Mike Wheeler

The bell rang sharp and ugly, echoing through the front hallway of Hawkins High.

Mike Wheeler was already in a bad mood.

He leaned against a locker with Lucas, Dustin, and Will, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one leg like standing upright was asking too much of him.

“I’m not going to gym today,” Mike said. “My feet hurt.”

Dustin stared at him. “You wore brand-new sneakers yesterday.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re comfortable,” Mike shot back.

Lucas snorted. “You walked from the parking lot.”

Mike opened his mouth to complain again when the front doors creaked open.

The noise in the hallway dipped.

A guidance counselor stepped inside first—then you.

You stayed half a step behind them, backpack clutched close to your chest. It was old. Frayed. One strap repaired with mismatched thread. Your clothes weren’t dirty, just worn thin, washed too many times. Shoes scuffed at the toes.

You didn’t look around much. Just followed where you were told, posture tight but upright, like you were used to keeping yourself together.

Mike’s eyes flicked over automatically.

Shoes. Jacket. Bag.

His expression shifted into its usual unimpressed mask—then stalled.

“…Who’s that,” Mike asked.

Dustin squinted. “New kid.”

Mike frowned. “They look… broke.”

Lucas shot him a look. “Mike.”

“What? I’m not wrong.”

Will didn’t say anything. He was watching Mike.

The counselor gestured down the hall and spoke quietly. You nodded, gripping the strap of your bag tighter, then started walking.

Straight toward them.

Mike shifted without realizing it, pushing off the locker so he wasn’t slouching. When you passed close, your sleeve brushed his arm.

Everyone expected him to react.

He didn’t.

He stiffened—but he didn’t flick you away. Didn’t wipe his clothes. Just froze, eyes flicking down to you and then away too late.

You flinched anyway, instinctive, already pulling back like you expected to be snapped at.

Mike’s jaw tightened.

“…You don’t have to—” he started, then stopped himself, irritation flashing across his face.

You kept walking.

The moment you were gone, Dustin slowly turned to him. “…Did you just let someone touch you.”

Mike crossed his arms hard. “They barely touched me.”

Lucas raised an eyebrow. “You yelled at Dustin last week for breathing too close.”

“That was different.”

Will glanced down the hall where you were struggling with a locker, shoulders tense as you tried again and again without asking for help.

Mike followed his gaze.

“…Why don’t they just get a new backpack,” Mike muttered.

Dustin sighed. “Mike.”

“What?”

Lucas shook his head. “Not everyone has four credit cards at fourteen.”

Mike frowned, actually confused. “Then why would their parents let them—”

He stopped talking.

You finally got the locker open. Your shoulders loosened just a little, relief quiet but obvious. You tucked your bag inside carefully, like it mattered more than anything else you owned.

Something sharp and uncomfortable twisted in Mike’s chest.

“…That’s stupid,” he said under his breath.

Will looked at him. “What is.”

Mike didn’t answer. He watched you close the locker and stand there for a second, like you were bracing yourself before moving again.

“…The school,” Mike said finally. “Letting people come here like that.”

Lucas blinked. Dustin went quiet.

Will’s eyes flicked back to Mike, soft but knowing.

Mike turned away, scowling, irritation crawling up his spine—not at you, but at the feeling you’d left behind.

He didn’t like it.

He liked you even less for causing it.

“…Great,” he muttered. “Now I’m annoyed.”

Will smiled faintly.

Yeah. Mike Wheeler was already in trouble—and he didn’t even know why.

Lunch period was chaos.

Mike Wheeler sat sprawled at the end of a cafeteria table with Lucas, Dustin, and Will, tray barely touched, chin resting in his palm like existing was exhausting.

“This pizza is cold,” Mike complained. “Why is it always cold.”

Dustin shrugged. “It’s cafeteria pizza.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

Lucas smirked. “You say that every day.”

Mike was about to fire back when the cafeteria doors opened again.

A teacher stepped in first—then you.

You hovered just inside the doorway, lunch slip folded neatly in your hand. Your jacket was thin for the season, sleeves a little too short. The backpack on your shoulder sagged like it had lived a long life before you ever got it.

The lunch line slowed.

Mike’s eyes lifted out of habit—ready to judge—

And stopped.

You didn’t look around much. You waited. Patient. Quiet. When the teacher pointed toward the free lunch line, you nodded once and moved without hesitation, like this wasn’t new to you.

Mike straightened slowly.

“…Who’s that,” he asked.

Dustin followed his gaze. “New kid, I think.”

Mike frowned. “Why are they in that line.”

Lucas glanced at him. “Mike.”

“What? I’m asking.”

Will didn’t answer. He watched you take a tray and sit at the very end of an empty table, shoulders hunched slightly as you ate like you didn’t want to be noticed.

Mike’s mouth pulled into a thin line.

“…That’s weird,” he muttered.

Dustin sighed. “No, it’s not.”

Mike ignored him, eyes tracking you anyway. When someone bumped into your chair, you jolted and immediately scooted your legs in, apologetic without saying a word.

Mike’s grip tightened around his fork.

“…They didn’t even do anything,” he said, annoyed.

Lucas side-eyed him. “You’re defending them now?”

“I’m not defending anyone.”

You stood a few minutes later, sliding the tray back with careful movements, wiping the table where you sat even though it was already clean.

Mike watched all of it.

“…Why do they act like that,” he asked quietly.

Will glanced at him. “Like what.”

Mike hesitated. “…Like they’re used to being in the way.”

That earned him a look from all three of them.

Dustin leaned back. “You realize not everyone grows up like you, right.”

Mike scowled. “I know that.”

But his eyes drifted back to you anyway—how you adjusted your jacket before leaving, how you checked the hallway before stepping into it, like you were bracing yourself for something.

Something unpleasant settled in Mike’s chest. Heavy. Unfamiliar.

“…This place sucks,” he muttered.

Lucas blinked. “Now you care about the school?”

Mike shoved his tray away, appetite gone. “I didn’t say that.”

But he watched the doors long after you disappeared through them.

For the first time in his life, Mike Wheeler wanted something he couldn’t just ask Mommy for—and the realization irritated him more than anything else ever had.

It was raining.

Not hard—just enough to make the sidewalks slick and everyone irritated.

Mike Wheeler stood under the covered entrance of Hawkins High with Lucas, Dustin, and Will, backpack pristine, jacket expensive, expression sour.

“I hate rain,” Mike complained. “It ruins everything.”

Dustin glanced at him. “It’s water.”

“That doesn’t make it less annoying.”

Lucas rolled his eyes. Will said nothing.

That’s when you appeared at the edge of the parking lot.

No umbrella. Jacket pulled tight, shoulders already damp. Your shoes were soaked through, soles peeling slightly at the edges. You crossed the lot carefully, like slipping would be worse than being late.

Mike noticed immediately.

His gaze dropped—automatic, critical.

Shoes. Jacket. Backpack.

He scoffed under his breath. “…Why wouldn’t they bring an umbrella.”

Lucas followed his line of sight. “New kid.”

Mike frowned. “They’re gonna get sick.”

Dustin blinked. “You don’t care about that.”

“I don’t,” Mike snapped. Then paused. “…I just don’t like watching people do stupid things.”

You reached the entrance and hesitated, clearly debating whether to shake the water off your jacket. You didn’t. Just pushed the door open quietly and slipped inside, rain still clinging to you.

You passed close.

Mike instinctively shifted back—then stopped himself. His shoulder brushed your sleeve, damp and cold.

He froze.

Didn’t flick you away. Didn’t wipe his jacket.

You flinched anyway, immediately stepping aside, head ducked, making yourself smaller without a word.

Something sharp twisted in Mike’s chest.

“…You don’t have to do that,” he muttered, too late.

You were already gone, moving down the hallway with wet footprints trailing behind you.

The group stood there in silence for a moment.

Dustin finally spoke. “You didn’t freak out.”

Mike crossed his arms hard. “They’re soaked.”

Lucas gave him a look. “That’s your excuse?”

Mike didn’t answer. He watched you pause by a locker, struggling with the stiff lock, fingers red from the cold. You tried again. And again.

You didn’t ask for help.

Mike exhaled sharply.

“…Why don’t they just go home,” he said, more irritated than judgmental.

Will glanced at him. “Maybe they can’t.”

That answer stuck.

Mike watched you finally get the locker open, shoulders sagging in quiet relief before you slipped your bag inside like it held everything you owned.

His jaw clenched.

“…This school’s stupid,” Mike muttered.

Lucas raised an eyebrow. “That’s new.”

Mike turned away, annoyed at the rain, the hallway, the feeling crawling under his skin that he couldn’t buy away.

But his eyes followed you anyway—until you disappeared into the crowd.

And for the first time, Mike Wheeler wished he’d brought an umbrella for someone else.