Mike Wheeler | BYLER

The restaurant was far too crowded for an ordinary night in Hawkins. The yellowish lights reflected off the formica tables, the clatter of cutlery blending with loud laughter and an old jukebox playing a song that was slightly out of tune. The group occupied two tables pushed 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 far too fast. He pretended to pay attention to Dustin, who was talking excitedly about some absurd theory involving the menu, while Lucas and Max laughed, exchanging quiet comments between themselves. Jane watched everything in silence with a slight smile, and Steve was arguing with Robin and Vickie about who had chosen the worst dish.

Mike laughed when he had to, but his attention inevitably drifted back to Will. The focused way he looked at the menu, the way he distractedly fiddled with his soda straw. Mike felt that old urge to touch his hand, but he limited himself to brushing his arm against his, as if it were something natural.

That was when the restaurant door opened.

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

"Chance!" he said, standing up from his chair before he even had time to think.

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.