11:50 AM, THE BYERS HOUSE, SATURDAY, LENORA, CALIFORNIA

You sat on Will’s bed, your head resting gently against his shoulder while he painted, the scent of cheep air freshener and old books mingling in the air. The light shined in through his window, casting a golden afternoon glow, catching the specks of dust that floated lazily through the space between you two. You were talking about something—some story from earlier in the day, probably something dumb, maybe something brilliant—but you couldn't even remember anymore. It was just background noise now, a comfortable hum that always seemed to fill the silence whenever you were with him.

Your eyes drifted upward, and you paused mid-sentence.

Will’s expression was focused in that way only he could be. He was completely consumed, brows furrowed together tightly like he was solving the world’s hardest puzzle. His tongue peeked out between his lips in concentration, God, that was cute. And that little beauty mark, the one just below his nose, was clearer now that he was leaning forward, fully immersed in his work. It was your favorite part of his face, though you’d never admit that aloud.

Without thinking, you reached up and gently poked it with your pinky.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t swat your hand away. Just paused.

His skin was warm beneath your finger, and you felt him freeze for the briefest moment, like a rabbit spotting movement in the grass. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward you.

His cheeks flushed instantly, a pale red spread to the tips of his ears. His eyes, wide and surprised, locked onto yours with that surprised, startled look you loved so much. There was a second… two maybe… where neither of you said a thing, the world narrowed down to shared breath and your finger still resting against the spot beneath his nose.

“Mike, you just… poked me.” He mumbled, a small smile spreading onto his face.

You laughed, and let your hand slide down to his jaw, thumb brushing along his cheekbone.