Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You ready to go?”

They’re in Max’s entryway, bundling themselves up in an excess of wool and fleece. The snow outside is falling steadily, blanketing the ground in white and undoubtedly turning the air crisp. Will tightens his scarf around his neck at the thought.

Lucas and Dustin have already left, and El is somewhere behind them, still chatting animatedly with Max. Mike is giving him that soft, expectant smile reserved just for him, and it makes his heart thump in his chest.

“Yeah,” Will says, which comes out a little too fast, so he clears his throat, then tries again. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

Mike’s smile widens. He shrugs his jacket on, tugging the zipper up with numb-looking fingers, and for a second, Will lets himself notice that he knows exactly how hot Mike runs, exactly how cold his hands always get first.

Will shoves his gloves on quickly, shaking away the thought.

The door opens with a rush of cold air and the distant sound of El laughing from somewhere down the hall. Snow drifts through the air, clouding his vision, and Mike steps aside automatically to let Will go first.

Outside, the world feels muffled. The streetlights glow hazily through the snowfall, the familiar houses blurred into something dreamlike. Their boots crunch in uneven rhythm as they fall into step beside each other, walking close enough that Will can feel Mike’s body heat through both of their layers.

The two of them always leave together, lately, which is a fact that he absolutely does not dwell on whatsoever. It’s become somewhat of a tradition, even. They end up by the door at the same time and shove their coats on all at once, like it’s a coincidence. Like Will hasn’t started to expect it, which is yet another fact he doesn’t dwell on at all. 

And, honestly, it’s always been like this. Even before any of them presented, Mike was always protective, always hovering close by. It’s how he is with everyone, he reminds himself pointedly.

It’s unfortunate that his dumb instincts don’t seem to understand the difference.

The cold brings everything into focus. Mike’s scent drifts faintly through the winter air when the wind shifts, sweet and familiar under the smell of his family’s detergent, and Will’s chest does that annoying, traitorous little tightening thing it always does.

Mike doesn’t say anything right away. He just walks with him, matching his pace like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And that may be the worst part, how normal it all feels. 

Mike breaks the silence first, kicking at a patch of untouched snow on the sidewalk. “So,” he starts, careful as ever, “you had fun?”

Will huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, Mike. I always have fun.”

Mike grins, an easy smile that somehow makes the cold air feel warmer. “Good. I mean… I know it was last-minute, but I’m glad you came. It’d have been boring without you.”

“Yeah. I guess,” Will swallows, a tug in his chest. 

They fall into the rhythm of their walk. Mike drifts slightly closer, his shoulder nudging against Will’s on the cramped sidewalk, and it’s frustrating. 

Like he said, Mike has always been like this—alpha instincts, Will realizes now as he breathes in a faint hint of his scent again. But, well, it has gotten more pronounced since he presented last summer. 

He moves differently now, like he’s less afraid of taking up too much space. He’s attentive to a fault, almost desperate to make sure his friends are always safe and comfortable, constantly checking in.

By all measures, Mike is a good alpha. He checks all the boxes, really. Protective without being overbearing, quick to step in when someone’s in trouble, careful but not patronizing. He’s loud and boisterous, sure, but he’s also earnest, and sweet, and so goddamn chivalrous it’s stupid.

It’s all so horribly infuriating, and so infuriatingly endearing. 

That’s the thing about instincts. They make everything so confusing. He knows, rationally, that all of these things are just Mike’s way of being a good friend and packmate. And yet, there’s still a part of him—a decidedly omega part—that relishes in the attention in a way he knows he shouldn’t. 

“Hey,” Mike murmurs, effectively scrambling Will’s thoughts. When he meets his eye, Mike’s brows are furrowed, concerned. “You’re cold.”

He doesn’t bother framing it as a question, just reaching out to adjust Will’s jacket, wrapping it around him tighter. In the back of his mind, Will registers his own shivering, the iciness seeping into his skin. 

“I’m fine,” he insists anyway, rolling his shoulders back. “It’s the middle of December. It’s inevitable.”

Mike scoffs, clearly unsatisfied. “I told you to wear a thicker coat,” he scolds gently, and Will cracks an amused smile before he can bite it back. 

“Sorry, mom,” he snorts, grinning up at him. It only takes a moment before Mike is grinning down at him, too, as if it’s contagious.  

“I’m serious,” Mike continues, laughing despite himself. He reaches up, deftly unwrapping the scarf from around his own neck and draping it across Will’s shoulders like a shawl, making him blink. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

“I— Mike!” Will protests, already grabbing at the offending item, pointedly ignoring the way his instincts purr at the weight of it around his neck. “I already have a scarf, come on. Now you’re going to get a cold.”

“Just humor me,” he says, standing straighter and looking ahead, even as his fingers linger at the back of Will’s neck.

The contact is brief, barely a second, but it leaves a phantom warmth in its wake that Will can’t seem to shake. His pulse stutters traitorously, instincts lighting up like they’ve been waiting for permission. The scarf is unmistakably Mike’s, steeped in his scent, and it settles around Will’s shoulders far too comfortably.

Will’s hands fall back to his sides, feeling oddly chastised. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but it comes out soft despite himself. 

Mike just hums in response, the sound almost bashful, and keeps walking.

They slip into comfortable silence. Will is painfully aware of how close Mike is—of the way their arms keep brushing, of how Mike subtly adjusts his pace whenever Will lags even half a step behind. He ignores it, like he always does.

They didn’t always have this… extra layer between them. Before last summer, when Mike came back from that camping trip with his family, all restless energy and a scent that didn’t quite settle in yet, they were just boys. Best friends. Complicated in every other way, sure, but not like this.

Will remembers the night it happened vividly. The call at one in the morning. Mrs. Wheeler’s tight voice on the other end of the line. Pulling on his shoes with shaking hands and biking through the dark so fast his lungs burned.

When he got there, Mike was flushed and shaking, pressed into the corner of his bedroom with too many blankets and not enough air, eyes bright and unfocused. He didn’t touch Mike more than he had to. He sat on the edge of his bed and talked him through it, passing him water intermittently. By morning, the worst of it had passed. 

Will didn’t present until that winter. It was quieter, with less fanfare. Just a slow, heavy heat curling low in his stomach and settling there, impossible to ignore. He locked himself in his bedroom, pretending it was a fever until his mom knocked gently and promised him it was okay to be scared.

They never really talked about it afterwards. There were awkward congratulations, a few too-careful jokes from Dustin, Max’s knowing smile. Mike hugged him longer than strictly necessary, arms wound tightly around his shoulders. Then, nothing.

Mike clears his throat quietly. “You know,” he says, tentative, “you don’t… you don’t have to lie to me. About being cold, I mean.”

Will glances at him. Mike’s gaze is still fixed ahead, but his jaw is tight, like he’s bracing for something.

“I’m not lying,” Will denies automatically.

Mike hums again, not quite convinced. After a beat, he adds, almost too casually, “You’ve been quieter lately.”

Will’s stomach flips. “Have I?”

“Yeah. Just a little.” Mike risks a glance at him this time. “Did I… do something?”

The question lands heavier than it probably should. Will opens his mouth, then closes it again. How is he supposed to explain that the problem is that Mike is doing everything exactly the same, and that Will is the one who can’t seem to stop wanting more?

“No,” he says finally. “You didn’t do anything.”

Mike studies him for another second, then nods slowly, like he’s accepting the answer even if it doesn’t quite sit right. His shoulder bumps Will’s again, deliberate this time.

They reach the turn toward Will’s street sooner than he expects. Mike slows instinctively, matching him again without being asked. For a moment, neither of them moves to stop.

“This is me,” Will says eventually, gesturing down the road.

“Yeah,” Mike replies, too quickly. “Yeah, I know.”

They stand there, snow dusting their shoulders, the town quiet around them. Mike rocks back on his heels, hands shoved into his pockets, and the silence stretches.

Finally, Mike exhales. “Um. Do you—” He stops, rubs the back of his neck. “Do you want me to walk you all the way to your door? I mean, I was already basically— I could—”

Will’s heart stutters painfully. It would be so easy to say yes. He could already see it: Mike on his front step, dimly illuminated in the porch light. Reluctantly saying goodbye. Maybe even—

“Don’t worry about it,” Will says, forcing a small smile. “You’ll freeze.”

Mike winces faintly, like the answer wasn’t the one he’d been hoping for. Still, he nods. “Okay. Yeah. That makes sense.”

He hesitates, then reaches up and tugs the scarf a little more securely around Will’s neck. “Give that back tomorrow,” he says, pointing at it lightly. “I’m holding you to it.”

Will swallows. “Tomorrow,” he repeats.

Mike smiles at him again and then, reluctantly, steps back. For a second, it looks like he might say something else. His mouth opens, then closes. “Goodnight, Will,” he says instead.

“Goodnight, Mike.”

Mike waits until he starts down the road before turning away, lingering at the end of the street. 

The scarf is still warm against Will’s skin when he finally makes it inside, Mike’s scent lingering tauntingly. That night, he tucks it securely under his pillow, and the warmth follows him to bed.

Will sits cross-legged on his bed, dragging blankets from the headboard and piling them around himself in a large, haphazard circle. After a long moment, he leans back to assess his handiwork, lets out a small huff, and immediately starts moving things around again.

Mike is perched beside him, legs swinging lazily over the edge of the bed, watching him with that same fond smile he always wears. The room smells faintly of cocoa, and the hum of his record player fills the space with quiet static. It’s a cozy picture, and Will lets himself relax into the familiarity of it.

Mike leans a little closer, tilting his head as he watches Will fuss with the blankets. “You’re really particular about this,” he comments, reaching out to straighten a blanket that’s stubbornly refusing to lie flat.

“You’re really nosey,” he retorts childishly, swatting Mike’s hand away. Mike just laughs, flopping backwards on the bed beside his mountain of blankets. The mattress dips beneath his weight, sending a small ripple through the careful structure.

“Hey—!” Will lunges forward instinctively, grabbing at a slipping pillow before it can collapse inward. “You’re going to mess it up.”

Mike props himself back up on his elbows, totally unapologetic. “Will, it looks like a tornado tore through here.”

“It’s organized chaos,” he insists, fluffing at the pile as if it will mold everything into place. It helps.

“Right,” Mike replies airily, nudging a stray blanket towards him. 

Will lets out a quiet hmph, leaning forward to drag the blanket back where it belongs. “It’s supposed to feel like this.”

“Like a tornado?” Mike teases, voice soft, and Will can’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. Mike nudges him gently with an elbow, careful not to topple anything.

Will stiffens for a second, then relaxes into the movement, rearranging a corner of the blanket to smooth it out. Mike hums quietly, eyes following his hands, a warmth in his gaze that makes Will’s chest thrum. He huffs, ignoring it, but the pull of having Mike so close is… disorienting.

The truth is, he likes being here like this, with Mike. Spending the afternoon doing nothing important, just co-existing in the same room, savoring each other’s presence. Perhaps more than he cares to admit.   

Will shifts again, tugging a blanket tighter around the growing circle. The edges curl under his fingers, warm and soft, the pile starting to feel less like a tornado and more like a little world he’s carved out for himself on his bed. Nesting always does this, takes the edges off everything, makes it easier to breathe. It’s his comfort ritual, the one thing he can control when the rest of the world feels unpredictable.

Mike leans a little closer, elbow brushing against Will’s knee. He doesn’t say anything this time, just watches, like he always does when Will quiets.

He tries to focus on the rhythm of folding and tucking, but he can’t stop his eyes from flicking to Mike, from noticing the way the corners of his mouth lift, soft and easy, while he watches. It’s frustrating, because Mike isn’t doing anything. Nothing at all. And still, everything about him, from the tilt of his head to the weight of his eyes, feels like too much.

“You know,” Mike murmurs hesitantly, “I could help.”

Will’s hands still, mid-fold, fingers curled around the edge of the blanket so he has something to hold on to. Mike simply offering to help shouldn’t make his heart lurch, but it does. Stupidly, instinctively, like a part of him is wired to react to Mike’s voice first and logic second.

“It’s fine,” Will breathes. “I’ve got it.”

Mike raises an eyebrow. “I know you do.” His voice is gentle, maddeningly so. “But… you don’t have to.”

There’s a quiet that follows, thick in the air, the kind that always seems to bloom around them when Will starts to fold inward on himself. Mike shifts on the bed, closer but not quite brushing. Attentive and steady, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal.

“You seem… I don’t know,” Mike continues softly, eyes tracking the slow movement of Will’s hands. “Focused, I guess. But like you’re not really here.”

Will’s throat tightens. He tugs another blanket into place, flattening it compulsively. The nest is starting to take shape around him, warm and soft and safe in all the ways he never admits out loud. The scarf Mike had given him is still sticking out from beneath his pillow, permeating the nest in his familiar scent. It’s embarrassing, letting someone see this—such an undeniably omega thing, instinctive and vulnerable, something that makes him feel too readable.

“You don’t have to stay,” he whispers.

The words make Mike blink, confusion flickering across his face. “Do you… not want me to?”

Will swallows around nothing. “That’s not what I said.”

“Okay,” Mike murmurs, and shifts again, closer this time, bare inches from the edge of the nest. “Then I’ll stay.”

And that– God. That’s somehow worse. Will tries to focus on the blankets, on the methodical movements of his hands, but Mike is sitting there, radiating warmth like a goddamn furnace, like he’s trying to tug every instinct Will’s got out of him by proximity alone.

It would be easier if Mike didn’t look at him the way he is now, soft-eyed and earnest, like Will is worth paying attention to.

Mike reaches out deliberately, giving Will every chance to pull away. His fingers brush the corner of a cushion, nudging it into place. He brushes Will’s knee, and the contact is so light it barely exists, but it shoots straight through him anyway, right down to whatever part of him keeps insisting that this—Mike in his orbit, Mike helping, Mike caring—means something.

“You always do this before winter break,” Mike comments quietly. “Nest. Even before you presented, you’d… make these little blanket forts. Like you needed everything to feel right before we all split up for a couple weeks.”

Will looks up, feeling oddly seen through. Because—yes, obviously, Mike is right. Will’s always done this. He remembers Dustin making fun of him once in middle school for going into hibernation every Christmas, and the way he stuttered out a defense, unable to come up with an excuse.

But back then, it was just Will being weird. Or anxious. Or needy. Something harmless.

Now, though, now that he’s presented, nesting is… different. 

It means something. Something vulnerable and private and terrifyingly intimate. Something he’s barely allowed himself to think about, let alone admit to anyone else.

And Mike, an alpha, mind you, is sitting right in the middle of it. Nests aren’t supposed to have alphas in them. Well, unless—

He cuts himself off before his brain can finish the thought, before it can place the words mate and Mike next to each other in his mind.

God. God. He feels sick.

Nesting is for safety. For comfort. It’s the act of surrounding yourself with everything soft and warm and familiar because it’s the only way your body knows how to say ‘I want to feel safe.’

Sharing that space, letting someone inside it, is the closest thing omegas have to baring their throat.

It’s basically courtship-adjacent. Like, sharing clothes and scenting each other and bringing each other gifts levels of courtship-adjacent. Or, well, it could be, if he weren’t carefully pretending this was all normal.

Mike, oblivious, nudges another pillow towards him. “I mean… it always looked nice,” he adds, a little sheepishly. “Like you were building a whole world in here.”

Will glances up, cheeks pink.

Mike doesn’t realize what he’s doing. He doesn’t realize that he’s touching things Will has already scented, that his own scent is brushing up against the blankets, absorbing into the fabric.

He doesn’t realize what that means to an omega brain. He can’t. Because Will’s instincts are already yowling, screaming at him about territory and mates and how wrong and right this all feels at the same time.

He tries to play it off, panic spiking behind his ribs. “It’s— It’s not a big deal, really.” 

“It is to you,” Mike insists. “So it’s a big deal to me.”

He says it as if it’s a given. But for Will, it’s far too much. An omega’s nest is supposed to be private. Sacred, even. A place he goes when he’s overwhelmed or tired or soft around the edges. He doesn’t even let his mom into it when she’s doing laundry.

And Mike… Mike is just sitting here, legs swinging off the bed like he belongs. Like Will hasn’t spent months training himself out of wanting this exact thing.

He curls inward slightly, tugging a blanket toward himself just to have something to do with his hands. Every instinct he’s spent years shoving down is clawing its way to the surface, sharp and insistent and humiliatingly hopeful.

Will forces himself to breathe. He is not going to freak out over Mike Wheeler sitting on his bed. He refuses.

“Hey,” Mike says softly, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his knees. “Will, I’m serious. You seem… off, today. What’s wrong?”

Will peers up at him, a little dizzy. The nest surrounds him, warm and soft and smelling of him and, God help him, just the faintest hint of Mike, now that he’s leaned in, now that he’s touched the blankets. Will’s instincts curl around that scent and purr.

“Mike,” he croaks, before he can think it through, “what are you doing?”

Mike’s hands, which had just nudged a pillow into place, freeze like he’s been caught doing something he’s not supposed to. “I’m, uh, helping?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Will whispers.

Mike’s gaze drops to the growing nest on the bed before flickering back up to meet Will’s. “I like being here,” he shrugs. “Taking care of you.”

And, well, there’s an implication there. A stupid, heart-stopping implication that Will swears to himself he won’t read into.

“Really?” Will asks, voice a bit shrill, immediately reading into it.

Mike realizes what he said a beat too late, blanching. “I mean,” he sputters, hands lifting uselessly in the air as if he can physically scoop the words back into his mouth. “Not like that.”

Will’s stomach swoops. “Like what?”

“The way it sounded,” Mike says uselessly. “Like I’m, you know… your mate, or something.”

“That’s not how it sounded,” Will lies. It absolutely did sound that way, and it made that traitorous thing inside him buzz nervously.

“I’m just saying,” Mike prattles, insistent, “you’re nesting, and you seem stressed, and I wanted to help. But not in a weird way!”

Will stares at him. “A weird way,” he echoes flatly.

Mike collapses with a groan. “God, kill me.”

“You said you like taking care of me,” Will presses. “What does that mean?”

Mike swallows, throat bobbing. “I just mean— I worry about you, you know? I want you to feel… safe.”

Will lets out a shaky laugh. It comes out thin and brittle around the edges. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

Mike blinks. “You… do?”

“Of course I do,” Will gestures helplessly at the bed, the blankets, the whole soft, intimate mess of it. “You’ve always worried about me. You hover. You check in. You make sure I eat and sleep and don’t freeze to death on the walk home.”

Mike frowns. “That’s just— I do that for everyone.”

Will’s chest tightens. There it is.

“I know,” he says again, quieter. “That’s what I’m saying.”

Mike sits up straight, clearly sensing that he’s missing something important. “Okay, but then what’s wrong? Because it feels like I stepped on some kind of landmine here, and I genuinely don’t know how.”

Will presses his palms into the blankets, grounding himself. They shift under him, soft and entirely too revealing. He feels ridiculous; dramatic, oversensitive, exactly the kind of omega everyone warns you not to be.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he says finally.

Mike’s eyebrows knit together. “In your room?”

“In my nest.”

The word hangs between them. Mike’s gaze drops again, taking in the blankets with new eyes, like he’s finally seeing what this is instead of just what it looks like.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Oh. I didn’t— I wasn’t—”

“I know you weren’t,” Will snaps, sharper than he means to be. He winces and then exhales. “That’s the problem.”

Mike leans back slightly, giving him space at last. The sudden distance makes something in Will’s chest ache.

“I didn’t realize it was… that private,” Mike says gently. “You never said—”

“I shouldn’t have to,” Will retorts, immediately defensive. “You know what nesting means.”

Mike hesitates. “I know what it means. I just didn’t think…” He trails off, obviously choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t think it meant I couldn’t sit on your bed.”

“God, that’s not— Mike, you’re an alpha. You being here, touching things, scenting stuff… it matters. Whether you mean it to or not,” Will laughs humorlessly.

Mike stiffens. “I wasn’t scenting anything.”

Will’s gaze flicks pointedly to the blankets Mike’s been adjusting. His nose twitches, taking in the way his room smells faintly, unmistakably, like Mike now.

Mike follows his eyes, his ears pink.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “I didn’t realize I was doing that.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Will whispers. “That makes it worse.”

Mike’s mouth opens, then closes. “Worse how?”

Because it makes Will feel stupid. Because it makes his instincts light up far too much for someone who doesn’t even realize he’s triggering them. Because it makes this feel one-sided in a horrible, humiliating way.

“Forget it,” Will mutters, pulling a blanket around himself. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No. Don’t do that. You can’t just—” Mike stops himself, running a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to understand, Will. You asked me what I was doing, and I told you the truth.”

“And the truth is that you like taking care of me,” Will agrees numbly, the words slipping out before he can stop them. “But only in a friend way. Only in a pack way. Right?”

Mike blinks. “That’s not… I didn’t say only.”

“You didn’t say anything else, either,” Will shoots back.

The silence that follows is tense, nothing like the warm quiet from before. Mike looks genuinely stricken now, like he’s finally realizing how badly this has gone off the rails.

“I’m sorry,” he says, earnestly. “If I crossed a line, I swear I didn’t mean to. I just… I thought I was helping.”

“I know,” Will whispers, exhaustion creeping in at the edges. “You always think that.”

Mike flinches. “Okay,” he says after a beat, voice tight. “Then maybe I shouldn’t be here.”

Will’s head snaps up. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But it is what you said,” Mike replies gently. He slides off the bed, hovering near the door now, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s bracing himself. “You’re right. I don’t want to mess this up for you. Or… make things confusing.”

Too late, Will thinks helplessly.

Mike hesitates, clearly torn. “I’ll… give you space. Okay?”

Will just nods, not trusting himself to speak without somehow making it even worse.

Mike pauses at the door, glancing back once. “For what it’s worth,” he adds quietly, “I do care. About you. A lot.” And then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him, and the room feels instantly colder, emptier in a way the blankets can’t fix. Will curls deeper into his nest, restless and unsatisfied. Mike’s scent lingers, still soothing him in an entirely unfair way.

Safe, his instincts croon bitterly.

Yeah, right.

By the time Will reaches his locker, he’s already adjusted the scarf three times.

It sits snug around his neck, the knit soft against his skin. He keeps his chin tucked, acutely aware of the weight of it, of the way it smells faintly like Mike. He wonders, distantly, if anyone else can tell.

He’s not sure what possessed him to put it on this morning. Some instinct-driven, embarrassing beast of a thing, surely. And yet, here he is, in the middle of the hallway, wearing it like a brand. 

Like he’d woken up and thought, Yes. This is an amazing idea. Let’s advertise my poor decision-making to all of my classmates today. He tugs at one end again, loosening it, then immediately tightens it back up when a draft slips down his collar. Traitorous scarf. Traitorous neck.

It’s not even that cold. Not scarf cold. Jacket cold, maybe. Hoodie cold. Definitely not borrowed-scarf-that-still-smells-like-your-best-friend cold.

Will presses his locker shut a little harder than necessary and glances down the hall, half-expecting someone to point at him and go, ‘Hey, isn’t that Mike Wheeler’s?’

No one does. No one is paying attention at all, which almost makes it worse. He’s the only one who knows what this means, apparently, and his brain won’t stop worrying over it like a test he forgot to study for.

He tries to tell himself it’s just a scarf. A piece of yarn. Very normal. People wear scarves all the time.

Still, his fingers curl around the knit again, just to check that it’s really there.

“Hey, Will.”

He startles, fumbling his books as Lucas steps up beside him. Lucas glances at his neck, eyebrows lifting just a fraction before his expression smooths out again.

“Morning,” Will croaks.

Lucas grins. “Nice scarf.”

Will’s cheeks burn. “It’s just— It’s cold.”

“Yeah,” Lucas agrees easily, already turning back to his own locker. “It is.”

It’s been a few days since he and Mike last spoke, which, on its own, isn’t that unusual. They’ve had longer stretches before, school schedules or homework or just the ordinary ebb and flow of life keeping them from talking. They always bounce back eventually, as if they’d never stopped talking at all.

But, admittedly, something about this time does feel more poignant. 

Which is maybe why he’s testing the waters like this, pressing on the bruise. It’s a little bold, especially for him, but it doesn’t really feel like he has anything to lose at this point, and so what if he’s a bit of a masochist. 

If he’s being honest, it’s not even about getting a reaction. Not really. It’s about seeing if the feeling is still there; if the invisible thread he keeps pretending doesn’t exist has gone slack or not. Wearing the scarf is like tugging on it, just once, to see if it tugs back.

He tells himself he can take it off at any time. Before first period, maybe. Or after. He can shove it into his backpack and pretend this never happened. No one would know. No one knows.

Except him. And, well, Mike, probably.

Will swallows and stares very hard at the dented metal of his locker, as if it might offer guidance. It does not. Mike always notices things like this. He notices when Will gets quieter, when he’s tired, when he’s trying not to look at him. A scarf isn’t exactly subtle, comparatively speaking.

The thought sends a nervous flutter through his chest. He imagines Mike spotting him from across the hallway, doing that little double-take he does when something catches him off guard. He imagines him smiling. Or, worse, looking confused. Or worse than that, looking like he doesn’t care at all.

Will shuts that line of thinking down immediately. He has first period to survive. Calculus waits for nothing, emotional crises included. He makes it to the classroom just ahead of the rush and drops into his seat with a quiet sigh of relief. 

Mike’s already there, because of course he is. He’s slouched sideways in his chair, legs spread lazily. He looks up automatically when Will plops down beside him, before promptly freezing.

His eyes flick to Will’s neck, just for a moment. Will pretends very hard not to notice. He busies himself pulling out his books, pointedly avoiding looking over. His pulse is suddenly very loud in his ears.

“Oh,” Mike breathes quietly beside him.

“Morning,” Will says, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near strangled.

“Morning,” Mike echoes, still staring. He clears his throat and looks away, ears pinking faintly. “Uh. You…”

The teacher clears her throat sharply from the front of the room. “Seats, please. We’re starting.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mike fidget. His pencil taps once, twice, then stills. A moment later, Mike leans over just enough that his arm brushes Will’s sleeve.

“Hey,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Are you—”

“Michael,” the teacher says without looking up, chalk already squeaking across the board. “Eyes forward.”

Mike jerks back like he’s been shocked, mumbling a quick apology. Will bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling despite himself.

The rest of the day, his classes blur together in a haze of bells and teachers talking at him while Will thinks very hard about literally anything else. He catches glimpses of Mike, but they never quite line up long enough to talk.

Every time, Mike looks like he’s about to say something. Every time, something gets in the way. By the final bell, Will feels wrung out, exhausted down to his bones despite doing absolutely nothing of note.

He makes it about three steps into the hallway before, “Hey.” Will turns.

Mike is right behind him, a little flushed, like he hurried to catch up. His backpack hangs off one shoulder, jacket unzipped despite the cold, curls sticking up in that way they do when he’s been running his hands through them all day.

“Hey,” he replies uselessly. Brilliant. Ten out of ten conversational skills.

They stand there, staring at each other like this is the first time they’ve ever met, instead of, well. Everything else.

Mike’s eyes flicker, once again, to the scarf. This time, he doesn’t look away.

“Uh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was gonna walk home with Dustin, but he, um. He already left.”

A lie. Will ignores it. “Oh,” he says instead.

“So,” Mike continues, clearly plowing ahead before he can lose his nerve, “I thought maybe I could… walk you home? You know, like usual? If you want. I mean, only if you’re not busy. Or if you don’t mind. Or—”

He’s rambling. That’s new. Or maybe it isn’t, and Will’s just never let himself notice it before now.

“I’m not busy,” Will interrupts, a little too fast. He swallows. “I mean. Yeah. That’s fine.”

Mike’s shoulders drop in visible relief. “Okay. Cool. Cool.”

They fall into step together naturally as they head outside, the late afternoon air sharp and cold against Will’s cheeks. Half-melted snow crunches underfoot, the sky already dimming into evening.

Mike keeps sneaking glances at him, like he’s checking to make sure Will’s still there. Will keeps pretending not to notice, fingers toying with the edge of the scarf.

Finally, Mike exhales, long and slow. “So. About this morning.”

Will’s stomach flips. There it is.

“Yeah?” Will asks awkwardly. 

Mike gestures vaguely at Will’s neck. “The… you know. The scarf.”

Will swallows, and the sound feels absurdly loud in the empty street. He wonders if Mike can hear it. He wonders if Mike notices the tremor in his fingers, the way he’s gripping the scarf like it’s a lifeline.

Mike shifts his weight, a subtle step closer, though far enough to give Will room. He glances at the scarf again, then back up, scrutinizing. He clears his throat, “I… uh, I just wanted to say—”

He pauses, as if searching for the right words. Then he shifts again, more deliberately this time. “You, uh… I know wearing my scarf, it’s… kind of a big deal.” His voice is careful. “And, I don’t know, it means a lot to me. You look really good, wearing it.”

Will freezes mid-step, face flushing furiously, and it’s only then that he realizes they’ve come to a stop in front of his porch. His chest is too full, too fast. He wants to laugh, maybe hide, maybe sink straight through the sidewalk.

He can’t speak. The words feel lodged somewhere between his chest and his throat, caught in a loop of disbelief and nervous adrenaline. 

Mike’s eyes meet his, shy, and Will feels like he can’t breathe. It’s as if the world shrinks to the space between them, the late afternoon light dusting everything in pale gold.

“Uh,” Will finally rasps, voice smaller than he intends. “I… I didn’t mean to—”

Mike barrels on, undeterred. “No, I mean, I gave it to you. I guess I just wasn’t expecting you to… actually wear it. Not after last week, at least. I thought I’d overstepped.”

“Overstepped?” Will furrows his brow.

“Yeah, I mean,” Mike laughs, the sound self-depricating. “I was acting like a total alpha jerk. I shouldn’t have pushed you so far. Or… you know, invaded your space like that.”

Will blinks up at him, and then blinks again.

“So, you know,” Mike huffs a breath. “I’m glad I didn’t completely screw this up. And, I just… I don’t know. Seeing you in it, it’s… it’s kind of like… I don’t know, like it’s yours now. Or, I mean, like… you’re mine, a little?”

There’s a loud, unhelpful rush of blood in Will’s ears, like his body has decided now is the perfect time to sprint despite the fact that he’s standing perfectly still on his own front walkway. 

‘You’re mine, a little?’ loops on repeat in his head, bumping clumsily into ‘alpha jerk’ and ‘overstepped’ and ‘you look really good’ until none of it sounds like English anymore.

He stares at Mike. Mike, who is now very clearly panicking.

“Oh,” Mike says quickly, already backpedaling. “I mean… not like that. Or, well, I did mean it like that, but only if you wanted it to be like that. Like, only if you meant it like that. I didn’t mean to— God, that sounded really weird, didn’t it?”

Will lets out a breath that’s halfway between a laugh and a squeak. “Mike.”

Mike’s eyes snap back to him, hopeful and terrified all at once. “Yeah?”

Will hesitates. It’s not that he doesn’t know what he wants to say. It’s that he wants to be absolutely certain they’re talking about the same thing before he lets himself get any closer to it.

“Okay,” he says slowly, throat bobbing. “I need you to say it. Like, actually say it.”

“Say what?” Mike whispers.

“What you mean,” Will clarifies, fingers tightening around the end of the scarf. “What exactly do you mean?”

Mike goes still, and there’s a moment where Will thinks he may have misread this entirely. Then Mike straightens, shoulders squaring like he’s bracing himself for impact. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah. Okay.”

He takes a breath that sounds especially brittle in the cold air. “I mean that you wearing it means something, Will. To me. I gave it to you as a… as a courting thing, I guess. You know, that’s what they always tell you to do, give your omega something that smells like you. So I did, and you took it, and you smiled at me, and then… 

“And then, it was in your nest, last week, which is like… crazy. Like, I know I gave it to you, but I still kind of wasn’t expecting you to actually reciprocate, so it was like… woah. So I wanted to keep pushing, I guess, since you seemed into me, too, but then you closed off like you were uncomfortable, and I realized I’d pushed too far, and I really thought I’d messed this up before it even really started. But then you showed up today wearing it, like… like you’re my omega. Like, that’s only a thing omegas do with their mate’s clothes, and you aren’t stupid, so I know you know that. And I guess I’ve been freaking out all day.”

Will blinks at him, heart hammering. The words are tumbling out so fast, and yet Mike’s tone is hesitant and completely vulnerable. It sends a thrill up his spine.

“So, um, yeah. That’s what I mean,” Mike finishes lamely.

Will stares at him, trying to sort out the tangle of shock, relief, and something that feels like joy.

“Wow,” he breathes out, voice catching on the word. “That… that’s a lot.”

Mike swallows, nodding quickly. “Yeah. I know. Sorry. I know I talk too much when I… freak out.”

“You’ve really been courting me?” Will asks, probably too shyly, considering the circumstances. “This whole time?”

"I… I guess?” Mike stammers. “Yeah. I mean— Yes. Kind of. I mean, I was definitely trying.”

“I had no idea,” Will admits, unable to hold back the wide grin spreading across his face. “I mean, I hoped. That’s why… that’s why I wore it today. But I thought you were just being a good friend. A good packmate.”

Mike snorts like the idea is ridiculous. “Will, I was losing my mind over you. I have been for years. That’s not—” He cuts himself off, cheeks flushing, then tries again. “I mean, yeah, I care about you like that too. But it wasn’t just that.”

Will blinks once, twice, and then blurts, “I’m in love with you. I think.”

Mike goes still. His mouth’s parted, shoulders half-raised, eyes locked on Will’s face like he’s trying to decide if he heard that right.

“You…” he starts, then stops. Swallows. Tries again. “You… what?”

Will’s heart leaps straight into his throat. He laughs nervously, the sound thin and breathless. “I mean. I don’t know. I think I am. Well, I have been. I’ve never— I didn’t mean to say it like that, I just—”

Mike steps closer without even seeming to realize he’s doing it. They’re standing on Will’s front walkway, the porch light flickering on behind them, but it suddenly feels like they’re the only two people in the world.

“Will,” Mike says softly, reverently, “you don’t get to just say that and then take it back.”

“I’m not trying to!” Will squeaks, cheeks burning.

“You’re…” Mike hesitates. “You’re in love with me.”

Will’s heart stutters. “I think so,” he says softly. “I mean, I’ve loved you for a long time. I just didn’t know if this was— If I was allowed to want you like that.”

Mike lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, except it breaks halfway through. He drags a hand through his hair, curls springing right back into place. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Will.”

He exhales again, slower this time, like he’s deliberately grounding himself. His shoulders loosen, just a fraction, but his eyes never leave Will’s face. “You were always allowed,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t want to assume. Not with you.”

“I didn’t pull away because I didn’t want you,” Will explains, needing Mike to understand. His fingers curl tighter in the scarf, pressing it briefly to his throat. “I pulled away because I was scared of wanting you too much.”

Mike’s jaw tightens. “Yeah,” he says softly. “That tracks.”

He hesitates, then adds, careful, “When I realized I’d pushed you, it freaked me out. Because alphas are… we’re taught to go slow. To let the omega set the pace. And I thought I’d screwed that up.”

“You didn’t,” Will whispers. “I just thought you didn’t realize what you were doing. What it meant to me. Having you in my nest was kind of a big deal.”

“Will,” Mike murmurs, tentatively stroking his arm through the thick fabric of his coat. “I’m in love with you too.”

And, well. Will thinks he knew that already, somewhere in the back of his mind, but hearing it out loud still makes his breath hitch. 

“You… you are?” Will asks dumbly.

Mike nods, short and sure. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I have been. For a long time.”

His eyes flicker, unbidden, toward the scarf again. Toward Will’s throat. 

“And your nest,” Mike continues. “I knew. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to put words in your mouth. But I knew what it meant. Omegas don’t… let someone into that space unless it matters. A lot. And, well, I liked that you let me in. Sue me. I’m only an alpha.”

Will lets out a shaky breath that’s half laugh, half something dangerously close to a whine. “You’re impossible,” he says, but there’s no heat to it.

“You like it,” Mike teases, finally drawing him in by the waist. 

“You were scenting my nest on purpose!” Will accuses, laughing as Mike pulls him against his chest. 

“You liked it,” Mike says again, voice lower.

“That’s not the—” Will goes to argue, but he’s cut off by the soft press of Mike’s lips against his own, the words dying on his tongue.

Will melts into it with a quiet, involuntary sound, fingers curling into Mike’s jacket as he kisses him back. It’s soft at first, tentative, like they’re both relearning the shape of each other in this new context. Mike keeps one hand steady at Will’s waist, grounding, the other sliding up just enough to cradle the back of his neck without pulling.

When they part, it’s barely an inch, breaths mingling.

“That,” Will murmurs, dazed, “was not fair.”

Mike just hums, nosing at the sliver of exposed skin above the scarf. Will shivers, tilting his head to give him better access. 

“So… me wearing this,” he murmurs, voice thick, “does that mean I’m really… yours, now?”

Mike pulls back an inch, smiling at him impishly. “Well,” he hums, kissing teasingly above where Will’s scent gland hides beneath the scarf. “Everyone in school definitely thinks you are, now.”

Mike’s thumb rubs slow, absent circles at Will’s hip, grounding him even as his words send sparks skittering up Will’s spine.

“Well, yeah,” Will squeaks. “I guess that’s true.”

“And, you know, our friends,” Mike continues, grinning against his skin, “and your family, and…”

“Okay!” Will laughs, shoving at his chest. “Okay, okay, I get it. Everyone knows. Don’t rub it in.”

“Rub it in?” Mike asks innocently, a glint in his eye. “I’m just… appreciating it.” He nuzzles at Will’s jaw again, making him tremble.

“When did you get so confident?” Will flushes, hiding in Mike’s mop of hair. “I miss when you were tripping over your words.”

“I don’t know,” Mike retorts, coy. “When did you get so bold? Wearing my clothes to school like that. Some would call it presumptuous, you know.”

“Presumptuous?” Will echoes, voice small and incredulous. “What? Wearing your scarf?”

“Very presumptuous,” Mike agrees sagely. “But also ridiculously attractive.”

Will sputters, fumbling for words.  “You— Stop. Don’t—”

Mike just laughs, and then he’s pulling him into another kiss, like it’s nothing. Will’s stomach does something weird, a mix of butterflies and vertigo, but he leans into it anyway, melting against Mike’s front. 

And, well. He thinks he could get used to this.