Will spots Mike before he’s ready to.

The sliding doors open and people spill out in uneven waves, and then Mike is suddenly there — real, not a memory or a voice in a letter. For a second, Will forgets how airports work, how bodies move through space. His chest tightens like he’s been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, like wanting too much.

Mike looks tired. His hair is a mess, sticking up in places like he ran his hands through it one too many times. He looks familiar in a way that hurts, like home. Will’s first instinct is to look away, to shrink back into his sleeves, but his feet won’t listen.

Eleven runs to Mike, and Will lets himself watch. He tells himself it’s fine. He tells himself this is how it’s supposed to be. He focuses on the floor, on the scuffed black toes of his boots, on breathing evenly.

When Mike pulls back from the hug and looks up, his eyes find Will almost immediately.

Will freezes.

For a terrifying second, he thinks Mike might not recognize him — that the black clothes, the eyeliner, the way he’s learned to hold himself differently might make him unrecognizable. His stomach twists. He braces for the polite smile, the confusion, the distance.

But Mike’s face changes instead.

It’s subtle, but Will sees it. He always sees it. Mike goes still, like the world has tilted and he’s trying to recalibrate. His expression softens, something open and unguarded flickering across it, and Will’s heart stutters painfully in response.

Oh.