test. A question.

Mike shuddered.

His heart kicked so hard it hurt.

Will paused for the tiniest second, hovering there.

Mike’s voice came out tiny. Broken.

“…Will.”

Will’s breath warmed his skin.

“Yeah?” Will murmured.

Mike swallowed, throat tight.

“Don’t— don’t be gentle about it like I’m gonna break,” Mike whispered, the words spilling out like a confession of their own. “I’m not— I’m not—”

His voice caught. He didn’t know what he was trying to say.

Will’s hand stayed under his chin, thumb brushing softly once.

“You’re not what?” Will asked, voice quiet.

Mike’s breath shook.

“I’m not made of glass,” he whispered. “I just— I just… you make me stupid.”

The silence that followed felt like a heartbeat.

Then Will’s mouth curved.

Mike couldn’t see it fully, but he felt it in the warmth of Will’s breath, in the soft exhale that sounded almost like a smile.

“I know,” Will murmured.

And this time, when Will leaned in—

He kissed him properly.

Not rushed. Not overwhelming. Just… real.

Will’s lips pressed to the corner of Mike’s mouth first, careful but certain, like he was anchoring himself before he took the leap.

Mike’s whole body went taut, then melted.

A quiet sound slipped out of him— not words, not really, just a breathy, helpless little noise that made his own cheeks burn hotter.

Will hummed softly against him, like he’d heard it.

Like he liked it.

Mike’s hand moved on instinct, fingers loosening from the duvet to curl into the front of Will’s hoodie— grabbing fabric like it was a lifeline, pulling him closer without even realising.

Will’s other hand slid to Mike’s waist, warm and steady.

He shifted them slightly, turning Mike just enough that the kiss could land properly.

Mike’s breath caught again when Will’s lips met his fully.

Soft at first.

Then deeper.

More confident.

Like Will had decided— okay. you want this. I can give it to you.

Mike’s brain went white-hot.

His whole body responded before his thoughts could catch up, mouth parting instinctively, chasing the warmth like it was oxygen.

Will kissed him like he’d been waiting.

Like he’d been holding back.

Like every careful, gentle moment all weekend had been restraint, and now— now he was letting himself have him.

Mike made another quiet, humiliating sound into the kiss.

Will didn’t pull away.

If anything, his hand at Mike’s waist tightened slightly, pulling him closer until Mike could feel the solid heat of him, the steady pressure of his body against Mike’s like an answer.

Mike’s fingers clenched harder in Will’s hoodie, knuckles white, like he was terrified it wasn’t real.

Will’s thumb rubbed slowly at his side, grounding him.

Mike’s breath shook.

He pulled back half an inch without meaning to, forehead tipping forward until it pressed briefly against Will’s jaw. He was panting softly, cheeks burning, heart hammering.

His eyes still refused to fully open.

Like he couldn’t handle seeing it.

Will didn’t force him.

Will just leaned in again, mouth brushing Mike’s once more— a smaller kiss, lingering, sweet.

Then another, just as soft, like he couldn’t help himself.

Mike’s voice came out as a whisper against Will’s lips.

“This is—” he breathed, half horrified, half ruined.

Will’s answer was quiet and warm, right against his mouth.

“I know.”

Mike swallowed, chest aching. “We’re— we’re gonna die.”

Will’s quiet laugh vibrated against his lips. “We’re not gonna die.”

Mike whined softly, the sound pathetic and real and so very Mike.

“We are,” he insisted weakly.

Will kissed him again— a quick, firm press, like punctuation.

Then Will murmured, voice low and steady, the kind of voice that made Mike want to fold in half.

“Mike,” he said gently, “do you want me to stop?”

Mike’s whole body jolted at the question, like it hit something deep.

He shook his head instantly, desperate.

“No,” Mike whispered, voice breaking. “No— no, don’t—”

Will’s hand under his chin guided him just a fraction closer again.

“Then I won’t,” Will murmured.

And he kissed Mike again— slower, warmer, more sure.

Not gentle like Mike would shatter.

Gentle like Mike mattered.

And Mike, finally, finally giving in to the warmth of it, melted completely— letting himself be held, kissed, and ruined in the safest way he’d ever known.

Mike’s hands moved before his brain could talk him out of it.

They drifted up— slow, hesitant at first, like he was afraid of doing it wrong— until his fingers found Will’s hair and sank gently into it.

It was softer than Mike expected.

Not perfectly neat, not styled or anything, just warm and real and slightly messy from the day. Mike’s fingertips slid into the strands and curled there like they belonged, like they’d been searching for this without him even realising.

Will made a quiet sound into Mike’s mouth— not words, just a breathy little hum that turned Mike’s whole body liquid.

Mike’s stomach flipped again, dizzy and traitorous, and he let himself lean into it fully this time.

Let himself be kissed.

Let himself stop thinking.

Will’s hand stayed at Mike’s waist, steady and firm, guiding him without ever forcing, like he knew exactly how much pressure Mike could take before he’d panic— and exactly how to keep him from slipping into it.

Will kissed him like he was patient.

Like he was in control.

Like he’d been holding the reins for a long time and Mike was finally letting him.

It started soft again— just lips, warm and lingering, the kind of kiss that felt like a promise more than anything else.

Then Will shifted, just slightly, and it changed.

Not rough. Not sudden.

Just… deeper.

More certain.

His mouth pressed to Mike’s with a quiet confidence that made Mike’s head spin, like Will had finally decided he didn’t need to ask permission for every breath— like Mike had already given him the answer.

Mike’s fingers tightened in Will’s hair involuntarily, a small tug.

Not hard.

Just enough.

Will huffed softly into the kiss, amused and pleased all at once, and Mike wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

Because Will didn’t pull away.

He leaned closer instead, and Mike felt the warmth of him everywhere — chest, shoulder, thigh pressing in as Will shifted them more fully into each other.

Mike’s back sank deeper into the bed without him even noticing the movement.

Will’s hand slid up from his waist to his ribs, palm spread wide like he was holding him there— like he wasn’t letting him drift away.

Mike’s breath caught, sharp and shaky.

He made another quiet sound— a soft, pathetic little whine that he immediately hated himself for—

except Will kissed him through it like it was the best sound in the world.

Like he wanted more.

Will’s thumb brushed slowly along Mike’s side, grounding him, and Mike shivered — his whole body responding as if Will had pressed a live wire under his skin.

Mike’s eyes squeezed shut, lashes fluttering.

This was too much.

This was everything.

Will pulled back only the tiniest amount, just enough that Mike felt the loss of his mouth like a sting.

For a breath, they hovered there— so close Mike could feel Will’s warm exhale against his lips.

Will’s voice came quiet, low, steady.

“You okay?” he murmured, as if he needed to hear it. As if he wouldn’t move another inch without it.

Mike’s throat worked.

His hands stayed tangled in Will’s hair like he couldn’t let go if he tried.

He nodded quickly, breath still shaky.

“Yeah,” Mike whispered. “Yeah, I’m— I’m okay.”

Will’s eyes searched his face for half a second, careful.

Then his mouth tilted, soft and satisfied, and he leaned in again.

This kiss was slower.

Dragging.

The kind that made Mike’s brain melt at the edges.

Will kissed him like he was tasting the truth of him— like he wanted to take his time, like he was in no rush now that he had him.

Mike’s fingers curled tighter in Will’s hair, and without thinking he tipped his head back slightly, offering himself up to it.

Will followed instantly.

He kissed Mike deeper, mouth warm and sure, and Mike’s chest rose on a shaky inhale as he finally stopped trying to hold himself together.

His other hand slid down from Will’s hair to the side of his neck, fingertips pressing there like he needed to feel the pulse under Will’s skin.

Will’s hand on his ribs tightened slightly, a firm, steady hold.

Mike felt it like a claim.

Not possessive.

Not scary.

Just… certain.

Like Will was saying, without words: I’ve got you.

Mike’s breath broke again, soft and helpless.

Will kissed him through it, and Mike swore he could feel the hint of a smile against his mouth— like Will liked the way Mike fell apart when he was kissed properly.

Mike hated that.

Mike loved it.

He shifted closer, knees brushing, and the duvet tangled somewhere around their legs. Mike barely noticed.

Will’s palm slid from his ribs to his hip, thumb pressing into the curve there, just enough pressure to make Mike’s whole body jolt like oh.

Will’s kiss didn’t change.

Still steady. Still controlled.

Still gentle in the way that mattered— like he could take Mike apart without ever hurting him.

Mike’s fingers slipped back into Will’s hair again, tugging slightly as if he needed proof it was real.

Will made a soft sound into Mike’s mouth — deeper this time, warm and pleased — and Mike’s stomach did a full, disastrous flip.

He broke the kiss for half a second just to breathe, panting quietly, forehead tipping forward until it brushed Will’s.

His voice came out wrecked.

“This is insane,” Mike whispered, almost accusing.

Will’s mouth brushed his again, barely-there.

“Yeah,” Will murmured, voice low and calm, like it didn’t scare him at all. “It is.”

Mike’s hands trembled in his hair.

“You’re—” Mike tried, then couldn’t finish.

Will kissed the corner of his mouth, slow.

Then the other.

Like he was collecting him.

“I’m what?” Will asked softly, voice a murmur against Mike’s skin.

Mike squeezed his eyes shut again, cheeks blazing, voice so small it almost disappeared.

“You’re…” he breathed, then whined quietly, frustrated with himself. “You’re too good at this.”

Will’s quiet laugh warmed the space between them.

“Only for you,” Will murmured, and then kissed him again— a little firmer, a little more confident, like he’d decided Mike didn’t need gentleness as a warning anymore.

Mike melted instantly, fingers tightening in Will’s hair, giving in completely.

Because he wasn’t breaking.

He was just… finally letting Will hold him the way he always had.

Only now, it came with lips and warmth and the kind of control that made Mike feel safe enough to stop fighting it.

Will pulled back just enough for air.

Not enough to break it completely— not enough for Mike to come crashing back down to earth and realise he was doing something insane— just enough that their mouths weren’t touching, that Mike could feel the absence like a phantom ache.

Will’s forehead hovered close, his breath warm and steady against Mike’s lips.

Mike stayed frozen beneath him, hands still tangled in Will’s hair like he didn’t know what to do with them now that the kissing had paused. His chest was rising and falling a little too fast, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded and dazed like he’d been turned inside out.

Will looked at him for a long second.

Really looked.

Like he was taking inventory of every little detail — Mike’s trembling breath, the way his lips were parted, the faint red bloom across his cheeks, the way his fingers kept gripping Will like he was afraid he’d disappear if he let go.

Will’s mouth tilted into something soft.

Something almost reverent.

Then, quietly, with a voice that sounded warm and impossibly calm—

“Still pretend?” Will asked.

Mike blinked slowly.

Once. Twice.

Like his brain was buffering.

“What?” Mike managed, voice wrecked and small.

Will’s smile widened just slightly, eyes crinkling at the edges.

“Still just a pretend boyfriend?” Will repeated, the word pretend softened into something gentle and teasing all at once— like he wasn’t mocking Mike, just giving him the chance to choose.

Mike’s heart slammed.

His hands tightened in Will’s hair again on instinct.

He stared up at Will, dazed, like he couldn’t believe those words were being said out loud in this room, in this bed, in this moment.

Then Will leaned in again— not to kiss his mouth this time.

Lower.

Slower.

Will’s lips brushed the corner of Mike’s jaw, warm and lingering, and Mike sucked in a shaky breath like he’d been punched full of air.

Will kissed again, just beneath his ear.

Then again, a little lower— gentle, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

Mike’s whole body reacted like it was wired to Will’s mouth.

His hands trembled in Will’s hair. His shoulders tensed, then melted. A shiver rolled through him, light and helpless, and he hated how easy it was for Will to pull that out of him.

Will’s breath warmed the side of his neck between kisses.

Mike felt it like a secret.

Felt the soft press of Will’s mouth against his skin and the steady weight of Will holding him down— not trapping him, not forcing him, just anchoring him there like you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.

Mike’s lashes fluttered.

His throat worked, swallowing hard, voice coming out as a whisper that barely existed.

“Will—”

Will hummed softly against his neck, like he’d heard the way Mike’s voice broke. Like he liked it. Like it made him even more certain.

He kissed again, slower this time, right over the pulse at Mike’s throat.

Mike’s entire body jolted.

A small, pathetic sound escaped him— half breath, half whine — and his cheeks burned hotter with embarrassment even as he clung tighter, fingers curling in Will’s hair like he didn’t know where else to put them.

Will’s smile brushed his skin.

“You okay?” Will murmured, voice low and warm against him.

Mike nodded quickly, desperate. “Yeah— yeah.”

Will’s lips moved again, softer now, grazing back up the side of Mike’s neck like he was tracing him. Like he was learning him all over again with his mouth.

Mike’s breath shook. His hands slid from Will’s hair down to his shoulders, gripping him there like he needed something solid.

His brain was still spinning.

Still stuck on the question.

Still pretend?

Still pretend?

Mike didn’t want that word anywhere near this anymore.

Not when Will was kissing him like this. Not when Mike’s chest felt too full. Not when his whole body was saying yesbefore his mouth could catch up.

Will’s lips lingered at the edge of Mike’s jaw again, then paused, his breath warm as he lifted his head just slightly.

He looked at Mike from so close it felt unfair.

Eyes soft. Mouth pink from kissing. Expression calm like he already knew the answer— like he just needed Mike to say it anyway.

Mike stared back, heartbeat hammering.

His voice came out breathless.

“No,” Mike whispered.

Will’s eyebrows lifted, the barest flicker of surprise— like he’d been hoping, but still couldn’t quite believe it.

Mike swallowed hard, eyes wide and honest in a way he couldn’t hide anymore.

“No,” he repeated, stronger now, the word settling into place like it belonged there. “Definitely not pretend.”

For a second, Will just looked at him.

Then his whole face softened.

Like something in him unclenched.

Like he’d been holding his breath for years and finally let it out.

Will smiled— slow and warm and almost disbelieving.

Then he leaned in and kissed Mike again.

Not rushed.

Not desperate.

Just sure.

A kiss that felt like an answer.

A kiss that felt like okay. okay. okay.

Mike melted into it completely, hands sliding up to Will’s neck again like he couldn’t help it, like he needed to feel him there.

Will kissed him once more, gentle and lingering, then pulled back just enough to press his forehead against Mike’s.

He breathed out softly, a quiet laugh caught in his throat.

“Good,” Will murmured, voice warm and steady like he’d decided something and nothing could shake him now.

Mike’s chest heaved with a shaky breath.

His cheeks were still burning.

His heart still felt like it was trying to claw its way out.

But he didn’t feel scared anymore.

Just… held.

Will’s thumb brushed lightly along Mike’s cheek, soft and grounding, like a promise.

Mike blinked up at him, dazed and breathless and entirely ruined.

And in the quiet glow of the lamps, with the cabin creaking around them like it was listening—

Mike let his eyes fall shut again.

And let himself believe it.