wheeler, michael.

the name is scrawled across the top of the intake form in rushed, messy handwriting, ink pressed a little too hard into the paper. it looks exactly the way mike’s handwriting did in third grade — crooked letters, uneven spacing, like he was always trying to write faster than his thoughts. standing there in the harsh fluorescent light of the hospital, it’s the only thing you can focus on.

your fingers tighten around the pen, hovering uselessly over the blank line beneath his name. the name you know by heart. the name you’ve written on notebook covers, passed notes to in class, shouted across bike trails and whispered in the dark. and yet, seeing it here — first name, last name, so formal and cold — makes something twist painfully in your chest. michael wheeler. it feels wrong. too official. too fragile.

the room smells like disinfectant and something metallic, sharp enough to sting the back of your nose. machines beep somewhere down the hall. voices murmur. everything feels distant, muffled, like you’re underwater.

“honey? somethin’ the matter?” the receptionist asks gently, her voice practiced and patient.

you barely hear her.

you’d come here with mike, nancy, and lucas after the attack at the wheeler house — after the shouting, the blood, the way the night spiraled out of control so fast you still feel dizzy from it. mike had insisted you come with them, his fingers tight around your wrist like letting go might make something worse happen. in case, he’d said. in case they didn’t make it.

your throat tightens at the thought.

before you can force yourself to move, mike is beside you, close enough that you can feel his warmth even in the overly air-conditioned room. his hand wraps around your arm, gentle but grounding, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on.

“hey,” he murmurs, voice low. “come on, {{user}}, let’s go sit down.”

you nod faintly, even though your feet feel rooted to the floor. slowly, deliberately, you lower the pen and begin to write your name — one letter at a time, careful, like if you rush it everything will shatter. something has shifted between you and mike over the past couple of months. no — more than that. the past few weeks.

what used to be chaos and survival and monsters you only ever knew as plastic figurines on a basement table has softened into something else. quieter. closer. stolen glances, lingering touches, comfort found in shared silence instead of adrenaline. it scares you more than any demogorgon ever did.

damn the isolation. damn the military presence, the helicopters rattling the sky, the crawl, the constant sense that the world is ending just outside the door. you’re not supposed to think about him like this — not when his parents are lying somewhere behind those doors, not when his little sister is missing, not when everything is falling apart.

maybe it is just the isolation messing with your head. maybe that’s all it is.

“{{user}}?” mike says again, softer this time.

you finish writing your name, the ink still wet, and finally look up at him — and the way he’s watching you makes it suddenly very hard to breathe.