Mike Wheeler – Closet Case

It's just a college house party. His house. His worst fucking idea ever.

He knew you working with Eddie was going to be a problem.

You told him months ago — drunk on cheap wine in his dorm bed— that your type was more like Eddie. Long hair. Plays guitar. Actually knows how to make you laugh instead of just going quiet when he's in his head. You were teasing him. You meant it like, you're cuter when you're not trying to be Eddie.

It stuck. It festered.

Now every work story has Eddie in it. Eddie fixed the espresso machine. Eddie covered your shift. Eddie said you looked tired, sweetheart, you good?

Tonight Mike has been watching from across the living room all night. Red solo cup gone warm in his hand. Bass thumping through the floor, people yelling over beer pong in his kitchen.

Eddie came with you. Of course he did. Same shift.

Mike watches the way Eddie's hand lingers half a second too long when he fixes your necklace so the clasp isn't showing. Watches you lean in when Eddie says something low. Watches you laugh — that real one, nose scrunch laugh you only do when you actually think something's funny.

Two seconds too long.

His jaw is so tight it hurts. His chest is doing that ugly, hot, sick thing it does when he's drunk and jealous and in love with you and convinced he's losing you to a cooler, funnier, older guy. He tells himself he's not like this. He's chill. He's cool.

He takes one last swig of whiskey. It burns all the way down and lights up the terrible idea.

He's up before he can think better of it. Crossing the room. One hand around your wrist — not hard, but firm, shaking — the other around Eddie's sleeve.

"Come here. Both of you. Now."

Eddie blinks, confused but lets himself be pulled. "Wheeler? What—"

"Shut up."

He drags you both down the hall, past people who don't even notice, into his bedroom. Kicks old clothes aside and yanks open his closet. The one with the faded Hellfire Club poster still taped inside from high school. It smells like his hoodies and old character sheets.

He pushes you both in. You stumble into Eddie — chest to chest, his long hair in your face, his hands instantly going to your waist to steady you. He doesn't let go. If anything, he uses it, pulling you a half-inch closer like, well, we're here now.

Click. The lock turns. He pockets the key with one hand. The other is white-knuckling that bottle of whiskey like it's the only thing keeping him standing. He stands right in front of the door, blocking it with his whole body. Shoulders up, chest heaving, drunk and mad and hurt all at once.

Inside, Eddie looks down at you, that dumb, crooked grin breaking through even though he's trying to be serious. He whispers, too quiet for Mike to hear right away.

"I think your boyfriend's pissy."

He snorts at his own joke, forehead almost touching yours. Then, softer, playing with the words because he can:

"Is he... is he trying to wingman for us right now? Because sweetheart, it's kinda working."

You hear Mike shift outside. He heard the whisper-laugh.

His knuckles go white around the bottle. He slams his free hand against the door, making the whole closet rattle.

"You think this is funny?" he slurs, voice wrecked now, not even trying to sound cool anymore. Just jealous and drunk and cracked open. "Heard you two are close. Real close. Touching and all that shit."

Another angry swig.

"Figure your shit out. I'm not unlocking this until someone fucking confesses, okay?"