Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Will stepped into the hotel lobby and immediately remembered why people from New York should never use the phrase rustic elegance unsupervised.

The chandelier was trying very hard.

So were the fake marble columns.

Someone had placed enormous cream-colored floral arrangements near the entrance that smelled aggressively like vanilla.

Behind him, one of the Carlton’s aunts whispered something approving about “midwestern charm” with the exact tone people used while complimenting a child’s drawing.

Will smiled automatically.

“That’s beautiful,” he said softly.

Because that was what he’d been doing for months now.

Smiling softly.

Agreeing politely.

Nodding at expensive decisions that somehow no longer felt connected to him at all.

Outside, more black SUVs pulled into the circular driveway. Staff hurried across the lobby carrying luggage while members of the Carlton family drifted through the hotel like a migrating flock in designer neutrals.

Carlton’s mother, Patricia, stood near the front desk directing people with calm military precision.

“No, the Whitakers need adjoining rooms.”

“But the suites were already assigned—”

“Then unassign them.”

Will closed his eyes briefly.

He was tired already.

Not physically exactly.

Something deeper than that.

The kind of exhaustion where every conversation started feeling rehearsed halfway through.

Beside him, Thomas squeezed his wrist gently.

“You okay?”

Will opened his eyes immediately.

“Yeah,” he answered automatically.

His boyfriend… no, his fiance, smiled, relieved enough by the answer not to question it.

That made Will feel worse somehow.

Two years ago, Joyce and Hopper had moved back to Hawkins after Hopper retired. Will still wasn’t entirely sure why. Joyce claimed she missed having seasons. Hopper claimed California traffic was a violation of human rights.

Will hadn’t planned on returning much after that.

But when Thomas proposed six months ago, the only thing Will had asked for was this.

Hawkins.

Close to his family.

He honestly hadn’t expected the Carltons to agree.

Instead, they’d become weirdly enthusiastic about the concept.

Authentic countryside wedding.

Luxury rustic atmosphere.

Elevated barn aesthetic.

Will still wasn’t entirely sure what elevated barn aesthetic meant.

A sharp voice near the front desk interrupted his thoughts.

“I understand that the rooms are wrong. What I’m trying to explain is that yelling at Linda from reception won’t create additional architecture.”

Will turned instinctively.

A man stood near the desk holding a paper coffee cup and a folder tucked under one arm. Dark curls slightly messy. Sleeves rolled unevenly to his elbows. Tie loosened already despite it barely being afternoon.

He looked at the end of his rope.

He also looked familiar.

Patricia Carlton visibly relaxed.

“Oh good,” she said quickly. “Finally. We were expecting Holly Wheeler.”

The man glanced up.

There was the briefest pause before a smile appeared.

Not fake exactly.

Just a little too sharp around the edges.

“Yeah, Holly’s covering another event this weekend,” he said smoothly. “Apparently I tested positive for being related to her, so now I’m here.”

Patricia blinked once.

Then smiled politely like she’d received a completely normal answer.

“How wonderful.”

Will looked down immediately to hide the laugh threatening to escape.

Because that tone—

Oh.

Oh.

Mike Wheeler.

The realization landed strangely hard.

Not because they’d ever been close.

They hadn’t.

Mike Wheeler had existed more like weather in Hawkins.

Loud. Bright. Constantly surrounded by people.

Will mostly remembered him from classrooms. Hallways. Mike arguing passionately with teachers about books no one else cared about. Talking too fast about fantasy novels with Dustin Henderson while waving his hands around like the fate of the universe depended on it.

Intimidating, honestly.

Not cruel.

Just intensely alive in a way Will had never known how to be.

And apparently adulthood had turned that into—

Well.

This.

Mike was already moving again before anyone could answer, scanning papers in his folder.

“Okay,” he said briskly. “We had a booking duplication issue because the hotel somehow managed to accidentally assign the Sinclair family to both room 214 and a honeymoon suite, which honestly feels optimistic for them but unfortunately still incorrect.”

A few people laughed politely.

Will watched him reorganize the entire situation in under three minutes.

Calm staff.

Redirect luggage.

Call someone named Nancy.

Threaten someone named Derek.

Solve everything.

Efficient. Fast.

Weirdly charming.

Mike finally looked up properly for the first time. His eyes landed on Will.

There was a tiny pause.

Recognition.

“Byers,” Mike said.

Still holding the coffee cup. Still looking mildly sleep deprived.

Will felt something strange twist unexpectedly in his stomach.

“Wheeler.”

Mike nodded once.

Professional again instantly.

“Your mother and Hopper just arrived downstairs, by the way.”

And somehow that sounded less like event coordination and more like Mike Wheeler casually knowing things about Will’s life.

Patricia blinked. “Does that affect the location of the grooms’ rooms?”

Mike looked up from the seating charts spread across the counter. “Yes,” he admitted, already reaching for another folder. “But I’m working on it.”

This was how Will found himself standing near the reception desk twenty minutes later while Mike Wheeler reorganized half the hotel with the exhausted focus of someone one inconvenience away from legally changing his name and disappearing into the woods.

Thomas stood beside him, still perfectly composed despite the chaos.

Which honestly felt impressive.

Or concerning.

“I truly don’t mind switching rooms,” Thomas was saying politely to his mother. “It’s one weekend.”

Patricia Carlton pressed two fingers lightly against the bridge of her nose.

“It’s not about switching rooms, darling. It’s about standards.”

Mike, who was currently typing something aggressively into the hotel computer, didn’t even look up.

“Historically speaking, separate floors have saved a lot of marriages.”

Will choked slightly on absolutely nothing.

Patricia smiled politely again, completely missing the joke.

Thomas laughed softly like Mike had made a charmingly odd comment instead of whatever that actually was.

Mike finally glanced up.

For half a second his eyes flicked toward Will.

There it was again.

That tiny almost-expression like he knew exactly how sarcastic he was being and had just realized Will noticed too.

“The original reservation had both of you on the third floor,” Mike continued smoothly, back in professional mode. “But Mrs. Carlton requested separate accommodations yesterday evening.”

“Traditional etiquette,” Patricia clarified immediately.

“Of course,” Mike replied with alarming seriousness. “Nothing says lifelong commitment like mandatory supervised distancing.”

Will looked down again immediately, pressing his mouth together.

Jesus Christ.

He remembered this now.

Not the exact jokes.

Just the feeling of them.

Mike Wheeler saying things in class with a perfectly straight face while teachers stared at him trying to determine whether they’d just been insulted.

Thomas, meanwhile, remained entirely unbothered.

“If it’s easier, I can take whichever room is available.”

Mike pointed at him slightly with the room key packet.

“That attitude is why you’re currently my favorite person in this building.”

“Michael,” Patricia said gently.

“Sorry,” Mike said immediately, somehow sounding not sorry at all. “Second favorite.”

Patricia smiled, visibly pleased by that answer.

Then finally Mike handed over two keycards.

“Okay. Mr. Byers, you’re in 402. Mr. Carlton, you’re in 317. We moved some things around so both suites still have lake views.”

“That’s perfect,” Thomas said sincerely.

Mike nodded once.

Already halfway mentally into another crisis.

“Great. If anything explodes, leaks, catches fire, or emotionally destabilizes a member of your family, somebody from Wheeler Events will be available twenty-four hours a day.”

Will actually laughed this time.

Small.

Brief. But real enough that Mike looked up instinctively.

And for one strange second the noise of the lobby seemed to pull slightly out of focus.

Because Mike Wheeler looked different when he realized he’d genuinely made someone laugh.

Less polished.

Less professional.

Younger somehow.

Then the moment disappeared immediately as a hotel employee hurried toward them looking terrified about something involving floral deliveries. Mike sighed like a man accepting his fate.

“Excellent,” he muttered. “The peonies are staging a rebellion.”

Will’s room overlooked the lake.

Or technically, a large pond aggressively committed to branding itself as a lake.

The hotel brochure had called it scenic waterfront property. In reality it looked like the kind of place teenagers probably threw beer bottles into after football games.

Still.

The late afternoon light reflecting across the water was pretty enough that Will stood there for a moment after the bellhop left, suitcase untouched beside the bed.

Quiet.

Finally.

Downstairs, he could still faintly hear the wedding arriving piece by piece.

Voices.

Luggage wheels.

Someone laughing too loudly. A child already crying somewhere in the distance.

Will loosened the collar of his shirt slowly.

The room smelled faintly like expensive detergent layered over old carpet.

On the armchair near the window sat one of the garment bags Thomas had insisted on bringing upstairs first.

There were six more downstairs.

Six.

For a two-day wedding weekend.

Will stared at the garment bag for a long moment.

Welcome dinner.

Rehearsal dinner.

Post-rehearsal cocktails.

Ceremony.

Reception.

Sunday brunch.

Thomas had helped him choose every outfit personally. Not in a controlling way.

That somehow made it worse.

Thomas genuinely loved things like this.

Details.Presentation. Beautiful experiences carefully arranged down to the smallest possible element.

And Will had tried.

God, he had tried.

He’d stood patiently through fittings in Manhattan while sales associates adjusted sleeves and measured inseams and spoke to him differently the moment they saw Carlton’s last name attached to the appointment.

He’d nodded through conversations about fabrics that cost more than his first apartment in California.

And every single time Carlton had looked at him with honest excitement and asked:

“What do you think?”

Will had answered:

“I like it.”

Because most of the time it had been true.

The clothes were beautiful. The venues were beautiful. The flowers would be beautiful.

The wedding itself would probably be beautiful too.

That was the problem.

Everything about this weekend was so carefully designed to look perfect that Will increasingly felt like the least convincing part of it.

He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed.

Tired.

Not nervous exactly.

Something stranger. Like his entire life had accelerated too quickly and his brain still hadn’t caught up.

A knock sounded at the door.

Will blinked once before standing. For half a second he expected Thomas.

Instead—

“Hey, kid.”

Hopper stood there holding a paper coffee cup in one hand while Joyce immediately pushed past him into the room like a small emotional tornado, wrapping Will into a hug before he could even say hello.

“Oh honey, look at this place!”

Will laughed softly despite himself as Joyce immediately started fussing with the curtains like she personally needed to inspect the entire hotel infrastructure.

“It’s nice,” he said.

“It’s expensive,” Hopper corrected.

“That too.”

Joyce turned immediately.

“You look tired.”

Will had barely been in the room five minutes.

He smiled automatically anyway.

“I’m okay.”

Hopper made a quiet skeptical noise already moving toward the window.

“That’s parent code for ‘absolutely not,’ by the way,” he informed the room.

Joyce ignored him expertly.

“We’re just happy you’re here,” she said softly.

And that almost got through him a little.

Because Hawkins still felt strange.

Not painful exactly.

Just unreal.

Like walking through somebody else’s memory of his childhood.

Joyce touched his cheek briefly.

“You know,” she said gently, “I still can’t believe you actually wanted the wedding here.”

Will looked down for a second.

Neither could he.

Not entirely.

“I wanted you here,” he admitted quietly. “And Hopper.”

Hopper looked away immediately toward the lake like eye contact might kill him.

Joyce’s expression softened so visibly it hurt a little to look at.

“Oh sweetheart.”

Will smiled again.

Softer this time. More honest.

Then another knock interrupted them. Short. Quick.

Professional.

Hopper opened the door this time.

Mike Wheeler stood outside holding a black folder and what appeared to be an entirely different coffee from earlier.

How much caffeine was medically survivable for one person remained unclear.

“There you are,” Mike said before seeming to fully register the room. “Oh. Hi, Mrs. Byers.”

Joyce lit up immediately.

“Mike!”

There it was again.

That strange transformation.

One second Mike looked like a sharply competent event coordinator.

The next he looked abruptly younger somehow under Joyce’s attention.

“Look at you,” she said warmly. “Karen told me you were in Boston now.”

“Yeah,” Mike answered. “Against my better judgment.”

Hopper snorted.

Joyce pointed at him immediately.

“See? Same sense of humor.”

Mike smiled slightly at that. Smaller than before.

Realer too.

And suddenly Will remembered something bizarrely specific.

Mike Wheeler in sophomore English leaning back in his chair saying something so dry and ridiculous that half the class laughed three seconds late after realizing he was joking.

Will had spent most of high school watching Mike from a safe distance like that.

Never close enough to participate.

Just—

Observing.

“We won’t keep you,” Joyce said finally. “You probably have a million things to do.”

Mike lifted the folder slightly.

“Only eight hundred thousand currently.”

“See?” Joyce said triumphantly to Hopper, like Mike’s exhaustion proved something meaningful.

Hopper rolled his eyes affectionately before squeezing Will’s shoulder once on the way out.

“We’ll see you downstairs in a few hours.”

“Okay.”

Joyce hugged him quickly before leaving too.

And the second the door closed behind them, the room changed.

Quieter.

Smaller.

Mike cleared his throat lightly and opened the folder.

Professional again.

“So,” he said. “Your future in-laws would like to revisit the rehearsal dinner seating chart because apparently two cousins are no longer speaking after an incident involving a startup and somebody’s boat.”

Mike crossed the room toward the small table near the window and spread several papers across it with the efficiency of someone deeply committed to pretending this was a normal interaction.

Will appreciated the effort.

Mostly because he needed it too.

“Okay,” Mike said, flipping open the folder. “Tonight is the rehearsal dinner downstairs at seven. Cocktails first, then dinner, then apparently a slideshow presentation your future mother-in-law described as ‘tastefully emotional,’ which I personally consider a threat.”

Will laughed quietly before he could stop himself.

Mike glanced up briefly at the sound.

Just for a second.

Then back to the papers.

“Tomorrow,” he continued, “ceremony starts at five-thirty to catch sunset lighting. Reception immediately after. Sunday brunch starts at ten, which I assume was scheduled by people who have never attended a wedding before.”

“Sounds accurate.”

Mike hummed like he appreciated the answer.

He slid another paper toward him.

“Flowers.”

Will looked down automatically.

White roses.

Cream ranunculus.

Soft greenery.

Elegant and expensive. Very Carlton.

“Your final consultation notes said you approved all of this already,” Mike said. “I’m mostly double-checking because your mother-in-law changed centerpiece arrangements three separate times this week and I’d like to avoid witnessing a fourth.”

Will stared at the photos a moment longer.

“They’re nice.”

Mike was already writing something down before pausing.

Then slowly looked up.

“That wasn’t the question.”

Will blinked once.

Mike leaned back slightly in his chair, tapping the pen once against the folder.

“Do you actually want them?”

The question landed strangely hard.

Not because of flowers.

Because no one had asked him something that directly in weeks.

Not really.

Will looked back down at the arrangements.

“They’re what the Carlton wanted.”

“Okay,” Mike said easily. “That still doesn’t answer the question.”

There wasn’t judgment in his voice. That somehow made it worse.

Will let out a small breath through his nose.

“I don’t know anything about flowers.”

“That’s fine. Most people don’t. Honestly flowers are just expensive emotional support plants.”

Will laughed again.

This time Mike smiled too.

Quick.

Crooked.

Like he wasn’t entirely trying to.

And suddenly another memory flickered unexpectedly through Will’s head—

Mike Wheeler at sixteen arguing passionately during some class presentation that fantasy novels absolutely counted as literary fiction while everyone else looked either bored or confused.

Will remembered sitting near the back pretending not to listen while Mike talked too fast and gestured wildly with both hands like he physically couldn’t help caring about things.

Intense.

Slightly ridiculous.

Impossible not to watch.

“You always talked like that,” Will said before he could stop himself.

Mike looked up immediately.

“Like what?”

“Like…” Will hesitated. “Like everything mattered.”

For a second Mike just stared at him.

Actually stared.

Then a quiet laugh escaped him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “That’s either the nicest or most concerning thing anyone’s ever said about me.”

Will smiled despite himself.

“It intimidated people.”

“Oh, I know.”

Mike said it so matter-of-factly that Will looked up again.

“You knew?”

“Byers, I spent most of high school getting told to calm down by authority figures.”

There it was again.

That dry humor.

That strange sharpness underneath everything.

And now that Will remembered it, he couldn’t stop noticing it.

Mike flipped another page casually.

“Okay. Next crisis.” He pointed at the seating chart. “Aunt Sandra apparently cannot be within ten feet of Carlton’s uncle because of something involving a boat dealership and a second marriage.”

Will blinked.

“…what?”

“I didn’t ask follow-up questions,” Mike said immediately. “I protect my peace where possible.”

A soft knock interrupted them before Will could answer.

Mike looked up automatically.

“Come in,” Will called.

The door opened and Thomas Carlton stepped inside adjusting the cuff of his shirt. Perfect posture. Dark tailored suit already on despite cocktails not starting for another hour. Effortlessly elegant in the kind of way money usually helped with.

His expression softened immediately when he saw Will.

“There you are.”

Will felt himself relax automatically at the familiar voice.

Thomas crossed the room and kissed his forehead lightly before glancing toward Mike.

“Sorry, am I interrupting?”

“Only emotionally,” Mike answered without missing a beat while reorganizing papers.

Thomas laughed politely.

Will hid another smile.

God. Mike Wheeler really did talk exactly the same way he used to.

Just sharper now.

More exhausted around the edges.

“We’re almost done,” Mike added, already standing. “I just needed final confirmations before your family collectively reinvents warfare through seating arrangements.”

“Sounds about right,” Thomas said dryly.

Mike gathered the folders against his chest.

“I’ll leave you two alone.”

Then his eyes flicked briefly toward Will again.

Quick.

Professional.

Almost unreadable.

“Cocktails start downstairs at seven,” he said. “And if anybody asks, none of the floral arrangements are technically flammable.”

The door closed behind him a second later.

Silence settled softly into the room afterward.

Thomas loosened his tie slightly.

“I like him,” he admitted.

Will looked down at the flower samples still spread across the table.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly. “Me too.”

Thomas stepped closer.

“You okay?”

There it was again.

The question everyone kept asking.

And the terrifying part was that Will genuinely didn’t know how to answer anymore.

Because he loved Thomas.

Or at least—

He cared about him deeply.

Thomas had been kind to him for years. Patient. Steady.

Safe.

When they met in New York, Will had still felt half-feral inside most rooms. Too quiet. Too unsure of himself. Thomas never made him feel strange for that. He made things easier.

Life easier.

And when he proposed six months ago in a beautiful restaurant overlooking Manhattan, Will had heard himself say yes almost immediately.

Like watching somebody else do it.

He remembered the candlelight. Thomas smiling nervously.

The ring.

His own voice answering.

Yes.

And even then, somewhere deep inside himself, there had been this strange floating sensation. Like he’d stepped slightly outside his own body.

Like he was witnessing the correct version of his future happening to somebody else.

“You disappeared for a second,” Thomas said gently.

Will blinked.

“Sorry.”

Thomas smiled softly and brushed his thumb against Will’s wrist.

“You’re just overwhelmed. This weekend is a lot.”

Maybe that was true.

Maybe that was all this was.

Stress.

Pressure.

Exhaustion.

Will wanted desperately for it to be that simple.

Thomas leaned down and kissed him again briefly before stepping back toward the door.

“I should go downstairs before my mother starts reorganizing humanity.”

“That bad?”

“She tried to move three guests because apparently one of them ‘looks argumentative.’”

Will laughed softly.

“There you are,” Thomas said immediately, smiling like he’d accomplished something just by hearing the sound.

The door closed behind him a minute later.

Will stood alone in the quiet room afterward staring at the garment bag hanging near the window.

Then finally he changed for cocktails.

Dark tailored suit.

Silver cufflinks.

Something expensive enough that he still instinctively checked the fabric before touching it.

By the time he made it downstairs, the lobby had transformed completely.

Soft lighting glowed across polished marble.

Champagne glasses moved through the crowd on silver trays.

String music drifted somewhere overhead while guests arrived in elegant waves of noise and motion.

Carlton relatives greeting each other loudly near the entrance while Wheeler Events staff moved through the crowd with increasingly haunted expressions.

And then—

“Will!”

Jane crossed the lobby toward him immediately.

Will barely had time to smile before she hugged him hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

There she was.

His little sister. Not technically by blood.

Not technically anything, really.

But Jane had become part of his life so naturally after Hopper married Joyce that sometimes Will genuinely forgot there had ever been a version of the world where she wasn’t there.

She smelled faintly like vanilla shampoo and airplane air.

“You made it,” Will said softly.

“Barely,” Jane replied. “Dustin almost missed our connection because he bought three airport magazines and then forgot them at security.”

“Okay, first of all,” Dustin announced while approaching behind her carrying two suit bags and what looked like most of Jane’s luggage, “that story is biased and legally inaccurate.”

Will laughed before he could stop himself.

Dustin grinned instantly like he’d won something.

And just like that, for the first time all day, the hotel started feeling slightly less like a performance and slightly more like something real.

Dustin immediately stole a champagne flute off a passing waiter doing balancing tricks and shoved it into Will’s hand like this was a medically necessary procedure.

“You look expensive,” he informed him.

“That’s because he is expensive now,” Jane replied calmly.

Will snorted softly.

“Please don’t encourage them.”

“Oh, I absolutely will,” Dustin said. “I spent three hours trapped on a plane with Carlton’s second cousin explaining venture capital to me like he was describing religion.”

Jane accepted a drink from a passing server before looking back at Will more carefully.

And there it was.

That look.

The one that always made Will feel vaguely transparent.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

Will smiled automatically.

“Yeah.”

Jane raised an eyebrow immediately.

“Interesting,” Dustin muttered into his champagne. “That’s the exact same tone Mike uses right before minor psychological collapse.”

Will blinked.

“What?”

Dustin waved vaguely across the ballroom.

“Mike’s here somewhere, by the way. He disappeared for like an hour which probably means Holly threatened him over the phone until he showered.”

Against his better judgment, Will looked automatically.

At first he couldn’t find him through the crowd.

Then—

Oh.

Mike stood near the far side of the ballroom talking to two hotel employees while holding what looked like three separate folders at once.

He’d changed.

Earlier he’d looked like someone surviving entirely through caffeine and spite.

Now—

Well.

Now he looked intentional.

Dark button-up shirt with sleeves rolled neatly this time instead of unevenly shoved upward. Black slacks. Slightly damp curls pushed back from his forehead like he’d showered ten minutes ago and barely had time to finish drying his hair before another crisis appeared.

No tie though.

Interesting.

Will watched him gesture toward one of the tables while speaking quickly about something involving candles.

Competent.

Sharp.

Distractingly attractive, apparently.

That realization arrived so suddenly Will nearly looked away from himself.

Huh.

“Weirdly enough,” Dustin continued, oblivious to the tiny existential event currently occurring beside him, “Mike’s actually insanely good at this stuff.”

Jane hummed knowingly into her drink.

“He always was.”

Will kept watching Mike move through the room.

People naturally shifted around him without thinking about it. Staff listened immediately when he spoke. He kept solving problems before they fully became visible to anyone else.

And underneath all of that—

Still the same energy somehow.

Like he was operating half a second faster than everyone around him.

“He seems…” Will hesitated slightly.

Dustin grinned immediately.

“Oh no. Go on. This is important to me emotionally.”

Will ignored him.

“Competent,” he finished instead.

Dustin looked deeply offended.

“That’s it? Competent?”

“That’s a compliment,” Will defended mildly.

Jane smiled into her glass.

“High praise from Will, actually.”

Dustin narrowed his eyes dramatically.

“You know, it’s really interesting that you’re both weird nerds who somehow never became friends.”

Will finally tore his gaze away from Mike.

“We knew each other.”

“No,” Dustin said immediately. “You existed in proximity to each other. Different thing.”

And annoyingly enough, Dustin was probably right.

Because Will remembered Mike Wheeler.

He remembered the voice.

The sarcasm.

The intensity.

The feeling of watching him from the edges of rooms and classrooms thinking:

God, he talks like he expects people to listen.

But knowing someone?

Not really.

Which made it stranger somehow that Will kept looking for him in crowds tonight like his brain had already decided Mike Wheeler belonged somewhere inside the shape of this weekend.

“Move.”

Max’s voice arrived approximately half a second before she did.

Dustin barely had time to complain before Max slid directly between him and Jane to hug Will tightly with one arm while still holding her drink in the other.

“You clean up weirdly well,” she informed him.

“Thank you?”

“I think she means you look nice,” Lucas clarified while stepping up beside her with the exhausted patience of a man who’d been translating Max Mayfield to society for over a decade.

Will smiled properly this time.

Lucas hugged him next.

Warm. Easy. Familiar. And suddenly the ballroom felt even smaller somehow.

More real.

More dangerous emotionally.

Because these people knew him before New York. Before galleries and donor dinners and carefully curated adult versions of himself.

Before he learned how to make himself quieter in expensive rooms.

Max pulled back first, immediately scanning him with frightening accuracy.

“You look stressed.”

“Hi to you too.”

“Interesting. Didn’t deny it.”

Lucas sighed softly into his champagne.

“Please don’t psychoanalyze the groom within five minutes of arrival.”

“No promises.”

Jane laughed quietly beside them.

And just like that, Will felt something inside himself loosen slightly.

It had started like this, weirdly enough.

Not all at once.

Just slowly. Piece by piece.

When Hopper married Joyce, Jane had entered his life first like a small natural disaster with short hair, huge eyes, and absolutely no understanding of social fear.

Then Max, her best friend.

Then Lucas, Max’s boyfriend.

And suddenly Will had people around him. Not many.

But enough to stop feeling completely alone all the time.

Enough to survive high school without disappearing entirely into himself.

And Dustin had always been there too.

Orbiting the group constantly at first because he was catastrophically obvious about liking Jane from the moment he met her.

Will remembered that part vividly.

Fourteen-year-old Dustin showing up at random places with increasingly transparent excuses while pretending he was subtle about any of it.

He had not been subtle.

At all.

Meanwhile Jane had looked at him like he personally hung the moon and somehow still acted surprised every time Dustin flirted with her.

It had been painful to witness.

And somewhere around the edges of all those memories—

Mike Wheeler.

Never directly part of Will’s life. Just adjacent to it.

Dustin’s best friend.

Tall.

Loud.

Always talking.

Always creating something.

Will remembered him sprawled across cafeteria tables arguing passionately about fantasy movies with Dustin while Max rolled her eyes hard enough to threaten permanent damage.

Remembered seeing him carrying stacks of notebooks through hallways.

Remembered overhearing him talk about writing like it mattered more than oxygen.

Intimidating.

Not because Mike was cruel. Because he seemed so completely unafraid of existing loudly.

Will had never understood how people did that.

“Uh oh,” Dustin said suddenly.

Will blinked.

“What?”

Dustin pointed across the ballroom.

“Mike’s entering his terrifyingly competent under-pressure phase.”

Everyone turned instinctively.

Mike stood near the entrance speaking into a cordless phone while rubbing one hand over his face with the exhausted intensity of a man spiritually preparing for battle.

Even from across the room, Will could see he’d somehow become more put together and more disheveled simultaneously.

“How can you tell?” Lucas asked.

“I’ve known him since kindergarten.”

“Still not an answer.”

Dustin lowered his voice dramatically.

“He starts talking faster when he’s close to psychological collapse.”

Almost like he sensed people discussing him, Mike glanced up briefly.

His eyes moved automatically across the ballroom.

Then landed on Will.

A pause.

Tiny.

Barely there. But real.

And weirdly enough, Will felt it all the way down in his stomach before Mike looked away again and returned to whatever catastrophe Wheeler Events was currently preventing.

The ballroom doors opened again about twenty minutes later.

Jonathan stepped inside quietly enough that almost nobody noticed him at first.

Which was very Jonathan.

Dark jacket wrinkled from travel. Camera bags hanging from one shoulder. Hair slightly damp from the cold outside air. Tired in that particular way only airports seemed capable of creating.

Will saw him immediately anyway.

Jonathan scanned the room once before his eyes landed on him.

Relief.

Brief but obvious.

Then he started crossing the ballroom toward them.

And a few steps behind him came Mike Wheeler. Still carrying folders.

Still walking with the frantic momentum of someone personally holding the entire wedding together through force of will alone.

“Your brother almost got into a fight with a Delta employee,” Mike informed Will conversationally as they approached.

Jonathan looked offended.

“That’s a dramatic interpretation of events.”

“You told a gate agent she was participating in the collapse of modern civilization.”

“She was.”

Mike nodded once like that seemed fair.

“See? Fight-adjacent.”

Will laughed softly before he could stop himself.

Jonathan finally reached him and pulled him into a quick hug.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

Again.

That question.

Will was beginning to suspect he looked significantly worse than he thought he did.

“I’m fine.”

Jonathan leaned back just enough to give him a look that clearly translated to: statistically unlikely.

But before he could say anything else, Mike stepped slightly closer holding out a room key envelope.

“Your equipment already got moved upstairs,” he told Jonathan. “There was a small issue involving hotel staff, three lighting cases, and an elevator with emotional problems, but we resolved it.”

Jonathan accepted the envelope.

“…Mike Wheeler.”

“Unfortunately.”

Something about the exchange made warmth flicker unexpectedly through Will’s chest.

And suddenly Will remembered being maybe seventeen, home in Hawkins for a few summer weeks, standing in line at Family Video while Mike argued passionately with the cashier about movie categorization.

Something about science fiction.

Or fantasy.

Will couldn’t remember the details anymore.

Just Mike talking too fast while waving one hand around holding a VHS tape.

Completely unconcerned with whether anybody else in the building cared about the conversation.

Will remembered standing there thinking: the way Mike talked made you want to listen anyway.

“You clean up okay, Wheeler,” Jonathan said now, glancing at Mike properly for the first time.

Mike looked down at himself briefly.

“I changed shirts. It’s my greatest accomplishment today.”

“Low bar.”

“Brutal but fair.”

Mike smiled faintly.

And absurdly enough, Will became suddenly aware of the fact Mike looked good.

Not polished like Carlton.

Not carefully elegant.

Just attractive in a frustratingly human way.

Will found himself noticing details he’d somehow forgotten existed.

The faint freckles scattered across Mike’s face.

The tiredness around his eyes softening whenever he smiled.

The shape of his mouth— unfairly nice, honestly.

The kind of face that only got more interesting the longer you looked at it.

Which felt like deeply unhelpful information to discover about the man organizing your wedding.

Jonathan took another sip of champagne before glancing around the ballroom.

“So where’s Nancy?”

There it was.

Immediate recognition flickered through Will.

Nancy Wheeler.

Mike’s older sister. Brilliant. Intense. Slightly terrifying.

Jonathan had been hopelessly in love with her for most of high school.

Everybody knew. Including, probably, Nancy.

Mike’s expression shifted instantly toward amusement.

“Oh, this should be interesting.”

Jonathan sighed immediately.

“Don’t.”

“I literally haven’t done anything.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

Will watched Mike grin at that.

Quick.

Crooked.

And for one strange second the ballroom noise blurred softly around the edges again because apparently looking at Mike Wheeler for too long had become an actual problem tonight.

“She’s upstairs fixing a florist crisis,” Mike informed Jonathan. “Should be down soon assuming nobody commits arson.”

Jonathan nodded seriously.

“Yeah… okay.”

And then, almost casually, Mike looked at Will again.

Not the distracted professional glances from earlier. Not the automatic eye contact people made during conversation.

This was different. Measured. Intentional. Like Mike was quietly taking him in for the first time all evening.

Will couldn’t even explain what exactly made the look feel so specific.

Mike’s gaze flicked briefly over him, the dark suit, the open collar, the champagne glass loose in his hand before returning to his face again.

Thinking. Noticing.

Something about it sent heat crawling unexpectedly up the back of Will’s neck.

And before he could stop himself, he straightened slightly. Tiny adjustment. Barely visible. Shoulders pulling back. Posture correcting automatically.

Like some deeply humiliating part of his brain had suddenly gone: Mike Wheeler is looking at you. Try to look worth looking at.

Which was insane.

Actually insane.

They barely knew each other.

Mike’s expression didn’t change much, but Will had the strange sense that he noticed anyway. That tiny unconscious shift.

Then Mike gave the faintest nod to himself like he’d reached some internal conclusion and looked away again toward Jonathan.

The whole interaction lasted maybe three seconds.

Still, a memory surfaced so suddenly it almost startled him.

Seventeen.

Back in Hawkins for a few weeks during summer break after leaving for California.

Family Video, again.

The air conditioning barely working while some terrible action movie played silently on the overhead televisions.

Will had been standing near the horror section pretending to compare two VHS tapes he had absolutely no intention of renting.

Across the store, Mike Wheeler sat half-perched on the counter arguing animatedly with Dustin about whether fantasy stories were “automatically more honest than realism.”

Will still didn’t know what that meant. Only that Mike had sounded infuriatingly confident saying it.

Hands moving while he talked. Completely unconcerned with whether anybody around him thought he was weird.

Will remembered glancing over once.

At exactly the wrong moment.

Because Mike looked back.

Just briefly. A passing look across the store. Nothing important.

And somehow Will had immediately become painfully aware of the humidity flattening his hair wrong, the paint stain on his jeans, the awkward way he was leaning against the shelf.

He remembered straightening then too. Subtly trying to stand differently.

Cooler maybe.

Older.

Like maybe if Mike Wheeler looked at him for more than a second, Will wanted the impression to matter.

God. He hadn’t thought about that in years.

Maybe ever.

“Weird,” Max muttered suddenly beside Will.

He blinked hard enough to pull himself back into the present.

“What?”

Max tilted her champagne glass slightly toward Mike, who was standing a few feet away talking to Jonathan while still clutching two folders against his chest like they contained classified government secrets.

“He gets hotter when he’s stressed,” she said like this personally offended her. “Which is really annoying.”

Will laughed before he could stop himself, immediately turning red.

“That is not a normal thing to say out loud.”

Dustin looked between them instantly.

“Oh, so we’re all noticing it now.”

“There is nothing to notice,” Will said, still smiling despite himself.

Mike glanced over mid-conversation with Jonathan.

“What are you all talking about?”

“Your psychological decline,” Max answered easily.

Jonathan snorted into his drink. Mike narrowed his eyes slightly.

“I’m trying to hold together your best friend’s wedding with duct tape and caffeine.”

“And yet,” Max said calmly, “you’re somehow making it everyone else’s problem too.”

“Well,” he said dryly, shifting the folders back under one arm, “I should go prevent at least three additional disasters before dinner starts.”

“You’re doing amazing, sweetie,” Dustin called immediately.

Mike pointed at him without looking.

“I’m charging you personally for emotional damages.”

Then his attention shifted back toward Will one last time.

And again... that look.

Softer now. Less like evaluation and more like quiet curiosity.

Still impossible to read completely.

Still enough to make Will feel strangely aware of himself under it.

“Try to relax tonight, okay?” Mike said.

Simple sentence.

Professional tone.

But something about the way he said it felt strangely careful. Like he already knew Will wasn’t relaxing at all.

By the time the rehearsal dinner officially started, Will already felt emotionally overexposed.

The ballroom lights had dimmed into something warmer and softer than before. Candles flickered across long decorated tables while waiters moved through the room carrying trays of wine and champagne with increasingly haunted expressions.

Somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played instrumental versions of songs Will vaguely recognized from expensive coffee shops.

Everything looked beautiful.

Of course it did.

The Carlton family didn’t really believe in events that weren’t beautiful.

Will sat near the center of the main table beside Thomas while conversations swelled around them in polished overlapping waves.

Laughter.

Crystal glasses clinking.

Stories. So many stories.

Thomas looked perfectly comfortable inside all of it. Naturally charming. Relaxed. Elegant without trying.

His hand rested lightly against Will’s knee beneath the table every so often like a quiet reminder: I’m here. We’re okay.

And Will loved him for that.

Or at least he thought he did. That was the terrifying part.

Because none of this felt bad exactly.

Nothing was wrong.

Nobody was cruel.

Nobody was hurting him.

If anything, the entire weekend had been engineered around making him happy.

Which only made the strange hollow feeling inside his chest worse.

At the far end of the ballroom, Joyce sat beside Hopper laughing at something Dustin was saying while Jane leaned against Dustin’s shoulder smiling softly into her champagne glass.

Easy.

That was the word for them.

Easy in a way that never looked performative.

Dustin talked too much. Jane listened like she genuinely liked hearing every single thought that came out of his mouth anyway.

Will watched Dustin hand her one of the tiny desserts from his own plate without even interrupting his story.

Automatic.

Natural.

Like loving each other wasn’t something either of them had to think about anymore.

A happy couple.

Really happy.

And a few seats away from them sat Max and Lucas. Still exactly themselves somehow.

Max half-slouched sideways in her chair while Lucas spoke quietly beside her. Comfortable silence between sentences. Shared looks. Tiny private reactions to conversations happening around them.

Will remembered meeting them back in high school after Hopper married Joyce.

Back when his entire life still felt fragile and temporary.

Max loud and sharp and impossible to intimidate.

Lucas calm enough to survive her.

They’d already looked like that together even then.

Like best friends first.Like people who actually enjoyed each other.

Will swallowed another sip of champagne. Too quickly this time.

At the center of the room, Thomas’s father stood to begin another speech.

More applause.

More laughter.

Another story about destiny. Apparently tonight’s theme was destiny.

Wonderful.

Will smiled politely again while someone retold the story of how he and Thomas met at a gallery opening in Manhattan.

The audience reacted exactly where they were supposed to. Laughter at the charming parts. Soft noises at the romantic parts.

The perfect couple.

The phrase kept appearing all night in different forms.

Elegant together.

Balanced.

Meant for each other.

Will wondered vaguely when exactly he started feeling like he was watching his own engagement from somewhere slightly outside his body.

Thomas squeezed his hand once under the table before standing for his speech.

The room immediately quieted.

And God—

Thomas really was good at this.

Warm. Confident. Earnest without sounding rehearsed.

He spoke about Will gently. Kindly. Like someone discussing something precious.

Will listened while the room blurred softly around the edges under the candlelight.

“…and I think one of the first things I realized about Will,” Thomas said with a small smile, “was that he notices beauty everywhere before anyone else does.”

More soft laughter.

“He sees things most people miss.”

Thomas looked toward him fully then.

“And somehow he still chose me.”

The room collectively melted.

Will smiled automatically because that was the correct response. But suddenly the lights felt too warm.

Too bright.

His collar too tight.

Applause filled the ballroom again as Thomas sat back down beside him.

Then someone near the front called:

“Will! Your turn!”

Panic flashed sharp and immediate through his chest. Too fast. Too sudden.

He stood anyway.

Because of course he did. The room tilted strangely for half a second as dozens of faces turned toward him.

Candles flickering.

Crystal reflecting light.

Everyone waiting.

Will reached automatically for the champagne glass beside him before realizing it was already empty.

Great.

“Sorry,” he said softly into the microphone after clearing his throat once. “I think somebody kept refilling my champagne without proper supervision.”

The room laughed warmly.

Easy laugh. Safe laugh.

Will smiled faintly. But his pulse wouldn’t slow down. He searched instinctively through the crowd.

Found Jane first.

Of course.

She looked at him immediately with quiet concern hidden underneath her smile while Dustin sat beside her completely relaxed and adoring in that obvious Dustin way he’d never managed to outgrow.

Happy.

Actually happy.

Then Max and Lucas.

Still leaning slightly toward each other even while listening.

Comfortable.

Grounded.

Real.

Will swallowed hard.

“I don’t…” He stopped briefly, trying to reorganize his thoughts through the strange buzzing pressure building in his chest. “I’m not very good at speeches.”

Another soft laugh from the crowd.

“But thank you all for being here.”

Generic. Safe. And polite. Exactly the kind of speech someone like him was supposed to give.

Thomas watched him with warm patient affection beside him.

Will tried to hold onto that.

Tried hard.

“And thank you to our families,” he continued carefully. “And everyone who helped put this together.”

His eyes moved instinctively across the ballroom again.

And there—

Near the edge of the room beside one of the side exits Mike Wheeler stood partially hidden behind the flow of servers and guests.

Not smiling.

Not laughing.

Just watching him carefully. Too carefully. Like he was listening for something underneath the words themselves.

The look unsettled Will immediately.

Because everyone else in the ballroom seemed perfectly convinced.

Only Mike looked like he was trying to figure out whether Will was okay. And somehow that felt more terrifying than the speech itself.

The applause faded eventually. Dinner resumed. Conversation swelled back into motion around him like nothing had happened.

Will sat down carefully beside Thomas again and accepted another champagne refill he absolutely did not need.

His hands felt strange.

Too light.

Too distant from the rest of him.

Thomas leaned closer briefly.

“You did great.”

Will smiled automatically.

“Thanks.”

Someone farther down the table asked another question about the wedding schedule.

Then another.

Then somehow the conversation shifted again toward the future.

Their future.

Patricia Carlton rested her wine glass delicately against the tablecloth.

“Well,” she said warmly, “once you two are finally settled somewhere permanent, everything gets easier.”

Will nodded politely.

“Have you decided where exactly you’ll live long-term?” one of Thomas’s aunts asked.

“New York probably,” Thomas answered smoothly before Will could. “At least for now.”

“And children?” another voice chimed in immediately.

Too fast. Too casual. Like they were discussing furniture.

Thomas smiled faintly beside him.

“We’ve never talked about it.”

Patricia looked delighted about the topic.

“There are wonderful surrogacy agencies in Connecticut now,” she said. “One of Marianne’s sons used them and the experience was absolutely seamless.”

Seamless.

Will stared at his champagne glass.

The candlelight reflecting across the surface suddenly looked too bright.

Someone asked him another question. Something about the gallery.

Another donor event.

Another exhibition.

Words blurred strangely together.

Curator.

Prestigious.

Connections.

Future.

Children.

New York.

Home.

His chest tightened sharply. Too tight. He swallowed hard. Smiled again because everyone was still looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” Will heard himself say softly. “I think I just need a little air.”

Thomas turned immediately.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Will lied.

Again. Always.

He touched Thomas’s arm lightly.

“Stay with your family.”

Then he stood before anybody could stop him.

Still smiling.

Still graceful.

Still perfectly composed.

Will walked calmly across the ballroom while every nerve in his body screamed at him to move faster.

Don’t make a scene.

Don’t embarrass Thomas.

Don’t ruin this.

The music sounded wrong suddenly. Too loud. Every voice in the room scraping painfully against his skull. His heartbeat thudded violently in his throat by the time he reached the hallway outside the ballroom.

Then faster.

Faster.

Will loosened his collar with shaking fingers and kept walking. Past the elevators. Past reception.

Toward the side exit near the lake.

Cold night air hit him hard the second he stepped outside. His lungs still wouldn’t work.

Too tight.

Too shallow.

The hotel lights blurred behind him as he moved farther across the empty patio.

Breathe.

Why couldn’t he breathe?

The panic arrived all at once after that. Violent. Absolute. His heartbeat slammed painfully against his ribs while his vision narrowed sharply at the edges.

No no no—

Will bent forward instinctively, hands braced against his knees.

The cold air smelled like rain.

Wet wood.

Lake water.

And suddenly...

Another storm. Another night. Rain crashing through trees while Castle Byers collapsed under screaming wind and soaked wood and panic. Will stumbling through darkness for hours.

Then days.

Cold.

Lost.

Alone.

Zombie Boy.

Zombie Boy.

Zombie Boy.

The name echoed sickeningly through his head in overlapping voices from school hallways years ago.

Dead boy.

Freak.

Weird kid.

Will squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to hurt. His fingers had gone numb.

He genuinely thought for one horrifying second that he might actually be dying.

Then footsteps approached quickly behind him. Will immediately straightened instinctively despite barely being able to breathe.

“Hey,” a voice said sharply.

Mike.

Of course somehow it was Mike.

Will tried to speak.

Nothing came out correctly.

Mike took one look at him and his entire expression changed instantly.

Not panic. Not confusion.

Recognition.

“Oh,” Mike said quietly. Then softer, “Okay.”

Will shook his head immediately.

“I’m fine—”

“Yeah, no, we’re not doing that right now.”

Mike stepped closer carefully like approaching a frightened animal.

“No heart attack,” he said quickly. “You’re okay. Look at me.”

Will couldn’t. Everything still felt wrong. Too fast. Too loud.

Mike moved closer anyway and caught him gently by the shoulders before Will could pull farther into himself. The contact shocked straight through him.

Warm hands.

Solid.

Real.

“Hey,” Mike said again.

Closer now. Steadier.

Will finally looked up properly and something in Mike’s expression hit him almost as hard as the panic itself.

He looked composed by force. Like he was holding himself carefully together for Will’s sake.

Concern pulled faintly at the corners of his mouth despite how controlled the rest of his face remained. His brows had drawn together slightly. His eyes stayed fixed on Will with quiet, unwavering focus.

Not panicked.

Not overwhelmed.

“Breathe with me.”

Will’s chest spasmed painfully.

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

Not harsh. Certain.

Mike’s thumbs pressed lightly against his shoulders through the fabric of his suit. Grounding him there.

“Look at me.”

This time Will managed it. Mike stood directly in front of him under the dim patio lights. Hair slightly windblown now. Sleeves still rolled up. Tie still absent. Eyes painfully focused entirely on him.

Not polite concern.

Not social performance.

Real attention.

“Good,” Mike said quietly when Will finally met his gaze. “That’s good. Stay here with me.”

Mike inhaled slowly. Deliberately. Demonstrating it.

Will tried to follow.

Failed.

Tried again.

Mike didn’t let go.

“Again,” he said softly.

The lake water moved quietly behind them. Music muffled through the hotel walls.

Will focused on Mike’s hands anchoring him in place.

Mike breathing steadily in front of him.

In.

Out.

Again.

Again.

Slowly— painfully slowly— air finally reached his lungs correctly.

Will’s knees nearly buckled with relief.

“There you go,” Mike murmured immediately.

The praise in his voice did something strange to Will’s chest.

Mike still hadn’t stepped away. His hands remained firm and warm against Will’s shoulders like he was making absolutely sure he stayed standing.

And under the soft hotel lights, stripped suddenly of all the polished careful versions of himself he’d been performing all evening, Will had the terrifying realization that Mike Wheeler was seeing him completely.

Not Thomas’s fiancé, successful curator, elegant future husband.

Composed adult version of Will Byers.

Just...

Him.

Shaking hands. Wet eyes. Barely breathing correctly. And somehow Mike didn’t look embarrassed by that at all.

Will stayed there for another few seconds just breathing. Cold air in. Slowly out. His pulse still hurt, but no longer in that terrifying impossible way from before.

The panic had receded enough now to leave behind exhaustion instead.

Heavy and humiliating.

Mike loosened his grip slightly once he seemed convinced Will wasn’t about to collapse.

“You with me again?” he asked quietly.

Will nodded once.

“Yeah.” but he still couldn’t quite look Mike in the eyes when he said it.

His voice sounded rough.

Mike pretended not to notice. Which somehow felt kinder than acknowledging it.

For a moment neither of them moved. Mike’s hands still rested lightly against his shoulders. Warm through the fabric of the suit jacket.

The muffled music from the ballroom drifted faintly through the hotel walls behind them. Soft strings. Distant conversation. Occasional bursts of laughter swallowed quickly by the night air.

Will became abruptly aware of how close they were standing.

Close enough to feel Mike’s warmth despite the cold.

Close enough to see the faint freckles across his nose under the terrace lights.

Mike seemed to realize it a second later too because he stepped back carefully. Not abrupt. Not uncomfortable.

Just enough space for the moment to stop feeling dangerous.

“You should go upstairs,” Mike said gently.

Immediate shame flashed through Will’s chest.

“I’m sorry.”

Mike frowned instantly, genuine confusion crossing his face.

“For what?”

“This.”

Will gestured vaguely toward himself. The panic. The disappearing act.

Whatever this entire night had turned into.

Mike looked honestly baffled by the apology.

“Byers, I organize weddings for a living,” he said dryly. “Do you know how low this ranks on the disaster scale?”

Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped Will.

Mike pointed at him immediately.

“There we go,” he said. “That’s medically encouraging.”

Will shook his head slightly, looking down toward the dark water beyond the terrace railing.

“You’re supposed to be inside working.”

“I am working.”

Mike said it with complete confidence.

“Currently I’m preventing the groom from spiritually evacuating his own rehearsal dinner.”

Another startled laugh slipped out of Will before he could stop it.

God.

Mike Wheeler really did know how to pull people back into themselves.

“I can fix the rest,” Mike continued, softer now. “I’ll tell them you weren’t feeling well. Which technically isn’t even a lie, so congratulations on making my job easier.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” Mike interrupted immediately. “That’s literally the service industry. We lie professionally.”

Will smiled faintly.

The wind shifted around them again, colder this time, rustling the trees near the lake while warm golden light spilled faintly through the ballroom windows behind Mike’s shoulder.

For the first time all evening, the pressure inside his chest had quieted enough that he could actually think.

And suddenly embarrassment crashed into the empty space panic left behind.

Mike had seen all of that. The shaking. The breathing. The complete loss of control.

Will looked away toward the dark lake.

“I don’t know what happened.”

Mike was quiet for a second.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I think you do.”

Not cruel.

Not accusing. Just honest enough to hurt a little.

Before Will could answer, the side door behind them opened again.

Derek Turnbow stepped outside holding two phones, a clipboard, and the expression of a man spiritually exhausted by event planning despite not technically being an event planner.

“There you are,” Derek announced immediately. “The mother of the groom has started reorganizing seating arrangements based on ‘facial energy,’ and I think legally someone should intervene.”

Mike sighed toward the sky.

“Excellent.”

Then he pointed toward Will.

“New assignment. Take him upstairs.”

Derek blinked once. His eyes moved between them very quickly.

Understanding flashed immediately.

Far too immediately.

“Oh,” Derek said. “Oh.”

Mike narrowed his eyes.

“Behave.”

“I literally didn’t say anything.”

“Your personality did.”

Will almost laughed again. Somehow that felt impossible and inevitable at the same time.

Derek finally stepped closer, tucking one phone into his jacket pocket.

“C’mon,” he said more gently now. “I know where they’re hiding the good bottled water.”

Will hesitated briefly and Mike noticed instantly.

“It’s okay,” he said quietly. “Go upstairs. Get some sleep if you can.”

The ballroom music swelled faintly again behind them.

Normal life continuing.

Guests laughing somewhere inside.

Mike shifted automatically back into work mode already, shoulders tightening slightly like he was mentally walking back into battle.

And somehow the thought of him returning alone into that ballroom made something ache unexpectedly inside Will’s chest.

Mike glanced back at him one last time. Still watching him too carefully.

“Hey,” he added lightly. “Next time you want to escape dramatically into the night, at least steal a dessert first. Make it worth the emotional collapse.”

Will laughed properly at that.

Tired. Breathless. Real. Something in Mike’s expression softened instantly at the sound.

Then Derek gently steered Will back toward the hotel while Mike turned and disappeared once more into the glow and noise of the rehearsal dinner.

Will woke up sometime after midnight still wearing half his suit. For one disorienting second he didn’t know where he was.

Dark ceiling.

Heavy curtains.

Muted hotel air conditioning humming softly somewhere above him.

Then the rehearsal dinner crashed slowly back into place. Champagne. Speeches. The ballroom lights.

Not being able to breathe.

Mike’s hands steady against his shoulders outside in the cold.

Will sat up too quickly.

The room tilted briefly before settling again.

His tie still hung loose around his neck. One shoe had somehow ended up near the armchair by the window. The garment bags along the wall looked ghostly in the dim light leaking through the curtains.

He rubbed both hands over his face slowly.

Better.

He definitely felt better. Embarrassed beyond human comprehension, but better.

Outside his room, the hotel hadn’t gone fully quiet yet. Through the walls he could still hear distant movement of elevators, muted voices, rolling carts somewhere far downstairs.

Wedding people never really slept.

Will stared toward the dark window for another moment.

Then, before he could think too hard about how weird this was, he stood up. He told himself he only wanted to thank Mike. That explanation held together for almost forty seconds.

The hotel at night felt entirely different. Quieter.

Softer somehow.

Most of the guests had disappeared upstairs already, leaving behind only tired staff members resetting tables and half-empty champagne glasses abandoned near seating areas.

Will wandered slowly through dim hallways lit by low golden lamps.

A few Wheeler Events employees crossed past him carrying linens and centerpieces with the exhausted thousand-yard stare of people currently losing a war against decorative flowers.

Somewhere nearby, someone was vacuuming aggressively.

Will followed the sound of voices eventually toward one of the secondary event halls near the back of the hotel.

The ballroom doors stood partially open. Inside, the room looked half dismantled.

Tall floral arrangements sat clustered together near the walls. Open supply boxes covered several tables. Somebody had abandoned a ladder near the stage lighting. The soft instrumental music from earlier was gone now, replaced by low static from a portable radio sitting near the catering station.

And there—

Mike Wheeler stood near the center of the room under the glow of half-dimmed chandeliers.

One sleeve rolled higher than the other again.

Reading glasses perched low on his nose now. A legal pad tucked under one arm while he spoke to two exhausted hotel employees about table placement.

“No, trust me,” Mike was saying while moving chairs around manually himself, “if we shift these six inches left people stop psychologically believing they’re trapped near the bathrooms.”

One employee blinked.

“…is that a real thing?”

“I desperately wish it wasn’t.”

Will stayed unnoticed near the doorway for a moment longer.

Watching.

Mike moved constantly while he talked. Fixing things automatically as he passed them, straightening candles, adjusting linens, carrying chairs himself instead of pointing at people to do it.

And weirdly enough—

People listened to him. Not because he was intimidating. Because he sounded like he genuinely believed the work mattered.

The sight pulled another memory loose unexpectedly.

Middle school maybe.

The Hawkins arcade during some awful local tournament Dustin had forced half the town into participating in.

Will remembered standing awkwardly near the back holding tokens while Mike Wheeler organized the entire event like a military operation despite being thirteen years old.

Yelling across machines.

Making brackets.

Arguing passionately over rules no one else cared about.

Will had ended up participating almost accidentally after Max dragged him into it. He remembered Mike glancing over from across the arcade at one point and saying:

“Byers, you’re up next.”

Like of course Will belonged there too. Like it wasn’t strange that he’d shown up.

Will had thought about that stupid interaction for days afterward.

“Okay,” Mike said suddenly in the present. “Go home before I start assigning everyone emotional support tasks.”

The staff laughed tiredly before gathering the remaining boxes and finally leaving through the side doors.

Mike exhaled deeply the second they disappeared.

Then immediately pulled his phone out.

“Holly, I swear to God, if the florist calls me one more time—”

Will froze instinctively. Mike started pacing slowly across the empty hall while rubbing one hand over his forehead.

“No, I know she’s stressed,” he muttered. “I’m stressed. Derek’s stressed. The peonies are stressed.”

A pause.

“No, I did not order the wrong candles. The candles are emotionally complicated, which is different.”

Will bit down hard on a smile. Mike shoved the glasses higher up his nose.

“Holly, I love you deeply, but if you say ‘tablescape integrity’ one more time I’m going to fake my death.”

Another pause, then Mike sighed dramatically toward the ceiling.

“No, because unlike you, I escaped this business.”

Will blinked.

Mike kept pacing.

“I write books, remember? Miserable little literary fiction books for depressed people in Boston.”

Something in Will’s chest shifted unexpectedly.

Books. Of course. That made horrifying amounts of sense actually.

On the other end of the call Holly apparently said something long enough for Mike to stop moving entirely.

“No, I’m handling it.”

Quieter now. More serious.

“I said I’m handling it.”

Will watched something tighten briefly across Mike’s face before it disappeared again beneath sarcasm.

“I survived Midwest aristocracy this long. I’ll survive another twelve hours.”

Will smiled before he could stop himself. And unfortunately that was the exact moment Mike looked up and finally noticed him standing there.

Mike startled slightly.

Actually startled.

Then immediately recovered.

“…you move quietly,” he said.

Will stepped farther into the room.

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” Mike pulled the phone back toward his ear. “Holly, I have to go.”

A beat.

 “Yes, I know the hydrangeas matter.”

Another pause.

“…love you too.”

Mike hung up and stared at the phone for one exhausted second before dropping it onto the nearest table.

Silence settled softly around the room afterward.

The giant half-empty ballroom suddenly felt strangely intimate without guests inside it.

Will nodded vaguely toward the abandoned phone.

“So you don’t actually do this.”

Mike huffed out a laugh.

“Oh, God, no.”

That answer came way too fast to be fake.

Will smiled faintly.

“I thought you owned Wheeler Events.”

Mike looked horrified.

“Jesus Christ. Absolutely not. Nancy and Holly would eat me alive within forty-eight hours.”

“Then why are you here?”

Mike leaned back against one of the tables, crossing his arms loosely.

“Holly begged. Nancy threatened me financially. My mother weaponized guilt.”

“Effective strategy.”

“Unfortunately yes.”

Will looked around the half-finished ballroom again.

“You’re good at it.”

Mike made a face immediately.

“That feels insulting somehow.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

Mike studied him briefly then. Long enough this time that Will felt that same strange awareness again.

That urge to sit straighter. Stand differently. Matter somehow under Mike Wheeler’s attention.

“Weirdly,” Mike admitted finally, “I think you might actually mean that.”

Will laughed softly.

And under the dim hotel lights, surrounded by dismantled centerpieces and abandoned champagne glasses sometime after midnight in Hawkins, Indiana—

It was the first moment all weekend that felt genuinely real.

Will realized suddenly that Mike looked exhausted. Not polished exhausted like people at gallery openings pretending to be overworked.

Actually tired.

Dark circles under his eyes. Shirt sleeves rolled unevenly again. Reading glasses still hanging low on his nose like he forgot they were there.

“You should probably sleep at some point,” Will said quietly.

Mike blinked once like the concept genuinely surprised him.

“Interesting theory.”

Will smiled faintly. Then Mike narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Wait. Did you actually eat dinner tonight?”

Will opened his mouth.

Paused.

Mike pointed immediately.

“Oh my God. You didn’t.”

“I had champagne.”

“That’s not food, Byers. That’s advanced self-destruction.”

Will laughed softly despite himself. Mike was already pushing away from the table.

“C’mon.”

“What?”

“You’re eating something before you pass out dramatically and ruin my weekend.”

“I think tonight already counts as ruining your weekend.”

Mike glanced back while walking toward the service hallway.

“Please. This barely cracks the top ten.”

Will followed him anyway. Again without fully understanding why.

The hotel kitchen still buzzed with late-night cleanup energy. Industrial lights. Rolling trays. Dishwashers running somewhere deeper inside.

Two exhausted catering employees looked up briefly as Mike walked in.

“Oh good,” Mike announced immediately. “I’m stealing dessert.”

One of them pointed a spatula toward him threateningly.

“You already stole wine.”

“I’m diversifying my crimes.”

Will stayed near the doorway watching Mike move comfortably through the kitchen like he belonged there.

Not important. Not performative.

Just familiar.

People smiled at him. Complained to him. Ignored him casually.

And Mike responded to everyone exactly the same way: fast, dry, easy. Like he never needed to prove he deserved space somewhere.

It fascinated Will more than it probably should.

A few minutes later Mike returned balancing two plates carefully.

“You’re lucky,” he informed Will seriously. “This cake cost more than my first car.”

Will stared down at the dessert once they escaped the kitchen again. Layers of dark chocolate and raspberry beneath delicate gold decoration.

Absurdly expensive-looking.

Mike nudged one plate toward him.

“At least emotionally exploit the rich people if they’re paying for it.”

Will took a bite carefully.

Then blinked.

“Oh.”

Mike looked deeply satisfied.

“Right?”

“That’s actually incredible.”

“I know.” Mike pointed at the plate with his fork. “That’s what twenty-seven dollars per slice tastes like.”

Will laughed softly again. Somehow he’d been doing that constantly tonight around Mike Wheeler.

Mike led them farther down the hallway toward a narrow upstairs gallery overlooking the lake.

The space sat completely empty now except for soft lamps glowing near the windows and stacks of folded chairs waiting for tomorrow.

Outside, the lake reflected silver beneath the dark sky. Very quiet and still.

Mike dropped into one of the chairs near the window and immediately stole a bottle of wine from a nearby catering cart.

Will stared.

Mike shrugged.

“What? They owe me.”

“You’re stealing from your own event.”

“I’m compensating myself spiritually.”

He poured two glasses anyway. Will took his carefully.

The wine tasted expensive enough that he immediately noticed the difference. Mike watched his reaction over the rim of his own glass.

“Oh, thank God,” he muttered. “You’re one of those people who can actually taste wine.”

“You can too apparently.”

Mike nodded once.

“Nancy taught me. She’s terrifying about it.”

“I can believe that.”

“She once made a sommelier cry in Chicago.”

Will nearly choked laughing. Mike looked pleased with himself for causing it.

The quiet settled comfortably after that.

Not awkward. Just still.

The lake outside shifting softly beneath the moonlight while distant hotel noises faded farther away.

Will looked down at the half-finished dessert plate in his hands.

Then finally asked, “So why are you really here?”

Mike leaned back slightly in his chair.

“What do you mean?”

“You clearly don’t work for Wheeler Events.”

Mike groaned immediately.

“God, did Holly accidentally make me sound competent on the phone?”

“You are competent.”

Mike looked suspicious of the compliment.

Will continued more quietly.

“So why help?”

Mike rolled the wine glass slowly between both hands for a second before answering.

“I grew up doing this.”

His voice sounded different suddenly. Softer around the edges.

“Wheeler Events basically raised me. Summer breaks, weekends, holidays. Karen handled clients, Ted handled money and after that Nancy took his place, Holly handled logistics…” He snorted quietly. “I mostly carried chairs and got yelled at by florists.”

Will smiled faintly.

Mike stared out toward the lake.

“When the business got bigger, everybody kind of assumed I’d stay.” He shrugged one shoulder. “But I always knew I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Mike laughed softly under his breath.

“You ever know something would kill you eventually even if it looked perfectly fine from the outside?”

The question landed too close to several things at once.

Will looked down at his wine immediately.

Mike noticed. Of course he did.

But thankfully he kept talking.

“I left for Indianapolis the second I graduated. English degree. My parents acted like I’d joined a traveling circus.”

“And then Boston?”

“Yeah.” There was a brief pause before Mike glanced at him again, something faintly surprised flickering across his face. “Been there ever since.”

“You live there alone?”

Mike made a face.

“God, yes. Can you imagine roommates when I’m pushing thirty?”

Will smiled into his wine glass, suddenly aware of how pathetic that question probably sounded. Like finding out Mike lived alone somehow mattered more than it should’ve.

A safer thing to ask than whether he was single, which felt like deeply unnecessary information to want hours before marrying someone else.

So before his brain could embarrass him any further, Will quickly changed the subject.

“So you really write.”

Mike looked vaguely embarrassed by the topic suddenly.

“Technically.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I wrote one novel that sold okay enough to keep me emotionally trapped in the publishing industry forever.”

Will blinked.

“You published a novel?”

Mike squinted at him immediately.

“That reaction feels judgmental.”

“No, I just—”

Will stopped.

Because suddenly another memory surfaced sharply through the quiet.

Sophomore year English.

Mike Wheeler sitting cross-legged on the floor near the windows before class started, scribbling furiously across pages in a black notebook while Dustin talked at him nonstop.

Will remembered staring too long because Mike looked completely absorbed.

Like the rest of the room had disappeared.

Someone had asked what he was writing.

Mike answered immediately.

“Something good eventually.”

No embarrassment. No hesitation.

Will remembered thinking then that confidence like that had to be fake. Nobody their age actually believed in themselves that much.

But Mike apparently had.

Or at least pretended convincingly enough to fool everyone around him.

“You used to write in school all the time,” Will said quietly before he could stop himself.

Mike looked genuinely surprised.

“You remember that?”

Will suddenly became very aware of himself again.

The wine. The quiet room. The fact Mike Wheeler was looking at him too carefully.

“I remember you,” he admitted softly.

And something in Mike’s expression shifted at the words.

Small.

Quick.

But real enough that Will noticed it immediately.

For a second Mike just looked at him over the rim of his wine glass like he was quietly recalculating something in his head.

Then he leaned back slightly in the chair again.

“Well,” he said lightly, “that’s mildly terrifying information to receive at one in the morning.”

Will smiled into his glass.

“You were hard to ignore.”

Mike barked out a quiet laugh at that.

“See, that’s fascinating because most of Hawkins High considered me deeply annoying.”

“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Wow.” Mike pressed one hand dramatically against his chest. “I can’t believe your panic attack recovery includes bullying now.”

Will laughed again.

And God… It still startled him how easy that felt.

Mike watched him for a second longer before speaking again.

“So what happened after California?”

Will blinked.

“What?”

“You disappeared.”

Mike shrugged one shoulder.

“I mean, not literally. We just never graduated together.”

Right.

Lenora.

Will looked out toward the lake briefly.

“We moved during my senior year,” he said quietly. “Hopper got a better job, and honestly…” Will gave a small shrug against the rim of his glass. “My mom didn’t exactly have a lot of good memories tied to Hawkins.”

Mike nodded once slowly.

“That makes sense.”

“It was weird at first.” Will smiled faintly. “California felt fake for a while.”

Mike snorted softly.

“That’s because it is.”

Will laughed under his breath.

“But it got better.”

And it had.

For the first time in his life, people at school didn’t already know him before he walked into a room.

No whispers.

No Zombie Boy.

No stories.

Just Will.

“I started drawing more seriously there,” he continued. “Then college in New York.”

“Art school?”

“Yeah.”

Mike tilted his head slightly.

“What kind?”

“Illustration originally.”

That surprised him enough to admit out loud.

Maybe because Mike somehow kept pulling honest answers out of him before he could filter them properly.

“What changed?” Mike asked.

Will rolled the stem of the wine glass slowly between his fingers.

“Life, I guess.”

Which was easier than explaining about internships.

Networking.

Prestige.

Survival.

Learning very quickly which kinds of art people respected financially.

“Now I work as a curator for a gallery in Manhattan.”

Mike nodded thoughtfully.

“Okay, see, that sounds fake-rich.”

Will laughed softly.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means your job sounds like you own expensive scarves on purpose.”

“I do own expensive scarves on purpose.”

Mike pointed triumphantly.

“There it is.”

Will shook his head, smiling despite himself.

Mike settled deeper into the chair across from him.

“So what exactly does a curator do?”

Will hesitated automatically.

Not because he minded the question.

Because most people stopped listening halfway through the explanation.

But Mike looked genuinely interested.So Will found himself explaining anyway.

About exhibitions. Artists. Fundraising. Historical collections. Donor politics.

How much of the job involved balancing actual artistic passion with wealthy people wanting their names attached to culture.

Mike listened the entire time.

Actually listened.

Occasionally asking questions sharp enough that Will blinked in surprise.

“You like it?” Mike asked eventually.

Will opened his mouth automatically.

Paused.

Mike noticed instantly.

There it was again. That awful terrifying attentiveness.

“I mean,” Will said carefully, “I’m good at it.”

Mike made a face immediately.

“That answer has deeply concerning energy.”

Will looked down into his wine glass.

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah,” Mike said softly. “I figured.”

Silence settled briefly again.

Comfortable somehow.

Will watched reflections from the lake move faintly across the windows.

Then Mike spoke again.

“So where does Carlton fit into all this?”

The question should have felt invasive.

It didn’t.

Will exhaled quietly.

“We met at a gallery opening.”

Mike immediately looked pained.

“That sentence alone almost killed me psychologically.”

Will laughed.

“No, it was actually worse than it sounds.”

“Impossible.”

“He spilled wine on me.”

Mike stared.

“…okay, that’s objectively kind of good.”

“I was furious.”

“And now you’re marrying him.”

Will smiled faintly.

“Yeah.”

The word sat strangely heavy in his chest.

Mike watched him carefully again after that.

Not pushing.

Just observing.

And suddenly Will remembered another tiny moment from years ago.

Senior year before California.

One afternoon after school.

Will sitting alone outside near the baseball field sketching absently in a notebook while waiting for Joyce.

Mike Wheeler had walked past with Dustin mid-conversation, talking rapidly about some story idea.

Then stopped suddenly. Pointed toward Will’s sketchbook.

“You draw?”

Will remembered freezing instantly.

Mike had stepped closer without waiting for permission, looking genuinely interested.

Not mocking.

Not polite. Interested.

Will barely remembered what he’d even drawn anymore.

Only Mike saying.

“That’s really good.”

Simple. Direct. Certain.

Then Dustin dragged him away mid-conversation five seconds later because they were late for something.

And Will had sat there afterward staring at the page for almost an hour feeling weirdly warm all over for reasons he absolutely did not understand at sixteen.

“You know,” Will said quietly now, “I think you’re the first person who ever called my art good.”

Mike blinked hard.

“What?”

“You probably don’t even remember.”

“No, I—”

Mike stopped abruptly.

Then squinted slightly toward the ceiling like searching through old memories.

“…the baseball field?”

Will stared at him.

“You remember that?”

Will stared at him across the quiet gallery.

Quiet enough that Will could hear the soft clink of Mike’s wine glass when he set it down beside him.

Mike looked genuinely confused by the question.

“Of course I remember that.”

Will laughed softly under his breath.

“How?”

Mike squinted slightly toward the ceiling like he was physically searching through old memories.

“It was behind the baseball field,” he said slowly. “You were sitting on the grass near the fence because apparently Byers family traditions involve sketching dramatically in isolated locations.”

Will smiled despite himself.

“And?”

“And,” Mike continued, leaning back deeper into the chair, “you were drawing something fantasy-related.”

Will blinked.

“That narrows absolutely nothing down.”

“No, wait, hold on.” Mike pointed vaguely through the air while reconstructing it piece by piece. “There was some huge tower in the middle—”

“It was a wizard tower.”

“Yes.” Mike snapped his fingers once immediately. “And weird moons.”

Will stared harder.

“It was two moons.”

“Right. Two moons.” Mike looked absurdly pleased with himself now. “And little carved symbols in the stones around the base.”

Will actually felt his chest tighten a little at that.

Because that hadn’t been obvious in the drawing.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed it at all.

“You remember the symbols?”

Mike shrugged lightly.

“You put effort into them.”

The answer came easy.

Simple.

Like Mike genuinely didn’t understand why it mattered.

Will looked down into his wine glass before the warmth rising into his face became too obvious.

God.

This was ridiculous.

Mike kept going, completely unaware he was currently rearranging something inside Will’s ribcage.

“And there was somebody climbing the tower.”

“With a staff.”

Mike pointed immediately.

“Wait,” Mike said, glancing at the artwork again. “So that was not supposed to be a sword?”

Will looked genuinely offended.

“It was a staff.”

“A wizard staff?”

“Yes.””

“See? Exactly this level of emotional investment. This is why you should’ve played D&D with us.”

Will laughed again.Longer this time. Softer too.

The sound seemed to settle naturally into the quiet room around them.

Mike watched him over the rim of his wine glass for a second before continuing.

“I’m serious though. You would’ve loved it.”

“I didn’t know how to play.”

“That literally never mattered.” Mike snorted softly. “Half our campaigns dissolved because Dustin got distracted inventing fake economies.”

“That sounds stressful.”

“It was inspiring,” Mike corrected. “For example, one time Derek accidentally started a black market potion business that collapsed an entire fictional government.”

Will laughed hard enough he had to lower the wine glass.

“Oh my God.”

“No, seriously.” Mike was smiling fully now, relaxed in a way Will hadn’t seen earlier downstairs. “We spent three straight weekends trying to stop inflation in a pretend kingdom because Derek kept selling illegal resurrection potions behind my back.”

“You sound weirdly nostalgic about this.”

Mike’s expression softened slightly.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I guess I am.”

The honesty of it settled warmly between them.

Will watched him carefully for a second.

This version of Mike felt different from the one downstairs.

Less sharp around the edges.

Still sarcastic. Still intense.

But quieter now.

More open.

And suddenly it became incredibly easy to imagine Mike at fifteen:

Talking too fast,

Inventing entire fantasy worlds,

Caring too much about fictional politics,

Dragging his friends through elaborate campaigns like the fate of the universe depended on it.

Will realized with strange clarity that teenage him absolutely would have loved listening to that for hours.

Maybe he already had.

Just secretly.

“You know,” Mike said suddenly, “you really were good.”

Will blinked.

“At drawing.”

Oh.

Mike leaned one elbow against the chair beside him now, looking at Will directly.

“I remember thinking your sketchbook looked like actual fantasy novel art.” He smiled faintly. “Like the stuff printed inside expensive hardcovers.”

The warmth hit Will instantly this time.

Sharp. Immediate.

Before he could stop it, he felt heat rush visibly into his face.

Oh no.

Actual embarrassment bloomed hot across his cheeks while he looked quickly down toward the dessert plate in his lap.

That had not happened to him in years.

Not visibly.

Not like this.

Mike went very still for half a second.

Then: “…did you just blush?”

Will wanted the floor to open beneath him immediately.

“No.”

“That is objectively untrue.”

“It’s warm in here.”

Mike looked around the nearly empty gallery with exaggerated disbelief.

“In the freezing hotel overlooking a lake in Indiana?”

Will laughed helplessly despite himself, covering part of his face briefly with one hand.

“This is humiliating.”

Mike’s smile softened instantly at that.

Not mocking now.

Just— fond somehow.

“Well,” he said quietly, “for what it’s worth, I meant it.”

Will looked back up slowly.

Mike was still watching him carefully.

But not in the unsettling analytical way from the rehearsal dinner earlier.

This felt different.

Gentler.

Like he genuinely liked seeing Will relaxed enough to blush over a compliment about fantasy drawings from fifteen years ago.

And terrifyingly enough—

Will realized he liked being looked at that way.

That was the dangerous part.

Not the flirting— if this even counted as flirting.

Not Mike being attractive.

Not even the strange warmth spreading steadily through his chest every time Mike made him laugh.

It was the ease of it.

The terrifying effortless feeling of sitting here at almost two in the morning talking about fantasy novels and terrible D&D economies while the rest of his wedding weekend waited downstairs like a separate reality entirely.

Mike leaned back in the chair again, swirling the wine lazily in his glass.

“You know,” he said casually, “for someone getting married tomorrow, you’ve shown impressively little interest in the actual wedding.”

And there it was.

The word hit like a small crack through glass.

Wedding.

Will felt it instantly. That tiny unconscious shift inside himself.

His smile faded slightly before he could stop it.

Mike noticed, obviously.

The room stayed quiet for a second longer than before.

Then Mike asked carefully: “Too personal?”

He looked down at the wine in his hands.

“No.” He exhaled softly. “I just…”

He searched for an answer that didn’t sound insane.

“I don’t know anything about weddings.”

Mike snorted quietly.

“That has literally never stopped anyone involved in this industry.”

Will smiled faintly despite himself.

“I mean it.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Flowers, venues, seating charts… I don’t know. It all felt easier to let other people decide.”

“The experts,” Mike said dryly.

“Exactly.”

Mike stared into his wine for a second.

“Honestly? Most of it’s bullshit anyway.”

Will looked up.

Mike lifted one hand vaguely toward the invisible hotel around them.

“The color palettes. The chair covers. Signature cocktails. Eight-thousand-dollar flower arrangements emotionally terrorizing everyone involved.” He took another sip of wine. “Ninety percent of the wedding industry is just convincing people love can be aesthetically optimized.”

Will laughed softly under his breath.

“That sounds like something someone in the wedding industry shouldn’t say.”

“That’s why Holly handles client relations.”

The quiet settled again briefly after that.

Outside the windows, the lake rippled softly beneath the wind.

Will watched Mike carefully over the rim of his glass.

“You really don’t believe in weddings?”

Mike leaned his head back against the chair for a second before answering.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you said it’s bullshit.”

“It is bullshit.” Mike shrugged. “That doesn’t mean people’s feelings aren’t real.”

Will frowned slightly.

Mike looked back toward him now, calmer than before. Less joking.

“I believe in love,” he admitted.

The words landed strangely softly between them.

No sarcasm.

No deflection.

Just honest.

Mike looked down briefly at the wine glass turning slowly between his fingers.

“I just think weddings are terrible evidence of it.”

Will stayed very still, and Mike continued quietly.

“I’ve worked enough of these things to know a wedding doesn’t actually tell you whether a relationship’s good.” He smiled faintly without humor. “Some couples are miserable and spend two hundred grand pretending otherwise for one weekend. Some people get married in courthouse basements and stay obsessed with each other for forty years.”

Will swallowed hard.

Mike’s gaze lifted again.

Steady. Careful.

“And sometimes,” he added more gently, “people just get overwhelmed because the whole thing turns into a performance instead of a relationship.”

The words settled directly into the center of Will’s chest.

Too accurate.

Too close.

Will looked away toward the dark lake immediately.

Because suddenly it felt dangerously possible that Mike Wheeler understood him better after one evening than most people had in years.

“You make it sound exhausting,” Will said quietly.

Mike laughed softly.

“It is exhausting. But love itself doesn’t seem exhausting to me.”

Will looked back up before he could stop himself.

Mike was already watching him again.

Not intensely this time.

Not analytically.

Just open.

Like he genuinely meant what he was saying.

And something about that expression— about Mike Wheeler sitting barefoot emotionally in the middle of this quiet conversation at two in the morning after spending twelve straight hours managing chaos—

Made something inside Will ache unexpectedly.

Because suddenly he understood something terrifying: Mike wasn’t cynical about love at all.

Only about pretending.

Will looked back down at his wine before speaking again. The stem of the glass turned slowly between his fingers.

Everything felt strangely suspended up here.

Like the rest of the world had temporarily stopped existing.

“I think…” Will started quietly.

Then stopped.

Mike didn’t interrupt. Didn’t rush to fill the silence either.

Just waited.

And somehow that made it easier to keep going.

“I think maybe everyone else seems more excited about this wedding than I am.”

The admission landed softly between them.

Small enough that somebody else might’ve missed how serious it actually was.

Mike didn’t.

Will could tell immediately from the way his expression stilled slightly.

Not shocked.

Just attentive now in a completely different way.

Will laughed weakly under his breath.

“That sounds awful when I say it out loud.”

“No,” Mike said gently.

“It does.”

“It sounds honest.”

Will looked away again immediately.

God

That word.

Honest.

He suddenly felt exhausted all over again.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he admitted quietly. “Everything’s good. Thomas is good. His family’s been kind to me. My family’s happy. The wedding is beautiful.”

Mike stayed silent.

Will swallowed hard.

“So why does it feel like I’m watching my own life happen from somewhere outside of it?”

The question escaped before he could stop it.

Too real. Too raw.

Will pressed one hand briefly against his forehead.

“Sorry.”

Mike frowned immediately.

“You apologize a lot.”

That startled a quiet laugh out of Will.

“Yeah, well.”

“No, seriously.” Mike leaned forward slightly now, forearms resting against his knees. “You keep talking like you’re personally inconveniencing everyone by having emotions.”

Will stared down at the floor.

Because unfortunately—

That hit too close too.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Then Mike asked carefully: “Do you love him?”

The question should have felt invasive.

Instead it felt inevitable. Will closed his eyes briefly.

Thomas’s face flickered through his mind. Kind, patient, steady, safe.

“I care about him,” Will said quietly.

Mike didn’t move.

Didn’t look away.

And somehow the silence after the answer became unbearable.

Because they both heard it.

The difference.

Will laughed softly again, but this time it sounded tired.

“That’s a terrible thing to say about your fiancé, huh?”

Mike’s expression shifted almost painfully subtle at the word fiancé.

Still, his voice stayed calm.

“No,” he said softly. “It’s a terrible thing to realize.”

Will felt his throat tighten immediately.

The room suddenly seemed too quiet.

Too intimate.

“I thought maybe…” Will stopped again, struggling for the right words. “I thought maybe love was supposed to feel calmer eventually.”

Mike watched him carefully.

“And does it?”

Will looked down at his hands.

“No.”

The answer came out barely above a whisper.

And there it was.

Not a dramatic confession. Not a breakdown.

Just the quiet devastating truth sitting between them now in the dim gallery light.

Mike exhaled slowly through his nose.

Not relieved

Not happy.

Just— sad for him suddenly. Which somehow hurt worse.

Will rubbed tiredly at one eye.

“I sound insane.”

“No,” Mike said immediately.

Will looked up.

Mike’s face had gone softer somehow. Less sarcastic. Less guarded.

“You sound like somebody trying very hard to convince himself he’s okay,” he said quietly.

The gentleness in his voice nearly undid Will all over again.

Because Mike wasn’t judging him.

Wasn’t romanticizing this either.

He just— saw him.

Completely.

And for the first time all night, Will had the terrifying feeling that if he stayed here much longer, Mike Wheeler might figure out truths about him he hadn’t even admitted to himself yet.

The silence stretched softly between them afterward.

Not awkward.

Just full now.

Heavy with everything Will had almost said.

Mike leaned back slowly in his chair again, studying him for another second over the rim of his wine glass.

Then, very seriously:

“For what it’s worth, I still think you should run away and become a fantasy illustrator in the mountains.”

Will blinked.

“What?”

Mike nodded once like this was an entirely reasonable life plan.

“You could live in one of those aggressively cozy cabins with suspiciously good lighting. Grow a beard. Sell watercolor dragons online.”

Will stared at him for half a second.

Then laughed suddenly.

A real laugh this time.

Sharp enough that it echoed softly through the empty gallery.

Mike looked deeply pleased with himself immediately.

“I’m serious,” he continued. “You already have the tragic artistic backstory. That’s like seventy percent of the profession.”

Will shook his head, still laughing helplessly.

“I don’t think fantasy illustrators make enough money for mountain cabins.”

“Okay, fair. Then emotionally unstable Brooklyn apartment.”

“That sounds more realistic.”

“You could still do the beard.”

Will laughed harder.

And God—

It physically hurt how good that felt after the rest of the evening.

Mike watched him carefully while he laughed, smiling softly into his own wine now.

Not teasing anymore.

Just— looking happy that Will was.

“You know,” Mike added after a moment, “the good news is that you’re already dramatically staring at lakes at two in the morning.”

Will wiped one hand briefly over his face, still smiling despite himself.

“The transition would be seamless.”

“Exactly.” Mike pointed at him approvingly. “See? We’re building a future here.”

Will nearly choked on his wine at that.

Mike’s eyes widened immediately.

“Oh my God. Horrible wording. Forget I said that.”

That only made Will laugh harder.

Actual tears gathered briefly at the corners of his eyes now from sheer exhausted amusement.

Mike leaned forward slightly, grinning openly now too.

“There he is,” he said quietly.

The words landed strangely warm in Will’s chest.

Not performative laughter from downstairs. Not polite smiling. Not carefully managed charm.

Just— him.

And somehow Mike Wheeler looked at that version of him like he genuinely liked what he saw.

Will’s laughter faded slowly after that.

Not completely.

The warmth of it lingered softly between them even after the room fell quiet again.

Outside, the lake moved dark beneath the wind while somewhere downstairs a distant door slammed shut followed by muffled voices from hotel staff finishing cleanup.

Reality slowly started creeping back in around the edges.

The wedding.

Tomorrow.

Everything waiting downstairs.

Will looked toward the windows for a moment before exhaling quietly.

“I should probably sleep.”

Mike made a face immediately.

“Unfortunately responsible.”

Will smiled faintly and stood first, smoothing instinctively at the wrinkles in his suit jacket.

Mike stood a second later, gathering the abandoned wine bottle and plates automatically without even seeming to think about it.

The movement felt strangely domestic for some reason.

Will watched him stack the empty dessert plates together.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Mike glanced up.

“I literally can’t stop helping clean things. Wheeler family curse.”

Will laughed softly under his breath.

The quiet between them now felt different than earlier.

Closer somehow.

Less careful.

And that realization alone made something nervous twist low in Will’s stomach.

Mike finally set the dishes aside and looked back at him.

“You okay getting upstairs alone, Byers”

The name landed strangely now.

Too distant suddenly after everything else tonight.

Will hesitated before speaking.

 “You can call me Will.”

Mike blinked once.

The room seemed to go quieter somehow.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that Will became acutely aware of the dim lights, and Mike standing only a few feet away looking at him too carefully again.

For half a second Mike didn’t say anything. Then one corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

“Okay,” he said softly.

Not joking this time.

Not sarcastic.

Warmth climbed unexpectedly back into Will’s face again.

Unbelievable.

Mike noticed immediately. Obviously.

But this time he had the decency not to comment on it.

Instead he picked up the wine bottle again and nodded once toward the hallway.

“Then you should probably call me Mike.”

Will smiled despite himself.

“That feels fair.”

Another tiny pause settled between them after that.

One of those strange suspended silences that somehow didn’t feel uncomfortable at all.

Just difficult to leave.

Mike finally broke it first.

“Get some sleep, Will.”

The sound of his name in Mike’s voice did something unpleasantly noticeable to his heartbeat.

Will swallowed once.

“You too… Mike.”

God.

That sounded different too.

More personal somehow.

Mike looked briefly down at the wine bottle in his hands like he also noticed the shift.

Then back up again.

And for one dangerous second neither of them moved toward the door.

Just stood there beneath the dim hotel lights looking at each other while the rest of the sleeping wedding waited downstairs.

Then Mike stepped back first.

Professional instinct returning just enough to save them both.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Will walked out into the quiet hallway still feeling Mike’s attention lingering faintly against his skin all the way back to his room.

Will woke slowly beneath warm hotel sheets with the strange immediate feeling that something was different.

Not wrong.

Different.

The room sat quiet around him, washed pale gold by weak morning sunlight slipping through the curtains. Somewhere far below, the hotel had already come back to life.

Rolling carts.

Distant voices.

Doors opening and closing, The soft mechanical hum of another wedding day beginning.

But for one suspended half-awake moment, none of it reached him completely.

Because his body still felt caught somewhere else. Warmth lingered heavily beneath his skin.

A slow pleasant ache low in his stomach.

And pieces of the dream still clung stubbornly to him before consciousness fully settled into place.

Hands.

God.

Warm hands sliding slowly beneath his shirt.

A mouth brushing softly against his neck.

Kisses that felt unhurried. Certain. Familiar somehow.

Will stayed motionless beneath the blankets with his eyes still half closed while fragments drifted lazily back through him.

Someone leaning over him. Weight settling carefully between his legs. Fingers tangled in dark curls while soft breath ghosted across his throat.

And his name.

Repeated quietly against his skin.

Will.

Again.

Closer this time.

Low enough that the sound alone had sent heat curling through his entire body inside the dream.

Will shifted slightly against the mattress before he was fully awake enough to stop himself.

The memory sharpened abruptly.

A hand sliding along his waist.

Slow kisses pressed beneath his jaw.

A rough quiet laugh against his mouth while he gasped softly into another kiss.

Not rushed. Not frantic.

Intimate.

Like whoever touched him already knew exactly how to hold him.

Will frowned slightly into the pillow, still drifting halfway inside the dream.

Because the strangest part was that nothing about it had felt surprising.

His body inside the dream had responded instantly. Naturally.

Opening. Relaxing. Wanting.

Like he trusted the person touching him completely.

Then the face finally came into focus.

And Will’s entire nervous system crashed violently back into consciousness.

Mike Wheeler.

Will’s eyes flew open.

His stomach dropped so hard it physically hurt.

“Oh my God.”

The words escaped breathlessly into the empty room as he sat upright much too fast, blankets tangling around his legs while panic detonated fresh through his chest.

No.

No no no.

Will pressed both hands hard over his face immediately like maybe he could physically contain the realization before it fully formed.

But now the details came back faster.

Mike’s voice rough and warm near his ear. Mike saying his name again. Mike kissing him slowly enough to feel cruel about it. The weight of Mike’s body over his own.

Will made a strangled noise into his palms.

This was catastrophic.

Actually catastrophic.

Because it hadn’t been vague dream nonsense.

It had felt— real.

Too real.

Will fell backward against the mattress again staring horrified at the ceiling while his heartbeat hammered violently beneath his ribs.

He was getting married today.

Today.

To Thomas.

Thomas who was: kind, patient and steady,

Objectively beautiful,

And absolutely not Mike Wheeler.

Meanwhile apparently Will’s subconscious had taken one emotionally intimate late-night conversation and immediately escalated it into:

Vivid homosexual psychological warfare.

Fantastic.

Really incredible work from his brain.

Will dragged a pillow over his face aggressively.

Huge mistake.

Because now without visual distractions his body became painfully aware of itself too.

Heat still lingering low in his stomach from the dream. Skin hypersensitive. His entire nervous system humming with leftover phantom touches that did not exist. He was hard in his pajama pants.

Jesus Christ.

And the worst part— the truly humiliating unbearable part—

Was how easy dream-Mike had felt.

Not shocking. Not forbidden.

Natural.

Like some hidden piece of Will had accepted Mike Wheeler touching him instantly without hesitation.

That realization sat heavy and dangerous in the center of his chest.

Because suddenly last night replayed differently in his mind.

Mike saying his name softly across the quiet gallery. Mike looking at him too carefully. Mike’s hands grounding him outside during the panic attack. Mike laughing when Will laughed. Mike noticing everything.

Will groaned loudly into the pillow.

This was exactly why emotionally unstable people should not emotionally bond with attractive men during wedding weekends.

Outside his room, somebody laughed loudly in the hallway before a cart rattled past the door.

Reality crashed slowly back into place after that.

The wedding.

The guests downstairs.

Thomas probably already awake.

Will forced himself upright again slowly, rubbing both hands over his face hard enough to hurt.

He needed coffee, cold water, several years of emotional repression. And ideally to never look directly at Mike Wheeler again.

Unfortunately, even while thinking that, another image flashed treacherously through his mind—

Mike standing beneath the dim gallery lights last night with his sleeves rolled up and his eyes soft while saying:

Get some sleep, Will.

Will stared blankly at the opposite wall in growing horror.

Because in less than an hour Mike Wheeler was probably going to look at him again—

—and Will was going to remember every single detail of that dream immediately.

Will had just stepped out of the shower when someone started pounding on his hotel door like they were legally authorized to raid the premises.

“OPEN UP, BRIDE!”

Will closed his eyes immediately.

“No.”

“WE KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE.”

“Unfortunately.”

The door burst open anyway.

Max walked in first carrying two mimosas and wearing sunglasses indoors despite it being ten in the morning like she was contractually obligated to become more insufferable with age.

Jane followed behind her balancing a plate full of pastries and fruit while also somehow carrying one of Will’s garment bags over her shoulder.

Both of them stopped dead the second they saw him.

Will froze too.

Still barefoot. Hair damp from the shower. Towel hanging around his neck. Sleep-deprived enough to probably look vaguely haunted.

Silence.

Jane narrowed her eyes slowly.

“Oh my God.”

Will immediately got defensive.

“What.”

Jane pointed directly at his face.

“You have masturbation guilt face.”

Max folded in half laughing so hard she nearly spilled champagne on the carpet.

“JANE.”

“What?” Jane asked innocently. “He does.”

Will stared at her in horror.

“How would you even know what that means?”

“Because it’s the exact same face you used to make after disappearing into the bathroom for forty minutes.”

Will nearly choked.

“I was fourteen!”

“Exactly.”

Will dragged the towel aggressively over his face.

“I want everyone out.”

The door opened wider again before he could recover.

Dustin wandered inside already drinking from his own mimosa like somebody’s emotionally unstable aunt at brunch while Lucas followed behind carrying coffee cups.

“What are we yelling about?”

Jane answered immediately.

“Will had a sex dream.”

“I DID NOT SAY THAT.”

“You basically did,” Max replied through tears of laughter.

Dustin stopped mid-sip.

Then lowered the glass slowly.

“…interesting.”

Will threw the towel directly at his face.

“I hate all of you.”

Lucas took one look at him and blinked once.

“Oh wow.”

“Not you too.”

“That’s definitely a face.”

Dustin pointed accusingly from the couch.

“Okay. First question. Was it Thomas?”

Will opened his mouth automatically.

Then paused, just tiny hesitation.

Barely visible.

Unfortunately every single person in the room noticed immediately.

The room exploded.

“OH MY GOD.”

“IT WASN’T THOMAS.”

“That is SO much worse.”

Will covered his face instantly.

“There are too many people here.”

Max was crying laughing now.

“Oh this wedding is absolutely cursed.”

“Can everyone stop manifesting disaster?”

Dustin sat forward dramatically.

“Okay. New theory. Somebody at the wedding.”

“No.”

“Someone emotionally complicated.”

“Dustin.”

“Someone older maybe?”

“What does that even mean?”

Jane tilted her head thoughtfully.

“Maybe someone from Hawkins.”

Will grabbed one of the decorative pillows from the bed and launched it directly at her.

She caught it effortlessly.

“Interesting reaction.”

Max pointed immediately.

“See? Guilty.”

“I’m not guilty of anything!”

Lucas suddenly looked horrified at the drinks in their hands.

“Oh no.”

Everyone turned.

“What?” Dustin asked.

Lucas pointed toward the mimosas.

“Mike’s gonna kill us.”

At the mention of Mike’s name, Will felt heat crawl up his neck all over again.

The room paused briefly.

“What?” Max asked.

Lucas looked genuinely serious now.

“I passed him downstairs earlier and he basically threatened the catering staff because somebody tried offering Will alcohol before breakfast.”

Will looked up automatically before he could stop himself.

Dustin immediately lost it laughing.

“Oh my God.”

Lucas pointed at the tray in Jane’s hands.

“He literally said—and I quote—‘if the groom gets mimosas before carbohydrates I become a problem.’”

Max laughed harder.

“That sounds EXACTLY like him.”

Dustin sat upright dramatically.

“Seriously! High school Mike all over again.”

Lucas nodded.

“He used to force everyone to eat before D&D.”

“He once stopped an entire campaign because l skipped lunch,” Max added.

“You threatened a wizard merchant with a crossbow,” Dustin reminded her.

“He overcharged us.”

“That’s fair honestly,” Jane admitted.

Will laughed before he could stop himself.

The image appeared instantly in his head:

Teenage Mike, talking too fast and trying to organize chaos.Aggressively handing people snacks.

Acting annoyed while obviously taking care of everyone anyway.

Lucas immediately grabbed one of the tiny breakfast sandwiches from Jane’s tray and shoved it toward Will.

“Hurry up and eat before Wheeler senses it psychically.”

Dustin pointed dramatically.

“He absolutely would.”

“Remember summer before senior year?” Max asked. “When we played at Dustin’s house for like fourteen straight hours?”

Dustin gasped.

“Oh my God. Mike made a snack schedule.”

Will blinked.

“A what?”

“A snack schedule,” Lucas repeated calmly.

“He color-coded it,” Max added.

Will laughed helplessly.

“No he didn’t.”

“He absolutely did,” Dustin replied. “He said low blood sugar was ruining narrative cohesion.”

“That genuinely sounds insane.”

“He was right,” Lucas admitted.

Will sat slowly on the edge of the bed while they all talked over each other.

And weirdly enough—m

Every story sounded exactly like the Mike from last night.

Still sarcastic. Still intense. Still somehow caring about people in the most aggressively annoying way possible.

“You know what’s weird?” Will said quietly before he could stop himself.

Everyone looked at him immediately.

“He remembers things.”

Dustin blinked.

“…yeah?”

“No, I mean weird details.” Will looked down briefly. “He remembered a drawing I made once.”

That actually quieted the room for a second.

Jane looked surprised.

“Seriously?”

Will nodded slowly.

“From high school.”

Lucas leaned back thoughtfully.

“That tracks honestly.”

“What does?”

“Mike remembers random stuff about people constantly.” He shrugged. “It’s honestly unsettling when you notice.”

Dustin pointed immediately.

“He remembered my favorite chips for like six years.”

Max looked disturbed.

“He remembered the exact date I punched Troy Walsh.”

“That one deserved historical preservation,” Jane decided.

Will smiled faintly despite himself.

Then the hotel room door swung open again.

Jonathan walked in carrying two cameras around his neck and looking aggressively awake for someone surviving entirely on airport coffee.

He stopped immediately upon seeing the room.

“…why does it smell like emotional damage in here?”

“Will had a sex dream,” Dustin announced instantly.

Jonathan didn’t even blink.

“Good for him.”

Will pointed desperately.

“Jonathan, help me.”

“No.” Jonathan lifted the camera calmly. “I’m here professionally.”

Everyone groaned immediately as he started taking candid photos without warning.

“Absolutely not—”

“Delete that!”

“I look horrible!”

“You always look horrible,” Jonathan informed Dustin calmly.

“Rude.”

Jane shoved clothes directly into Will’s chest.

“Get dressed.”

Will stared at her.

“You’re all monsters.”

“Yes,” Max agreed immediately. “Now hurry up before Mike Wheeler comes upstairs and physically throws breakfast at you.”

The hotel room descended into even greater chaos after that.

Jonathan kept taking photos against everyone’s will.

Dustin stole half the breakfast sandwiches.

Max somehow ended up fixing Will’s hair while insulting him simultaneously.

And Jane had fully entered younger-sister military operation mode.

“No,” she said firmly, pulling another shirt out of the garment bag. “Absolutely not. You look like a divorced literature professor in this one.”

Will looked down at the dark button-up he’d been reaching for.

“I like this shirt.”

“You look emotionally unavailable in that shirt,” Max clarified.

“That’s because he is emotionally unavailable,” Dustin said through a mouthful of pastry.

“Thank you, Dustin,” Will replied flatly.

Jane held up another option instead.

Cream-colored linen. Light trousers. Elegant enough to make Will vaguely uncomfortable on instinct.

“This,” she decided.

Will narrowed his eyes.

“That outfit costs more than Hopper’s truck.”

“Exactly,” Max replied. “Wear it.”

Twenty minutes later, Will stood in front of the mirror adjusting the sleeves while everyone collectively stared at him in silence.

Dustin blinked first.

“…rude.”

“What?”

“You can’t just secretly become hot at almost thirty,” Dustin informed him. “That feels unfair to the rest of us.”

Lucas nodded solemnly.

“You look aggressively expensive.”

Max pointed toward the mirror.

“But put sunglasses on immediately.”

Will frowned slightly.

“Why?”

“Because you still have the eyes of someone who lost a custody battle with sleep.”

Jane walked closer and squinted critically at him.

“…and maybe shame.”

Will looked horrified.

“There is no shame.”

“Sure,” Max said.

Will grabbed the sunglasses from the dresser aggressively.

“None of you are invited to my second wedding.”

“That implies there will be a second one,” Dustin pointed out immediately.

Will threw another pillow at him.

The brunch had been arranged in the gardens behind the hotel overlooking the lake.

And annoyingly enough—

It was beautiful.

Soft white tablecloths fluttered beneath the morning breeze while sunlight reflected across the water hard enough to make everything glow gold. Strings of lights still hung from nearby trees from last night, waiting for evening again.

Servers moved between tables carrying coffee and trays of pastries while distant jazz drifted softly from hidden speakers somewhere near the terrace.

Will stepped outside with the others and immediately had to squint against the sunlight.

Max looked up toward the sky suspiciously.

“Still think it’s gonna rain later.”

Dustin looked horrified.

“You can’t just say that at a wedding.”

“I’m literally right. There’s a storm warning.”

“Stop manifesting weather.”

“It’s Indiana,” Lucas muttered. “Weather manifests itself.”

Before Will could answer, somebody nearly crashed directly into him carrying three vinyl record cases at once.

“Oh my God—sorry—”

Robin Buckley straightened abruptly in front of him wearing sunglasses, headphones around her neck, and the deeply stressed expression of somebody surviving entirely on caffeine and bad planning.

Steve Harrington followed behind her carrying speakers.

“You’re blocking traffic again,” he informed her.

“You’re blocking my emotional growth.”

Robin finally recognized Will.

“Oh, hey! Groom.”

Will blinked.

“Hi?”

Robin pointed dramatically toward Steve.

“We’re your music people.”

Steve lifted one hand politely.

“Against our better judgment.”

“Steve wanted yacht rock,” Robin informed Will immediately. “I said if I had to hear Michael McDonald at a wedding I would drown myself in the lake.”

Steve looked offended.

“Yacht rock is romantic.”

“Yacht rock is what divorced men listen to while staring out boat windows.”

“That’s not even inaccurate.”

Will laughed before he could stop himself.

Robin pointed triumphantly.

“See? The groom understands me.”

Steve sighed toward the sky.

“This is why I wanted contracts.”

Across the garden, Joyce and Hopper sat trapped at a table with several members of the Carlton family.

Joyce looked emotionally overcommitted to politeness while Hopper wore the exact expression of a man surviving active psychological warfare.

Patricia Carlton was speaking animatedly with both hands.

Hopper looked one minor inconvenience away from faking his own death.

Will smiled faintly.

Then movement farther across the garden caught his attention.

And suddenly every coherent thought in his body vanished.

Mike Wheeler crossed the terrace carrying two folders, sunglasses pushed up onto his face, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.

White shirt.

Dark trousers.

Coffee in one hand. Phone in the other.

Moving fast.

Focused.

Behind him Derek Turnbow struggled to keep up while carrying what looked like three seating charts and a box of candles.

“No, Derek, if the florist asks, we absolutely did not move the hydrangeas ourselves.”

“We literally did.”

“Allegedly.”

Mike pushed the sunglasses briefly higher onto his nose while speaking to one of the hotel employees passing nearby.

And Will—

Jesus Christ.

The air actually caught painfully in his chest.

Because this was somehow worse than last night.

Morning sunlight hit Mike sideways across the terrace while the wind moved lightly through his curls and suddenly Will’s brain supplied several deeply unwanted memories simultaneously.

Dream hands.

Dream kisses.

Mike saying his name softly against his neck.

Mike laughing quietly in the dark gallery upstairs.

Will nearly choked on absolutely nothing.

“…OH.”

Will wanted to throw himself directly into the lake.

Immediately.

Unfortunately, before the disaster could escalate further, another figure crossed the garden toward them.

Thomas.

Perfect posture. Soft blue button-down. Already smiling the second he spotted Will.

“There you are,” he said warmly.

Will’s stomach twisted instantly.

Not because he disliked Thomas.

That almost made it worse.

Thomas stepped close naturally, one hand resting lightly against Will’s waist before kissing him softly in greeting.

And the second it happened—

Will felt wrong.

Not guilty exactly.

Something stranger.

Disoriented.

Because his body reacted a half-second too slowly. Because all he could think suddenly was: this isn’t the mouth from the dream.

Heat flashed sharp and humiliating through him immediately afterward.

Jesus Christ.

Will kissed him back automatically anyway because Thomas was looking at him with familiar easy affection and Will hated himself a little for the strange distance sitting suddenly between them.

“You okay?” Thomas asked quietly near his ear.

Apparently everyone on earth had collectively decided this was the weekend to monitor his psychological condition.

“I’m fine,” Will answered automatically.

Thomas smiled faintly.

 “You look beautiful.”

The compliment should have landed.

Instead, Will only became painfully aware that somewhere across the garden Mike Wheeler still existed physically.

Fantastic.

Before the conversation could continue, movement approached from the terrace.

Mike.

Still carrying folders. Still talking into his phone. Still looking unfairly good beneath the morning sunlight.

Will’s pulse betrayed him instantly.

Mike stopped beside them professionally.

“Morning,” he said smoothly.

Professional tone.

Professional posture.

Only the briefest flicker of recognition crossed his face when his eyes landed on Will.

Still enough to make Will’s stomach drop.

Thomas smiled politely.

“Please tell me the wedding hasn’t collapsed overnight.”

Mike nodded once.

“Good news. Structurally, we remain optimistic.”

Thomas laughed softly.

Mike glanced down at the folders.

“Couple quick updates before your mother finds me again and weaponizes table linens.”

Thomas visibly winced.

“Understood.”

Mike launched smoothly into logistics — brunch timelines, ceremony transportation, photography schedules, weather monitoring.

Will tried very hard to focus on the conversation.

Unfortunately, Mike Wheeler standing this close while speaking calmly in that low, focused voice was making concentration genuinely difficult.

Especially because every few seconds sunlight caught on Mike’s rolled sleeves, or he pushed the sunglasses slightly higher onto his nose, or Will’s brain betrayed him by remembering dream-hands against his waist.

God.

“…and the senator’s family apparently arrived early,” Mike was saying dryly. “Which means your mother is currently treating the hotel lobby like a NATO summit.”

Thomas sighed immediately.

“My uncle invited him.”

“Of course he did.”

“Sorry.”

Mike shrugged.

“I survived a hedge fund manager screaming about peonies at midnight. Politicians no longer frighten me.”

That dragged another laugh from Thomas.

Then, from somewhere across the garden.

“Thomas!”

Patricia Carlton stood near the entrance already motioning urgently toward a newly arrived group of guests.

Thomas closed his eyes briefly.

“There it is.”

Mike looked deeply unsurprised.

“I assume that’s the important uncle.”

“That’s the important everything unfortunately.”

Thomas turned back toward Will first, touching lightly at his wrist.

“I’ll find you in a little bit?”

Will nodded automatically.

“Okay.”

Another quick kiss.

Again that strange delayed feeling afterward.

Then Thomas disappeared across the terrace toward his family and political obligations while Mike remained beside him holding the folders against his chest.

Silence settled softly between them for a second.

The brunch buzzed around them — glasses clinking somewhere nearby, distant laughter drifting across the tables, wind moving softly through the trees.

Mike looked toward him then. Fully this time.

And immediately something about his expression changed.

Not professional anymore.

Careful.

“You okay?”

There it was again.

Except somehow when Mike asked it, the question always sounded real.

Will looked down briefly toward the mimosa in his hand.

“Apparently I look terrible today.”

Mike snorted softly.

“No, you look…” He stopped himself abruptly.

Will’s pulse stumbled.

“What?”

Mike adjusted the sunglasses slightly higher against his nose.

“Like you slept badly.”

The correction felt deliberate.

Like there had almost been another answer first.

Will swallowed once.

“That obvious?”

“Well,” Mike said lightly, “you do currently have the energy of someone being held together by caffeine and expensive fabric.”

Will laughed softly despite himself.

And immediately Mike’s mouth curved slightly too.

God.

That smile was becoming a legitimate problem.

Then Mike’s eyes narrowed faintly toward the mimosa in Will’s hand.

“Did you eat anything yet?”

Will blinked.

“…maybe.”

Mike gave him a look.

Not dramatic. Not teasing.

Just deeply unconvinced.

And absurdly enough, warmth spread unexpectedly through Will’s chest at the expression alone.

“I heard,” Will said carefully, “that you threatened my friends.”

Mike looked offended immediately.

“I did not threaten them.”

“You told them you’d ‘become a problem.’”

“That’s not a threat. That’s honesty.”

Will laughed again.

The sound came easier now around Mike than it should have.

Mike studied him quietly for a second afterward.

“Did you actually eat, Will?”

The sound of his name in Mike’s voice hit him physically.

Low. Warm. Familiar now after last night.

Will felt his heartbeat stutter hard enough it genuinely startled him.

Because suddenly all he could hear was:

Will.

Again.

Dream-Mike whispering it against his throat. Real Mike saying it softly beneath the morning sun.

The overlap nearly stole the air from his lungs.

Mike noticed immediately. His expression sharpened slightly behind the sunglasses.

“Hey,” he said more quietly now. “You with me?”

Will blinked hard.

“Yeah.”

God, his voice sounded strange.

Mike shifted one step closer instinctively.

Close enough now that Will caught the smell of coffee and clean soap beneath the garden air.

“You sure?”

Will looked up at him.

Really looked.

Morning light catching against Mike’s white rolled sleeves. The curve of his mouth. The careful attention in his face even partially hidden behind dark sunglasses.

And for one terrifying impossible second—

Will had the overwhelming urge to tell him everything.

“I’m fine,” Will finally said.

And after one last evaluating glance, Mike gave a short nod and went back to work.

The chaos returned slowly at first. By late morning the garden had fully transformed into a battlefield disguised as brunch.

More guests arrived in waves across the terrace.

Distant relatives.

Business associates.

Political donors.

People with expensive watches and terrifyingly white smiles.

Every new arrival seemed to immediately gravitate toward Thomas’s family like satellites locking into orbit.

Will stood trapped beside one of the long tables smiling politely through introductions he would forget within seconds.

A state senator apparently knew Thomas’s uncle.

Someone else owned three hotels in Connecticut.

A woman in pearls asked Will whether he and Thomas planned on “continuing the family legacy.”

Will genuinely had no idea what that meant.

The weather shifted slowly overhead while conversations swelled around him.

The bright sunlight from earlier had dulled beneath gathering clouds now. Wind moved more noticeably through the trees bordering the lake, making the hanging lights sway softly overhead.

Storm coming.

Even Max noticed.

“Told you,” she muttered into her mimosa.

Nobody listened.

Patricia Carlton certainly didn’t.

She was currently orchestrating social interactions with terrifying precision near the center of the garden while Thomas handled introductions beside her with practiced effortless charm.

Meanwhile Will increasingly felt like he was dissolving slowly inside his own body.

“And then Will used to spend entire summers drawing dragons,” Dustin announced loudly near one of the tables.

Will looked up in immediate horror.

“Dustin.”

“What?” Dustin shrugged innocently. “You absolutely did.”

“He also painted that weird wizard mural in Hopper’s garage,” Max added helpfully.

Jane smiled into her drink.

“Oh my God, I forgot about that.”

Thomas looked genuinely surprised beside him.

“You still draw?”

The question landed awkwardly.

Too honest. Too immediate.

Will looked down automatically.

“Not really anymore.”

“Which is tragic,” Dustin informed the table dramatically.

Will laughed weakly.

“It’s fine.”

“No, seriously,” Lucas added quietly. “You were insanely good.”

Thomas blinked once, still looking at Will.

“You never told me that.”

And there it was again.

That strange guilty feeling.

Because suddenly Will realized: Mike knew.

Mike remembered.

Mike had looked at his art seriously.

While Thomas— Thomas didn’t even know he used to draw fantasy illustrations.

Something uncomfortable twisted sharply beneath Will’s ribs.

Before he could answer, Patricia reappeared beside the table like a beautifully dressed natural disaster.

“There you are,” she said warmly toward Thomas. “Senator Morrison wants another photo before they leave.”

Thomas sighed quietly.

“Of course he does.”

Patricia touched briefly at Will’s shoulder too.

“You doing alright, darling?”

Will smiled automatically.

“Yeah.”

The lie came easier every time now.

Which felt horrifying.

Thomas lingered beside him a second longer after Patricia moved away again.

The clouds overhead shifted darker now, cutting more sunlight across the lake.

Wind stirred softly through the garden tables.

Thomas touched Will’s wrist lightly.

“You’ve been quiet today.”

Will swallowed once.

“I’m okay.”

Thomas smiled softly.

“You ready for all this?”

The question should have been harmless. Instead it hit like something cracking open inside Will’s chest.

Thomas looked at him with completely sincere affection.

Warm. Steady. Certain.

“Ready to spend the rest of your life with me?” he asked quietly.

And suddenly—

Will couldn’t breathe again.

Not fully.

Not panic yet.

Just that awful terrifying sensation of his body trying to reject something his mouth kept agreeing to.

The garden noise blurred strangely around him.

Wind moving harder through the trees now. Clouds thickening overhead. Silver lake water darkening beneath the changing sky.

Will forced a smile anyway.

Because of course he did.

“Yeah,” he heard himself say.

And immediately wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

Thomas kissed his temple gently before getting pulled away again by another cluster of important guests.

Will stayed frozen beside the table afterward.

Heart pounding.

The air suddenly felt too tight.

Too loud.

His eyes moved instinctively across the garden searching for something before he even consciously realized what he was doing.

Mike.

He needed—

God.

He needed Mike.

The realization hit hard enough to scare him.

Will scanned the terrace quickly.

No Mike.

Only more guests. More flowers. More noise.

Then he saw Nancy Wheeler stood near the catering station speaking with Jonathan.

Or rather, Jonathan was clearly attempting to flirt while Nancy watched him with visible amusement.

“You still carry three cameras at once?” Nancy was asking.

Jonathan adjusted one strap awkwardly.

“It’s practical.”

“It’s deeply bisexual.”

Jonathan nearly dropped an entire lens.

Will reached them before either could continue.

“Nancy.”

She turned immediately.

And instantly her expression sharpened slightly.

Noticing.

Just like Mike did.

“Hey,” she said gently. “You okay?”

Will looked past her automatically again.

“Where’s Mike?”

Jonathan blinked once. Nancy’s eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly.

“He’s dealing with a supplier issue.”

“Oh.”

Will’s pulse spiked harder.

No no no—

He needed— he needed—

“I actually need him,” Will said too quickly.

Nancy studied him carefully now.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “For what?”

Will opened his mouth.

Nothing coherent appeared.

Think.

“Flowers,” he blurted finally. “I changed my mind about… something.”

Jonathan looked deeply confused.

“About flowers?”

“Yes.”

“You hate flowers.”

“Jonathan,” Nancy interrupted smoothly.

Her eyes stayed on Will.

Sharp. Intelligent. Too observant.

And suddenly Will had the horrifying feeling Nancy Wheeler understood significantly more than she was saying.

Still, all she did was nod once.

“C’mon.”

She guided him quietly away from the terrace without another question.

The farther they moved from the garden, the quieter everything became.

The hotel hallways felt cooler now. Dimmer.

Outside nearby windows, the sky had shifted darker gray over the lake.

Wind rattled faintly against the glass.

Storm coming fast.

Nancy finally stopped near one of the side service corridors beside the employee restrooms and linen storage.

“This should work,” she said calmly.

Then she leaned casually against the wall.

Waiting.

“How do you—”

“Mike,” Nancy called toward the hallway before Will finished.

And somehow—

Somehow—

Mike appeared almost immediately around the corner holding a clipboard and two radios like he’d been summoned psychically.

“What’s wrong?”

The question came fast. Focused instantly on Will.

Nancy looked between them once.

“I’ll handle brunch.”

And disappeared without another word.

Leaving them alone.

Silence settled immediately afterward.

The nearby hallway lights buzzed softly overhead. Somewhere deeper in the hotel, dishes clattered faintly through kitchen doors while distant thunder rolled low outside for the first time.

Mike stepped closer immediately.

Not too close.

Just enough.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “What happened?”

Will opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because suddenly every possible sentence felt impossible.

I can’t do this. I don’t love him enough. I think I’m ruining everyone’s lives. I had a dream about you. I can’t breathe.

Mike waited.

Patient.

Completely attentive.

Will rubbed both hands hard over his face.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Okay,” Mike said softly. “That’s fine. Start anywhere.”

The gentleness nearly broke him immediately.

Will looked up helplessly.

“I can’t—”

Thunder rolled louder outside this time.

The lights flickered once overhead.

Mike’s expression sharpened slightly with concern.

“Will.”

God.

His name in Mike’s voice again.

Warm. Steady. Real.

Will’s pulse spiraled harder.

Everything inside him suddenly felt too tight to contain anymore.

The wedding. The guests. The future. Thomas. The lies. The panic.

Mike stepped closer instinctively when Will’s breathing changed.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”

Will did.

And that somehow made it worse.

Because Mike Wheeler was looking at him like he genuinely wanted to understand.

Like he’d stay here as long as necessary.

Will grabbed Mike’s wrist suddenly.

Firm.

Desperate enough that Mike went still immediately beneath his hand.

Will’s voice shook when it finally came out.

“I…” He swallowed hard. “I can’t.”

Silence.

Thunder outside again.

Wind rattling hard against the nearby service door now.

Mike looked at him for one suspended second.

And then—

Understanding.

Real understanding.

Will saw the exact moment it happened in Mike’s face.

Not shock. Not judgment.

Just… oh.

Mike exhaled slowly through his nose. Then nodded once.

Professional calm settling over him automatically like muscle memory.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Will stared at him helplessly.

Mike squeezed his wrist gently once.

“I can work with that.”

And before Will could fully process what that meant—

“FOUND HIM.”

Jane appeared around the corner carrying two champagne flutes she absolutely should not have had access to.

She stopped immediately upon seeing them standing close together near the service hallway.

Her eyes moved to Will gripping Mike’s wrist, they to Mike’s face,

Back to Will.

A pause. Then, thankfully.

“Oh thank God.” She pointed vaguely behind herself. “You need to come see Dustin before he accidentally gets sued.”

Will blinked once.

“What?”

Jane looked delighted.

“A wind gust took him out.”

Mike closed his eyes briefly.

“…how bad?”

“Medium catastrophic.”

Will still hadn’t released Mike’s wrist completely.

Neither of them seemed to notice immediately.

Jane definitely noticed though.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Dustin attempted to toast ‘love surviving capitalism,’” she explained while trying not to laugh. “Then a huge gust of wind hit the garden and launched him directly sideways into one of Patricia’s aunts.”

Mike pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Please tell me nobody important got injured.”

“No, but Aunt Theresa lost a shoe emotionally.”

Will finally let go of Mike’s wrist slowly.

The absence of contact felt immediate.

Jane continued: “And then Steve tried to catch Dustin, slipped on spilled mimosa, and almost tackled another woman into the fruit display.”

“Okay,” Mike muttered. “Yeah. That sounds right.”

Will laughed weakly despite himself.

The sound still shaky around the edges from panic.

Mike looked toward him automatically at the laugh.

Softening slightly.

Then—

The storm hit.

Not gradually.

Violently.

Thunder cracked somewhere directly over the lake hard enough to shake the nearby windows.

Everyone in the hallway startled.

A second later rain slammed against the hotel like somebody throwing entire buckets from the sky.

Jane actually jumped.

“Oh my God.”

Wind howled instantly through the building exterior while somewhere deeper in the hotel people started shouting directions over each other.

Mike swore quietly under his breath.

Then instantly shifted.

Professional mode.

Completely.

“Okay,” he said sharply, already grabbing one of the radios clipped to his belt. “Everybody inside. Ballroom areas away from the lake-facing windows.”

Another thunder crack interrupted him.

The lights flickered once. Will stood frozen while Mike started moving immediately.

Issuing directions.

Answering radios.

Already mentally reorganizing the disaster.

And absurdly enough—

Watching Mike take control calmed him almost instantly.

The rehearsal dinner ballroom became emergency shelter within fifteen minutes.

Guests crowded inside carrying dripping umbrellas and half-finished cocktails while rain battered the hotel windows hard enough to blur the lake entirely from view.

The elegant garden brunch had dissolved into total chaos.

Patricia Carlton looked one stress-induced vision away from collapse.

Thomas stayed near her trying to calm relatives while simultaneously fielding calls from apparently half the eastern seaboard.

Meanwhile Nancy Wheeler somehow took command of the ballroom with terrifying efficiency.

Within thirty minutes tables had been rearranged. Hot food reappeared. Extra staff materialized.

Candles were relit.

And Robin Buckley had apparently hijacked the sound system.

“ABSOLUTELY not,” Steve was arguing while Robin scrolled through records.

“You people need Fleetwood Mac emotionally.”

“You can’t solve weather with Fleetwood Mac.”

“That’s literally what Fleetwood Mac is for.”

Dustin—already significantly drunker than any human should legally be before noon—leaned dramatically against Steve.

“Play ABBA, coward.”

Steve shoved him upright before he collapsed into another Carlton relative.

“Stop trying to assault wealthy women.”

“No promises.”

Lucas sat nearby watching the disaster unfold with complete emotional peace.

“This is honestly the best wedding I’ve ever attended.”

Max nodded immediately.

“Way more entertaining now.”

Will sat near the edge of the ballroom mostly silent.

The storm outside still raged violently. Rain hammering windows. Thunder shaking the walls. Wind screaming across the lake.

But underneath all of it. All he could feel was relief.

Terrible. Terrifying. Immediate relief.

Not getting married today.

The thought alone made his chest loosen enough to breathe properly for the first time since waking up.

Thomas found him eventually and sat beside him briefly, touching his knee gently.

“You okay?”

Will nodded automatically.

“Yeah.”

Lie.

Still.

Thomas smiled tiredly.

“This weather’s insane.”

Will looked toward the dark storm beyond the ballroom windows.

“Yeah.”

And somewhere deep inside himself he was thinking: thank God.

Hours passed before the storm finally weakened.

By late afternoon the thunder had faded into steady rain while hotel staff moved cautiously through the hallways assessing damage reports from the venue grounds.

The ballroom had gone quieter now.

Exhausted quieter.

People drinking coffee instead of champagne.

Patricia pacing slowly near the windows while talking rapidly with relatives.

Then suddenly the ballroom doors opened hard.

Conversation stopped immediately.

Mike Wheeler walked in soaked nearly through despite the dark jacket thrown hastily over his shoulders.

Hair wet from rain. White shirt clinging damp against his arms. Still holding two folders somehow.

Beside him, Derek Turnbow looked equally drenched and spiritually exhausted.

“Well,” Derek announced immediately to the room at large, “great news if anybody secretly hated rustic architecture.”

Patricia went pale.

Mike shot Derek a look.

“What?”

“You can’t open with that.”

“I’m trying to keep morale unpredictable.”

Thomas stood immediately.

“What happened?”

Mike exhaled once through his nose.

“The barn partially collapsed.”

Silence.

Rain tapped softly now against the ballroom windows behind him.

Patricia looked horrified.

“What do you mean partially?”

Derek lifted one hand vaguely.

“Like… enough to become legally concerning.”

Mike continued quickly before Derek could elaborate further.

“The west side structure gave out during the storm.” Calm. Professional. Controlled. “Nobody was hurt. Most of the venue is still standing, but it’s not safe enough to hold the ceremony tonight.”

“Oh my God,” Patricia whispered.

Thomas rubbed both hands over his face.

“This can’t be happening.”

“It absolutely can,” Derek muttered. “This is Indiana. Barns yearn for the earth.”

Mike ignored him heroically.

“But,” he continued smoothly, stepping farther into the ballroom now, “we do have options.”

Nancy appeared almost immediately beside him like she’d been summoned by shared Wheeler telepathy.

Completely composed.

Of course.

Mike glanced briefly toward her before continuing.

“We can move the wedding to tomorrow.”

Patricia blinked.

“What?”

“The hotel ballroom.” Mike gestured calmly around the room. “We already have the catering staff. The guests are here. Wheeler Events will cover the additional overnight accommodations.”

Nancy nodded once immediately.

“We can redesign the entire setup by morning.”

Patricia still looked overwhelmed.

“But the atmosphere—the aesthetic—”

Mike stepped fully into planner mode now.

And Will watched the transformation happen in real time.

Confident. Precise. Warm.

“The rain actually helps us,” Mike explained. “Candles. Low lighting. Indoor greenery. We reopen the lake-facing curtains tomorrow afternoon once the storm clears.”

Nancy continued seamlessly beside him.

“The ballroom ceiling height gives us room for hanging florals and suspended lighting installations. Much more intimate than the barn.”

Mike nodded once.

“We pivot the ceremony toward candlelit instead of rustic.”

Derek pointed weakly from behind them.

“Romantic weather trauma.”

Mike ignored him again.

And somehow—

Somehow—

Within minutes Patricia Carlton started calming visibly.

Thomas too.

Because Mike spoke like someone who genuinely believed he could save this.

Nancy folded her arms calmly.

“It’ll be beautiful,” she said simply.

And Will believed her immediately.

Across the ballroom, Mike’s gaze lifted briefly.

Meeting Will’s for one suspended second.

No expression gave anything away.

Professional again. Controlled.

But Will remembered: I can work with that.

And standing there while rain slid softly down the hotel windows behind them—

Will felt something dangerous bloom warm and relieved inside his chest.

Because he wasn’t getting married today.