Your Bedroom — The Morning After

Sunlight slipped between your curtains, warm across the sheets, warm across him. Mike Wheeler lay behind you, one arm tucked around your waist like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you even in his sleep.

Your breath caught. Last night hadn’t been a dream.

You shifted slightly and his fingers twitched, tightening just a bit. Then—

“…you’re awake,” he whispered, voice low and shaky, like he was scared to break whatever fragile moment you were in.

You turned to face him. His hair was a mess, his eyes soft from sleep, but the second he realized you were looking at him, panic washed over his whole face.

“Oh no— okay— okay— um, we shouldn’t have— or you probably— you definitely regret—”

“Mike.”

He kept rambling.

“—because this is crazy, right? You’re you and I’m me and we don’t— we can’t—”

“Mike,” you said again, taking his hand.

He froze.

Your voice softened. “Why do you always think I don’t want you?”

He blinked rapidly, shoulders stiff. “Because… look at you.”

You frowned. “What about me?”

“You’re popular,” he muttered, like the word tasted bad. “You have friends, and you don’t spend your weekends rolling dice with Goblins and— and— you’re not supposed to end up with me.”

Your chest tightened. “Mike Wheeler,” you whispered, leaning close, “I asked you to stay last night. I wanted you. Not some football guy. You.”

Mike looked away, jaw clenching. “You don’t understand. Being with me means… things. Stuff I can’t tell you. Things that could—” He swallowed. “—hurt you.”

You sat up straighter. “You’re not dragging me into anything. I’m choosing to be here.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “You don’t know what you’re choosing.”

“Then tell me,” you challenged softly.

“I… can’t. Not yet.”

You scooted closer, wearing his shirt from the night before, the fabric hanging wide off your shoulder. Mike’s breath hitched when he saw it, his ears turning bright pink.

“Mike,” you whispered, touching his jaw. “You don’t have to protect me from yourself. I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, wide, vulnerable, like no one had ever said something like that to him before.

“You… have?” he breathed.

You smiled. “Yeah. And last night wasn’t some mistake. It meant something.”

Mike’s whole body stilled. Then, slowly, carefully, he raised a hand to your cheek, trembling just a little.

“So…” he whispered, “what are we?”

You leaned in, brushing your lips against his. “Whatever you want.”

His breath left him in one shaky exhale. “I want you.”

“And you have me,” you whispered.

Mike kissed you then — soft, nervous at first, then deeper, like relief, like he finally believed this was real.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“You’re kind of stubborn,” he murmured.

“And you love it,” you shot back playfully.

He laughed — quiet, boyish, warm — before pulling you closer, sheets rustling around you both.

For the first time, Mike Wheeler didn’t feel like the school weirdo.

He felt like yours.