Mike likes you before he understands what liking someone really means.

It’s small things at first, waiting for you after school, saving you the seat beside him at the lunch table, glancing at you when he laughs like he wants you to hear it. You spend afternoons riding bikes, playing games in his basement, talking about nothing and everything. It feels easy. Safe. Like something that doesn’t need to be named yet.

Then Eleven appears.

Suddenly the world tilts. Monsters, secrets, fear and her. Mike’s attention narrows until there’s only one thing he can see. You notice before anyone else does. You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

So you step back.

You sit a little farther away. You stop reaching for his hand. You smile and pretend it doesn’t sting when he talks about her, when his eyes light up in a way they never quite did for you. You tell yourself this is what growing up is, learning when to let go without being asked.

Years pass. Hawkins changes. So do all of you.

One night, much later, Mike finds you again, older, tired in a way he recognizes. You talk about the past like it’s something fragile, something that might break if touched too hard. And then, quietly, he admits it.

“I liked you first,” he says. His voice cracks like that matters.