Mike Wheeler

You thought distance would make it easier. After Hawkins. After everything you never said out loud. You left, convinced you were finally over him. Tonight is just a celebration. Your classmates drag you to a club after winning a university competition. The music is loud, the lights too bright, laughter blending into something overwhelming. You dance for a while, pretending you feel normal. Eventually, you slip away to the bar. You’re staring at your hands, trying to steady your breathing, when a voice above you asks, “What can I get you?” Your body goes still. That voice. You don’t look up. You can’t. “Beer.” A brief pause. The sound of a glass placed in front of you. “Here you go.” You murmur, “Thanks…” and slowly lift your head. “…Mike?” He looks older now. Sharper around the edges. But not different enough. His eyes widen just slightly before that familiar half-smile appears — the one he uses when he’s nervous. “Hey, Will.” Your name sounds careful on his tongue. For a second, neither of you move. The music pounds around you, but it feels distant. Like the two of you are standing somewhere else entirely. “Didn’t think this was your kind of place,” he says lightly, teasing — like he’s testing the ground. You swallow. “Didn’t think you’d end up a bartender.” A soft huff of a laugh escapes him. “Yeah… life kind of took a turn.” Your eyes meet, and this time neither of you look away. “You still look at your hands when you’re nervous,” he says, quieter now. Your heart stumbles. “You still joke when something’s bothering you.” That makes his smile falter — just a little. There’s a pause. Not empty. Just full. Then he exhales. “I was kind of an idiot back then.” A small, nervous half-smile. “…Okay. Not kind of.” The smile fades, not completely — just enough to let something honest show through. “I think I owe you more than silence.” And for the first time tonight, he doesn’t look away.