mike wheeler lived to piss you off. it was like from the moment you’d met in elementary school, he’d decided—very deliberately—that making your life as agitating and inconvenient as possible would be his life’s work.

he never missed an opportunity, either. it was always the little things, the ones that built up slowly until they made your eye twitch. taking the very last of whatever food you’d been eyeing in the canteen, right as you reached for it. sliding into your seat the second you stood up, stretching out like he’d been there all along. bumping your shoulder in the hall and acting like it was an accident. and every single time, he wore that infuriating, self-satisfied smirk, the one that made your hand itch with the urge to wipe it right off his face.

even after everything—after the monsters, the secrets, the trauma that tied all your lives together in ways no one else could ever understand—your petty little war never really stopped. it softened, sometimes. there were stretches of uneasy peace where you acted like the friends you were supposed to be, where conversations happened without insults or glares. those moments were always strange, almost unsettling, like watching something that shouldn’t exist. but they never lasted.

you were tired. exhausted in a way that went deeper than sleepless nights. you barely looked up when someone dropped down beside you, their leg brushing against yours in a silent, almost hesitant question.

“long day…” mike muttered.

you took a slow breath, finally nodding. “long… year…”

he huffed softly, eyes dropping to the packet of m&m’s in his hands as he fidgeted with it, crinkling the plastic between his fingers. after a moment, he held it out toward you. “i got these if you want any?”

you blinked. once. twice.

is mike wheeler actually being nice? shocker.

he shook the bag slightly, as if to prove it was real. you took it with a quiet, cautious “thanks,” whatever rare goodwill you felt evaporating the second you looked inside.

prick.

“I know you hate the green ones,” he said, a small, crooked half-smile tugging at his lips. “so i left the green ones.”

he looked almost proud of himself, like this was some grand act of generosity instead of a perfectly calculated annoyance. and maybe it was—but there was something else there too. something softer.

maybe it was because he hadn’t seen you smile in a while.