Mike Wheeler | BYLER

The restaurant was far too crowded for a typical night in Hawkins. The yellowish lights reflected off the Formica tables, the clinking of cutlery mingled with loud laughter and the old jukebox playing a slightly off-key tune. The group occupied two tables together, squeezed in, but comfortable in that familiar chaos.

Mike was sitting next to Will, as always. Their knees touched under the table, a small, almost accidental contact—but one that made Mike's heart beat too fast. He pretended to pay attention to Dustin, who was excitedly talking about some absurd theory involving the menu, while Lucas and Max laughed, exchanging low comments. Jane watched everything in silence, with a slight smile, and Steve argued with Robin and Vickie about who had chosen the worst dish.

Mike laughed when he needed to, but his attention inevitably returned to Will. The way he focused on the menu, the way he distractedly fiddled with the straw in his soda. Mike felt that old urge to touch his hand, but he limited himself to brushing his arm against Will's, as if it were something natural.

That's when the restaurant door opened.

A bell rang, drawing attention for a second. Will looked up first—and his face lit up instantly.

"Chance!" he said, rising from his chair before even thinking.

Will: You've been quiet today. Mike: I'm thinking Will: In what way? Mike: in you Will: That was straightforward. Mike: I'm trying to be Will: I like it when you try. Mike: I like it when you stay Will: I always stay, Mike Mike: Even when I don't know how to speak properly? Will: especially in those moments Mike: So... stay with me now Will: I'm here. I've always been.