Mike Wheeler

The rain starts sometime after lunch. At first it’s just a soft patter against the windows of the Wheeler house, easy to ignore, background noise while you and Mike sprawl on the basement floor surrounded by board games you haven’t actually decided to play yet. Then the sky darkens, the clouds rolling in thick and heavy, and the rain turns louder—more insistent. By the time the first crack of thunder echoes overhead, the basement lights flicker. Mike freezes mid-reach for the game box. “…Okay,” he says slowly. “That was a little dramatic.” You laugh. “You’re fine.” “I know I’m fine,” he says quickly, defensive for no reason. “I just—did you hear how loud that was?” Another rumble answers him, closer this time. The rain beats harder against the small basement windows, streaking the glass until the outside world looks blurry and far away. Mike clears his throat and shifts closer to you on the couch. Not obviously. Not in a way he’d ever admit. Just close enough that your knees brush. You don’t say anything. You just let it happen. Mrs. Wheeler had helped you make hot chocolate earlier, and now two mismatched mugs sit on the coffee table, steam curling into the air. Mike wraps his hands around his mug like it’s a lifeline, staring into it thoughtfully. “So,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Uh. Board game?” “Sure,” you say. “Which one?” He reaches for the nearest box—Sorry!—then pauses, glances at the couch, and hesitates. “…We could also just stay here,” he adds quickly. “I mean, we don’t have to move. Since it’s raining and all.” You grin. “Mike, you’re the one who suggested a board game.” “Yeah, but like,” he shrugs, already pulling the blanket closer, “plans can change.” Thunder booms again, loud enough to make the house creak. The lights flicker once more, then settle. Mike exhales and scoots closer. This time it’s obvious. Your shoulders touch. His arm presses lightly against yours. He pretends not to notice, eyes fixed firmly on the board game box like it’s very important. “You want the blanket?” you ask. “I’m good,” he says instantly. Then, quieter: “But maybe… we could share.” You pull the blanket up around both of you, and Mike relaxes immediately, shoulders dropping like he didn’t even realize how tense he was. He doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans in more. The rain keeps falling. Time slows in that way it only does on rainy afternoons—like the world decided to take a break. The sound of rain and distant thunder fills the basement, steady and rhythmic. You sip your hot chocolate, feeling warmth spread through your chest. Mike’s knee is pressed against yours now. His foot rests against your ankle. His hand drifts closer on the couch cushion, pinky brushing yours. He doesn’t pull away. You don’t either. “You ever notice,” Mike says suddenly, “that storms feel louder when you’re inside?” “That’s… kind of how storms work,” you tease. He snorts. “No, I mean—like, they feel bigger. Like you’re safe, but also… not?” You glance at him. His brows are furrowed slightly, eyes tracking the shadow of rain sliding down the window. “I get that,” you say softly. He nods, satisfied, then shifts again—this time fully tucking himself against your side. His arm ends up draped awkwardly around your shoulders like he’s unsure what to do with it but doesn’t want to move it. There’s a long pause. “…This okay?” he asks, trying to sound nonchalant and failing just a little. “Yeah,” you say. “It’s okay.” He hums, relieved, and settles in. You end up not playing the board game at all. Instead, you talk about dumb things—school gossip, a movie Mike wants to watch but is embarrassed to admit he likes, the fact that Dustin insists hot chocolate tastes better with marshmallows and whipped cream. Mike laughs more than usual. Softer. Easier. At some point, the thunder grows louder again. A sharp crack splits the air, closer than before. Mike jumps—just a little—and instinctively tightens his arm around you. He freezes. “Oh—sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, I’m not scared, it just—” “You can keep your arm there,” you interrupt gently. He goes quiet. “…Okay,” he murmurs. He doesn’t move it. Minutes pass. Maybe more. You lose track of time completely. Mike’s head tips slightly, resting against yours. His breathing evens out, slow and calm. The rain outside keeps up its steady rhythm, cocooning you both in sound. “You’re warm,” he mutters suddenly, half-asleep. You smile. “Thanks?” “I mean—” he flushes, eyes still closed. “Not like—whatever.” You laugh quietly, careful not to disturb the moment. Eventually, Mike shifts so you’re fully tucked into his side, blanket pulled snug around you both. His fingers absentmindedly fidget with the edge of the fabric, then with the hem of your sleeve. It’s intimate without being intense. Comfortable without being awkward. Perfect. Another rumble of thunder rolls overhead, but this time Mike doesn’t react. He just snuggles closer, like the storm is nothing more than background noise now. “Hey,” he says softly. “Yeah?” “I’m glad you’re here.” The words are simple. Honest. Mike Wheeler to his core.