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Summer was ending.
The days were still warm, the nights cooler, and Will could feel the season slipping through his fingers just like everything else that had ever mattered to him.
He and Mike had been together for a little over a month now. A real month. One with shared mornings, quiet laughter, Lori’s tiny fingers wrapping around theirs, and conversations that stretched long into the night once the baby was asleep. Things were good. Better than good. Real, in a way Will had never allowed himself to believe in before.
And that was exactly why it terrified him.
Telling Mike had been hard. Letting himself hope had been harder. But this—this was the part that kept him awake at night.
Hawkins.
Mike’s family.
Their friends.
Lori was everything to him. She wasn’t just his daughter—she was his heart, his reason, the proof that something beautiful could exist even after so much fear. He could survive rejection aimed at himself. He had done it before. He knew how to shrink, how to endure, how to swallow pain until it stopped screaming.
But if anyone rejected her—
His chest tightened at the thought.
If they looked at her like she was a mistake, a burden, something unwanted…
That would destroy him.
With their friends, the fear was different. Quieter. Sharper.
Deep down, Will knew none of them would ever be cruel to Lori. He could already picture it: too many hands wanting to hold her, too many voices cooing at once, too many people ready to love her without question. His daughter was going to have an absurd amount of uncles.
That part didn’t scare him.
What scared him was himself.
The lies. The months of silence. The invented life in Chicago that had never existed.
He had disappeared. He had let them believe he was fine. Happy. Living something that wasn’t real. And now he was coming back with the truth in his arms, asking them not to turn away.
Mike tried to reassure him every time the anxiety crept too close. He said they’d understand. That they loved Will too much not to. That what happened hadn’t been only Will’s responsibility—that none of this was simple or clean or fair.
And his family, Mike insisted, would support them. His mom, for sure. His sister. His dad… well. Mike shrugged when he talked about Ted Wheeler, a crooked smile on his face.
"To hell with him," Mike had said. I’ve never lived my life for him anyway.
They drove to Hawkins in Mike’s car. Just the three of them.
Joyce couldn’t come because of work, but she hugged Will so tightly before they left that it almost knocked the breath out of him. She kissed Lori’s cheeks over and over, whispered that she was proud of him, that everything would be okay, that he was doing the right thing.
Will held onto that the entire drive.
Still, his mind wouldn’t stop.
Hawkins wasn’t just a town. It was memories layered on top of memories—fear, pain, survival. Woods where he had been lost. Houses where he had learned to be quiet. Places that remembered him even when he wished they wouldn’t.
Will wasn’t just returning to a town.
He was returning to a version of himself he had survived.
Mike had done some groundwork. A few calls. Casual, almost too casual. He told the others they were coming during the last week of vacation and suggested getting everyone together. Lucas and Dustin took over immediately, deciding on a small welcome at Dustin’s house. Everyone would be there—Lucas, Dustin, Max, Eleven.
By the time they arrived, Will’s hands were shaking. He sat in the passenger seat longer than necessary, Lori warm and solid against his chest. He hugged her a little tighter, breathed in her familiar scent, swallowed hard. His throat burned. He felt like crying, like running, like doing anything except opening the car door.
Mike noticed. He always did.
Mike came around to his side, crouching slightly so they were at eye level.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You’ll be okay. I promise. I’ll be with you the whole time.”
Mike cupped his face, grounding him, and kissed him gently. Will leaned into it, letting himself rest there for just a second longer than he should have. When Mike pulled back, Will felt steadier. Not calm—but steadier.
They walked toward the backyard together, laughter already drifting through the air. Familiar voices. Familiar sounds. When they came into view, Mike lifted a hand.
“Hey, guys!” Mike's voice carried easily across the backyard, bright and familiar.
The response came immediately—shouts, laughter, excitement, someone yelling his name—but it died halfway through.
Will felt it before he saw it. The way the energy shifted. The way all their attention dropped straight to his arms.
To Lori.
He adjusted her slightly, angling her closer to his chest, as if his body knew before his mind did that this was the moment everything balanced on.
“Hi,” he managed, the word small and fragile in his mouth.
Max was the first to speak. She took a few steps forward, her eyes moving between Will and Mike like she was piecing together a puzzle she already suspected the answer to. Her mouth curved upward before she even spoke.
“Oh my God,” she said, wonder already creeping into her voice. “Will?” Her gaze dropped again, softer now. “Who’s that?”
His heart slammed against his ribs.
“Guys,” Will said, his voice unsteady. “This… this is my daughter Lori.”
He instinctively looked at Mike, searching for something—approval, backup, reassurance. Mike nodded immediately and stepped in.
“She’s our daughter, actually,” Mike said, grinning, nerves flashing briefly in his eyes before settling into something proud and steady. “Surprise.”
Everything happened at once. Lucas went completely silent, mouth slightly open.
Dustin’s hands flew to his head. “Holy shit.” he breathed.
Max closed the remaining distance without a second thought, her attention snapping fully onto Lori, her entire posture shifting as if nothing else in the world mattered anymore.
But Will barely registered any of it. He was watching Eleven.
She smiled. A real smile. Her eyes lit up with something warm and unmistakable. Then she stood and walked toward him.
Will handed Lori to Mike without thinking. His chest was tight. A thousand possible reactions rushed through his head—hurt, anger, confusion, disappointment.
Eleven stopped in front of him and wrapped him in a hug.
“I missed you so much,” she said softly, her voice steady and sincere. “I was hoping you’d come soon.”
Something inside Will finally gave.
Tears slipped out before he could stop them. He clung to her, melting into the embrace. Eleven hadn’t just been Mike’s girlfriend once. She had been his friend. Almost a sister when they lived together. The fear that this would hurt her—that she would hate him for it—had been crushing him for months.
And just like that, it was gone.
“I missed you too,” Will whispered. “So much, El. I’m sorry.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him, hands firm on his shoulders.
“Don’t,” she said. “You have nothing to apologize for. I know. I understand.”
Her smile widened, and Will nodded, blinking back tears.
Eleven turned then, eyes lighting up as she looked at Lori in Mike’s arms. She hugged Mike too, and he welcomed it easily.
After that, everything loosened.
One by one, they hugged Will and Mike. Will felt hands on his back, on his shoulders, familiar touches grounding him in a place he had once been afraid to return to.
Gentle hands waved at Lori, careful not to overwhelm her. No one tried to take her right away. No one rushed him. They waited, watched, and let Will set the pace without even saying it out loud.
Excitement buzzed around them, but no one crossed the invisible line. It was reverent. Loving.
“Wait,” Lucas said eventually, still looking stunned. “How did this happen?”
“Yeah,” Dustin added. “I mean—how old is she?”
“She’s seven months,” Will said, cheeks warming. “It… happened before graduation.”
Mike cleared his throat.
“Will and I—we were together before graduation,” Mike said quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “Before El and I got back together. There was no overlap,” he added, lifting his hands slightly, half-defensive, half-embarrassed. “No secrets. No cheating. Just… bad timing.”
A few eyebrows still rose, but the tension broke almost immediately when Eleven laughed, shaking her head as she waved it off.
“It was only once,” Mike continued, his voice quieter now, less rushed. He turned fully toward Will, like the rest of the world had faded for a moment. “And I ruined it. I convinced myself it was just confusion, or something I could ignore. I told myself it didn’t mean what it actually meant.” He swallowed. “By the time I understood how wrong I was… I had already lost him.”
Will held his gaze. There was sadness there. But what tangled in his chest instead was something softer, heavier — the strange relief of being seen, of having the truth spoken out loud in front of everyone. He hadn’t imagined it. He hadn’t been foolish or dramatic or alone in feeling it. Mike had felt it too. He just hadn’t been ready.
“I need you all to understand something,” Mike went on, straighter now, more certain. “None of this is Will’s fault. Not the distance. Not the silence. Not the lies I pushed him into by walking away.” His jaw tightened. “I was the one who panicked. I was the one who made the wrong call. And when Will decided he didn’t want anything to do with me after that… he had every right.”
Will’s throat burned. Hearing Mike say it like that felt like a hand finally lifting a weight off his chest. For so long, he had carried the story alone, convinced he had been the weak link, the one who hadn’t known how to stay. Now the truth existed outside of him, shared, acknowledged.
They listened. Carefully. Quietly. No interruptions. No judgment. Just space, the kind that lets something painful finally breathe.
Mike told his side first, slowly, filling in the empty spaces with the honesty he hadn’t had back then. He spoke about confusion and fear, about choosing what felt safer instead of what felt true, about realizing too late that walking away had been the worst mistake of his life.
Will listened, his hands clenched together, each word settling somewhere deep inside him — painful, yes, but also grounding. It mattered that Mike said it out loud. It mattered that the story finally had two voices.
When it was Will’s turn, the words came more carefully. He talked about the fear that hollowed him out after graduation, about the way loneliness had wrapped around him so tightly. He spoke about how badly he had wanted to reach out, how many times he had stared at his phone with shaking hands, rehearsing conversations he never had because he didn’t know how to explain his life without breaking apart in the process. He told them how much he missed them — not just as friends, but as anchors, as home.
He explained the lie the same way he had lived it: not as something malicious, but as something desperate. Chicago had been easier. Chicago was a word that kept questions at bay, that allowed him to survive without having to expose the rawest parts of himself. The truth had felt too fragile to carry in the open.
It took time. The kind of time where no one rushed him, where the silence wasn’t uncomfortable but heavy with attention.
And when Will finally admitted he had never gone to Chicago — that he had been living in Pennsylvania the entire time — his gaze stayed fixed on the floor. His shoulders curled inward, bracing for impact, for disappointment, for the moment where understanding might finally run out.
He braced himself.
But no one looked angry.
That, more than anything, startled him.
Will forced himself to lift his eyes, expecting some sign that the truth had finally cost him everything. Instead, what he found made his chest ache in a different way altogether.
Their faces weren’t tight with judgment — they were drawn with something heavier. Sadness. Sympathy. The quiet realization of how alone he must have been.
Eleven was the first to speak, her voice gentle, careful, as if she were afraid of breaking something fragile.
“I’m so sorry you felt the need to lie,” she said softly.
The words hit him harder than anger ever could have.
“Yeah,” Will whispered, his throat tight. “I’m sorry too.”
The apology felt small compared to everything it carried, but it was all he had.
Max glanced at the others before speaking, as if checking that she wasn’t alone in this.
“It wasn’t ideal,” she said gently. “But I think we all understand, right?”
Dustin and Lucas nodded immediately, without hesitation, and that simple, instinctive response loosened something in Will’s chest that had been clenched for years.
“We could never judge you,” Lucas said. “You went through something really hard. You did what you thought was best. I just wish you hadn’t been alone.”
That was it. That was the sentence that broke him.
Will’s breath hitched, tears spilling before he could stop them. He hated how easily they came, but he didn’t fight them this time.
“I wanted you there,” he said, voice trembling. “I really did.”
Max didn’t wait for him to finish. She moved closer and wrapped her arms around him, solid and warm, murmuring quiet words into his hair that he couldn’t quite make out but felt all the same. Around them, no one rushed him. No one looked away.
The moment didn’t dissolve all at once, but the tears slowed. The tightness in Will’s chest eased into something warmer. No one hurried him. No one filled the space with noise. It felt like the end of a long-held breath — the kind you don’t realize you’ve been holding until your body finally lets it go.
And then, naturally, almost gently, the weight shifted.
“So,” Dustin said after a moment, rocking back on his heels like he was bracing himself. He scratched the back of his neck, clearly trying not to smile too widely. “I mean—just to clarify before my brain explodes—are you guys, like… together together now?”
Will felt his pulse spike at the question, even though he’d been waiting for it. He turned to Mike without really thinking, searching his face out of instinct. Mike was already looking at him, eyes warm, steady.
Mike smiled.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “We are.”
The word settled between them, solid.
“It wasn’t easy,” Mike continued, glancing briefly at Will before looking back at the others. “We messed up. I messed up. It took a lot of honesty and a lot of patience to get here. And I'll be trying my whole life to mend what I broke there, but he's given me a second chance.” His voice didn’t waver. “I love our daughter. And I love Will. And they’re the most important thing in my life.”
Will felt heat rush to his face, his throat tightening in a way that wasn’t painful this time. Mike leaned in and kissed him softly, the kind of kiss that didn’t need to prove anything — just presence, reassurance.
When they pulled back, Will realized he was smiling.
“Oh my God,” Max laughed, clapping her hands once. “Finally. Took you long enough, Wheeler.”
Mike snorted. “Wow. Thank you for the emotional support.”
“Hey,” Max shot back, grinning, “I gave you advice. This is a win for me, too.”
Lucas shook his head, smiling to himself. “I can’t believe this is actually happening.”
Dustin threw his hands up. “I knew it. I knew there was no way all that drama didn’t end with you two being disgustingly in love.”
Will laughed — a real laugh, surprised out of him — and for the first time since arriving, the sound didn’t feel fragile. It felt earned.
“Well,” Dustin said, clapping his hands together like he’d been waiting for permission, “now you have to tell us everything about the little cutie over there. Lori Byers?” He grinned. “That is a seriously badass name.”
Will laughed, the sound bubbling out of him before he could stop it. He shifted his weight, instinctively angling himself closer to Mike and Lori, and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, warmth spreading through his chest.
“Yeah, that’s her.” And then he started talking.
At first, he meant to keep it simple. Just the basics. But once he began, the words kept coming, tumbling over one another like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. He told them about her laugh — how it came out sudden and loud, like she was constantly amused by the world. About how she hated apples but loved bananas, how she kicked her legs when she was excited, how she made this tiny noise in her sleep that still made Will check on her every time.
He talked about her first fever, the night he didn’t sleep at all. About the way she calmed down when someone hummed to her, about how she grabbed fingers with shocking strength. He realized, distantly, that he was smiling the entire time.
It felt… good. Talking about her like this. Out loud. Letting her exist in the space with the people who mattered most to him.
Max eventually stepped closer, careful and deliberate, her voice softer than usual. “Can I?”
Mike glanced at Will first. Will nodded immediately.
Max took Lori from Mike’s arms like she was holding something precious, adjusting her grip instinctively. Lori blinked up at her, studying her face with solemn curiosity. For a second, Will’s breath caught — a reflexive fear he hadn’t fully shaken — but then Max smiled wide and said something quietly ridiculous, her voice rising and falling dramatically.
Lori stared at her. Then she laughed.
It was loud and sudden, a bright, delighted sound that made everyone freeze for half a second before breaking into grins.
“Oh my God,” Max laughed, eyes lighting up. “Did you hear that? She likes me.”
“She does that,” Will said fondly, his voice softening. “She decides people pretty fast.”
The afternoon unfolded gently after that.
Lucas took his turn next, holding Lori like he was afraid she might shatter, murmuring to her under his breath. Dustin followed, somehow managing to make her laugh again within seconds, pulling faces and whispering commentary like he was narrating an adventure. Eleven held her quietly, rocking slightly, eyes focused and tender in a way that made Will’s chest ache.
No one rushed her. No one overwhelmed her. They passed her carefully from one set of arms to another, always watching her reactions, always checking in with Will before doing anything new. It felt reverent. Like they understood, instinctively, that this wasn’t just meeting a baby — it was being trusted with something sacred.
Will watched it all with a tightness in his throat that never quite went away.
This was what he’d been afraid of losing. Not just acceptance — but this. This easy affection. This unspoken decision to love what he loved, without conditions.
They welcomed her.
They welcomed him.
At one point, Will realized Mike was watching him instead of Lori, eyes warm, proud, like he could see exactly what this moment meant. Will looked away quickly, blinking hard, overwhelmed by the relief of it all.
He had been so certain, for so long, that the truth would cost him everything.
But here they were — laughing, crowded together, Lori babbling happily in someone else’s arms — and his life wasn’t being rejected.
It was being embraced.
***
Reuniting with the Wheelers was going to be a completely different experience than reuniting with their friends.
Friends, as people liked to say, were the family you chose. The kind of family that came with a certain margin of forgiveness, with history forged through shared laughter and mutual support. They knew each other’s cracks. They had learned how to bend instead of breaking.
Families—the real ones—were different.
You didn’t choose them. You didn’t get to rewrite their expectations or soften their judgments. Rejection from them carried a different kind of weight, heavier and more lasting.
The Wheelers weren’t Will’s family. Not really.
But they were Mike’s. And now, whether anyone was ready to say it out loud or not, they were Lori’s too.
How this went would matter. Not just today, but later—holidays, visits, silences, the unspoken rules that shape a life without ever announcing themselves. It would define what kind of space Lori would have in that house. What kind of place would Will himself be allowed to occupy.
Today was important.
They had spent the night at Dustin’s house. His mom was away for a few days, visiting her sister, and the empty house had offered them something rare after everything that had happened the day before: quiet. Time to sleep. Time to breathe. Time for the emotions to settle instead of crashing into each other all at once.
Will was grateful for that more than he could put into words.
The previous day had been overwhelming, but in the best ways. Relief, fear, joy, tears—everything tangled together until he’d been too tired to separate one feeling from the next. Waking up that morning, with Lori warm against his chest and Mike half-asleep beside him, had helped anchor him again.
Still, the anxiety was there. Waiting. Patient.
If Will was honest with himself, the person who scared him the most wasn’t Karen Wheeler.
It was Ted.
Ted Wheeler had never liked how close Mike and Will were. Will had known that even as a kid, sensed it in the way Ted’s eyes lingered a little too long, in the way conversations shifted when he entered the room, in the casual comments about time spent together, about independence, about growing up.
It was strange, in a way. Ted’s indifference had always seemed so complete, so absolute, that it was almost unsettling to realize he’d noticed at all. That beneath the distance, he had recognized something real—something inevitable—long before Will had words for it himself.
Ted had never been comfortable with the bond between the two boys. Not with the way they gravitated toward each other, not with how Mike chose Will, again and again, even when it would have been easier not to.
And now Will was coming back, not just as Mike’s friend.
He was coming back as his partner.
As the father of his child.
The thought made Will’s stomach tighten.
Still, something had changed.
The fear was there, but it no longer stood alone. The support he had received the day before—unconditional, immediate —had settled into him like a quiet strength. His friends hadn’t flinched. They hadn’t pulled away. They had listened and embraced the truth and everything that came with it.
That mattered.
It didn’t erase the challenge ahead, but it made it feel survivable.
Will took a slow breath, adjusting his hold on Lori as she stirred slightly in her sleep. Whatever happened today, he wasn’t facing it the same way he would have months ago—alone, ready to disappear if necessary.
This time, he wasn’t running.
He was prepared to stand there and let the truth exist, even if it was uncomfortable.
Even if it asked more of the people listening than they were ready to give.
Later, they stood on the Wheelers’ front porch longer than necessary.
The house looked the same. The trimmed lawn, the closed curtains. Will had stood here dozens of times before, ringing the bell with scraped knees or a backpack slung over one shoulder, never imagining that one day he would return carrying a truth that could rearrange everything inside those walls.
Mike hadn’t reached for the door yet.
Will noticed it immediately.
Mike was tense in a way he hadn’t been the day before — shoulders tight, jaw set, fingers flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with the energy building under his skin. It struck Will then how different this was for him. With their friends, Mike had been steady. Certain. Almost calm.
Here, in front of his parents’ house, the certainty wavered.
And it made sense.
No one wanted to disappoint their parents. No matter how old they were. No matter how much distance they thought they’d put between themselves and that need for approval. It lingered. Quiet and stubborn.
Mike let out a slow breath, then another, and finally looked at Will.
“I need you to know something,” he said. “I’m nervous. And I don’t know how not to be.” He shook his head slightly. “But it’s not about you. Or Lori.”
Will watched his face as he spoke, the tension around his eyes, the way his gaze flicked briefly toward Lori before settling back on him.
“You two are the only part of this that doesn’t scare me.”
The words settled deep in Will’s chest. He didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, letting Mike continue, knowing he needed to say this out loud.
Mike continued, voice lower now, more vulnerable. “What scares me is them. What they’ll think when they realize I wasn’t there. That I missed things I can’t get back. That my choices didn’t just affect me.” His jaw tightened. “I hate knowing they’ll see that. That I’ll have to own it.”
Will’s chest tightened, sympathy blooming quietly. He knew that fear. The dread of being reduced to your worst decisions under someone else’s gaze.
“The truth is uncomfortable,” Mike went on, quieter now. “But it’s real. And I guess I have to learn how to live with that.”
Will shifted closer without thinking, the movement instinctive. He could see it so clearly: Mike wasn’t afraid of losing them. He was afraid of being seen fully, of having his mistakes laid bare in front of the people who had raised him.
Will wished, fiercely, that things had been different too. That Mike had been there. That they hadn’t lost all that time. That fear hadn’t stolen so much from both of them.
But wishing didn’t change where they were now.
“We’re together now,” Will said gently. “That’s what matters.”
He meant it. Not as a way to erase the past, but as a way to ground them in the present — in what they had fought their way back to.
Mike looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded, exhaling slowly, like the air had been stuck in his lungs for too long.
“Yeah,” he murmured.
He adjusted his grip on Lori, brushed his thumb lightly over her back, and stepped forward.
The moment stretched, taut and quiet.
Then Mike raised his hand and knocked on the door.
****
The living room felt smaller than Will remembered.
He felt the air itself had thickened after everything had been said. The truth still hovered between them, recent and fragile, settling into corners that had never been meant to hold it.
Lori slept against Mike’s chest, oblivious. That, more than anything, grounded Will. The steady rise and fall. Proof that this wasn’t theoretical anymore.
This was real.
Nancy sat on the arm of the couch, angled toward them, her presence calm and deliberate. She hadn’t looked surprised — not really. There had been recognition in her eyes instead, something like confirmation. When she met Will’s gaze, there was no hesitation there. Just reassurance.
Karen, on the other hand, hadn’t spoken for a full minute.
She stood near the kitchen entrance, one hand braced against the counter as if she needed the support. Her face was caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder, eyes flicking from Lori to Will, then back to Mike, as though her mind were trying to realign itself around a truth that had arrived all at once.
Seven months, Will thought.
Seven months she hadn’t known.
The realization pressed down on him with quiet weight. Karen Wheeler had missed his pregnancy. She had missed Lori’s birth, her first days, her first cries, the way she curled instinctively toward warmth. She had missed becoming a grandmother.
Will’s chest tightened. He hadn’t meant to take that from her. He had just… survived.
Karen finally exhaled, a soft, unsteady sound. She pressed a hand to her chest, then let it fall, shaking her head slightly. “I just—” she started, then stopped. She laughed under her breath, not amused, more overwhelmed. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and realize this is some kind of… misunderstanding.”
Her eyes found Lori again, and this time she didn’t look away. Will noticed the change immediately — the way her expression softened, the way something instinctive took over. The shock gave way to recognition.
“But she’s real,” Karen said quietly.
Something warm loosened in Will’s chest at that.
“I wish you’d told me,” Karen added, not accusing. Just honest. There was sadness there now, clearer than the shock. “I would have wanted to be there. For you. For both of you.” Her voice wavered for a moment before steadying. “But I understand why you didn’t.”
Will hadn’t expected that — not so quickly. He swallowed, nodding.
“I didn’t know how,” he admitted softly. “Back then, I barely knew how to tell myself.”
Karen looked at him then. Really looked. And Will felt seen in a way that didn’t strip him bare — that held him instead. She had always been like this with her children, he remembered. Always trying to make space. Always insisting they could come to her with anything, even when they didn’t believe her.
She crossed the room without thinking, drawn forward by something maternal and unshakable. She stopped just short of them, careful, like she was asking permission without words. Her hand hovered near Lori’s back, hesitant despite the longing written all over her face.
“May I?” she asked.
Mike glanced at Will. Will nodded.
Karen’s touch was gentle, reverent, as if she were afraid to startle something sacred. Her fingers brushed Lori’s back, warm and careful, and her breath caught immediately.
“Oh,” she whispered, eyes shining. “My God.”
She laughed softly then, overwhelmed all over again, a hand rising to her mouth as emotion overtook her.
“She’s beautiful.”
The word landed on Will with unexpected force.
Not acceptable. Not fine. Beautiful.
His throat burned. He looked away quickly, blinking hard, because the relief of it — of Karen seeing Lori and loving her without conditions — felt almost too much to carry. Karen wasn’t angry. She wasn’t interrogating him. She wasn’t tallying what had gone wrong.
She was grieving what she’d missed, yes, but she wasn’t placing that grief on their shoulders.
More than that, Will could see it in the way she looked at Mike, too. The understanding. The quiet recognition of the journey her son had been on — the questions, the fear, the courage it took to choose this life openly. Karen Wheeler had always loved fiercely, protectively. And now that instinct wrapped around all three of them.
Will hadn’t realized how much he’d been bracing for judgment until he felt it dissolve.
Nancy smiled, small and knowing. “She takes after both of them,” she said easily, like this had always been part of the story.
Karen laughed softly through her emotion. She nodded once, brushing at her eyes before looking at Will again, more grounded now, more certain.
“Of course she does.” Her voice steadied. “And I want you to hear this clearly.” She held his gaze, not letting him look away. “You’re welcome here. Both of you. This is your family too.”
The relief came quietly and settled deep in Will’s chest. He hadn’t expected kindness to arrive so quickly, or so intact, wrapped around a truth that still hurt. Nancy’s certainty, Karen’s warmth — they didn’t erase the weight of what had been lost, the months that could never be returned, but they made space for it without turning it into blame. Will felt nothing but gratitude for that. For the way they welcomed him and Lori, not despite the pain, but alongside it.
Across the room, Ted Wheeler cleared his throat.
It was a small sound, but it cut cleanly through the moment.
“Well,” Ted said, folding his newspaper with deliberate precision, as if order might reassert itself if he handled it carefully. “This is… unexpected.”
His gaze did not land on Will. Not really.
It moved instead between Mike and the baby, pausing just long enough to acknowledge Lori as an object in the room, not a person.
“I assume you’ve thought this through,” Ted continued, tone even, detached. “Logistics. Responsibility. What does this mean long-term”
Will felt himself shrink without meaning to.
It was subtle — the way Ted’s words framed everything in terms of consequence and burden. The way he spoke around Will instead of to him. The way his eyes slid past him like he was something inconvenient that had appeared where he shouldn’t have.
Mike stiffened.
Karen glanced sharply at her husband. “Ted—”
“I’m just being realistic,” Ted said mildly. “This isn’t something you rush into.”
Mike turned fully toward his father.
“We didn’t rush,” he said.
Ted raised an eyebrow. “It sounds like a lot happened without much planning.”
Will’s fingers curled into the fabric of his jeans. He focused on Lori’s soft breathing, anchoring himself there, because the alternative — meeting Ted’s gaze, seeing himself reflected in that assessing look — felt unbearable.
Ted went on, still addressing Mike alone. “You’re young. You have options. College. Your future. This complicates things.”
That was when Will understood something with sudden clarity.
Ted wasn’t angry.
He was minimizing.
Reducing everything — Lori, the years of feeling, the choices already made — into an inconvenience to be managed. And Will, by extension, into the variable that had caused it.
Mike didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t argue.
He simply said, “I’m not asking for permission.”
The room went still.
Ted looked at him then. Really looked. “Mike—”
“This is already decided,” Mike continued, calm but unyielding. “They’re my family.”
Will’s breath caught.
Ted frowned slightly. “You don’t have to be so dramatic.”
Mike didn’t flinch. “I’m not being dramatic. I’m being clear.”
He shifted Lori more securely in his arms, grounding himself in the weight of her.
“I love Will,” he said. “I love our daughter. I’m not debating that. I’m telling you.”
Something in Ted’s posture changed — a subtle stiffening, as he’d run into a wall he hadn’t expected.
Karen stepped closer to Mike instinctively, hand resting on his arm. Nancy moved too, aligning herself beside Will without hesitation.
And that was when it clicked for Will.
Mike wasn’t negotiating. He wasn’t trying to convince his father to approve.
He was drawing a line.
Will felt his shoulders relax.
The fear that had lived in him — that he would be tolerated but never chosen — loosened its grip. Mike was doing exactly what he’d promised. Standing where he said he would stand. Even here. Especially here. Facing his father without retreating, proving with action what words alone never could. And to Will, that was invaluable.
Ted exhaled, looking away. “Well,” he said after a moment, “we’ll have to… adjust.”
Mike nodded once. “You can take whatever time you need.”
Then, without missing a beat, he turned back to Will.
And chose him again.