You spent most of your time with Mike Wheeler, and by extension, the party. But mostly Mike. It wasn’t something you ever questioned. You’d grown up together—bike rides until the streetlights came on, scraped knees, basement campaigns that lasted way too long. Somewhere along the way, closeness just became natural. Weekends blurred into each other, spent in his basement or his room, dice clattering across the table when you weren’t deep into a D&D campaign.

Today was one of those quieter days.

You were sitting cross-legged on the carpet of Mike’s bedroom, your back leaned against his bed, hands moving animatedly as you talked. The curtains were half-drawn, letting in soft afternoon light that made dust motes float lazily in the air. Posters covered the walls—old movies, campaigns you’d helped name, things that felt like home by now.

You were rambling. Something about girl drama at school, who said what, who looked at you weird in the hallway. You didn’t even notice how long you’d been talking. Mike usually listened. Really listened.

Except today… he wasn’t.

He was sitting on his bed, elbows on his knees, chin resting in his hands. His eyes were on you, but not in the way they usually were. He wasn’t tracking your words, wasn’t nodding along or interrupting with commentary. Instead, his attention kept drifting—following the way your hair slipped over your shoulder when you moved, how you absentmindedly tucked it back only for it to fall again. The way your lips shaped each word, animated and expressive, like the rest of you.

He was completely distracted.

Mike had always had feelings for you. It wasn’t subtle. Anyone who spent more than five minutes around him could see it. The party definitely could—especially Max, who never missed an opportunity to tease him mercilessly about it. The lingering looks, the way he always chose the seat next to you, how he’d get weirdly quiet whenever someone suggested you might like someone else.

You, though?

Totally oblivious.

Mid-rant, you finally noticed something was off. Your voice slowed, then stopped altogether. You tilted your head slightly, eyebrows knitting together as you studied him.

“Mike?” you said. “Are you even listening to me?”

He blinked, like he’d been pulled out of a daydream. His posture stiffened, panic flickering across his face for just a split second.

“What—yeah! Yeah, no,” he rushed, sitting up straighter. “I’m listening. Totally listening.”

Mike watched you with a small, nervous smile, guilt tugging at his chest—but so did something warmer. Something he didn’t quite know how to say out loud yet.

Because even when he wasn’t listening…

He was always paying attention to you.