Work Text:
When he wakes in the mornings, it always takes Mike a moment to remember what reality he is waking up in.
Over the last four, nearly five, years, Mike’s mornings included a punch in the gut, a visceral sort of emptiness in the pit of his stomach, in the middle of his chest, that he believed would never fill up. It truly had felt as though his heart had been ripped from his chest that fateful night in 1987, and he was simply a shell of a man pretending as though he was an actual person for the next few years. He wasn’t okay, even when, on graduation day, he was convinced that the girl he loved was alive and well, far away and safe. The fear on her face, the tears he could still taste from their last kiss, her broken voice as she whispered, “goodbye, Mike,” would haunt him for the years to come.
Up until after he graduated college, if there was ever a morning after where he slept through the night despite too often nightmares and not enough dreams, he would wake and for a brief, hopeful moment, Mike thought everything was okay. But that relief only lasted a few seconds before reality came crashing down, and he would lay in bed with a weight on his chest and the brutal reminder that El wasn’t next to him. The sun would shine and the birds would sing their song, but El was somewhere he wasn’t lucky enough to be.
Until now.
These days, sometimes, those first few brief seconds of consciousness occur in the opposite fashion as they once did. He wakes up with a weight already on his chest, only for it to lift almost immediately when the familiar scent of fresh waffles and coffee hits his nose, the subtle sound of floorboards creaking and cabinets being closed reaches his ears. These days, Mike wakes up in a reality he had been praying for, for those four and a half years without his girl.
He sits up and notices the rumpled sheets next to him, proof of the body that spends all its nights with him. The floor is cool under his bare feet before he pulls on a pair of socks before ambling out of the bedroom and is immediately greeted by the sight of El in the kitchen, on the opposite side of their little cabin.
Mike stops where he stands, giving himself a moment to just look at her. He feels his pulse quicken, as it always does when it comes to El. She stands leaning against the glass door leading out to the back porch, a steaming mug in her hand. Her oversized knitted sweater hangs off her shoulder, dark hair hanging down her back, longer than it’s ever been. Streaks of caramel color through her hair from being under the sun, a habit that comes from working in the garden they have out back, or sitting by the stream behind the cabin that trickles from the waterfalls twenty minutes from town.
He is acutely aware of his rapid heartbeat as he drinks in the sight of her, sunlight bathing her in the morning glow, and the ache in Mike’s chest is sweet, welcome. He has never known her to be anything but beautiful, and it robs him of his breath every time. El’s eyes are shut, head tilting towards the sun, mug hugged close to her chest and a blissful smile on her face. The utter state of peace softly spread across her expression—peace that she fought so damn hard for. Blood, sweat, tears, death.
She’s the sight of dreams. Mike’s throat works, unable to move, until she suddenly speaks. “I can feel you watching me.” Soft, teasing, caressing his skin even from a distance.
The corners of Mike’s mouth curve up, not at all embarrassed at having been caught. He could never get bored watching her. “I won’t apologize for that,” he returns just as lightly, not daring to disrupt the gentleness of the morning.
He hears the soft laugh that escapes her as he starts walking. The cabin is spacious enough for the two of them, oddly reminding him of Hopper’s old cabin back in Hawkins. The open concept has the living room and kitchen meeting, just a counter separating the two. Large windows allow for plenty of natural light once the blinds are pulled up and curtains separated. It’s homey, with colorful cushions on the couch and a throw blanket, a soft carpet under the couch and coffee table facing the TV.
A few plants sit strategically where sunlight can reach them, a radio on a table next to the shelf that houses books, board games, VHS tapes for their movie nights, as well as cassettes they pick up from the local shops or during their day trips to Reykjavik. The cabin used to belong to a woman who took El in, when she first arrived to Iceland, who also helped El get a job at one of the local bakeries. They lived together the first few years El was here, until the old lady got sick and passed away.
Another loss that El suffered from, but the woman, Pálína, did one final act of kindness and left the cabin to El, since Pálína didn’t have any other family. And so El made this place her own, but always kept a picture of Pálína on the mantle to remember her and the warmth she had shown El.
Smiling up at Mike as he nears, El tells him, “Breakfast?”
“I’ll get it in a bit,” Mike assures as he reaches her, moving to stand behind her. His arms wrap around her, pulling El until her back is against his chest and she’s leaning her head against his collarbones. Her hair smells subtly like coconuts from her shampoo and the coffee in her mug nearly overpowers the scent, so Mike tilts his head down until he’s burying his nose in her hair, eyes slipping shut as he inhales deeply.
His right arm slips further up, left still across her stomach, until it bands across her collarbones. El is relaxed in his grasp, melting into him as one of her hands comes up to simply grasp his forearm, though she keeps him in place. “Did you sleep okay?” she asks quietly.
“I did,” he answers truthfully, opening his eyes and letting his gaze wander out the glass door.
The bright green of the grass gleams against the morning sun, and if they were to open the door, Mike knows they would hear the gentle lapping of water from the nearby creek accompanying the soft chirping of birds hidden away in the trees. Resting his cheek on the top of El’s head, a gentle smile spreads across Mike’s face, the quiet of the morning bringing the kind of peace he hadn’t felt back in Hawkins in years.
They may be far from what used to be their home, far from family and friends, but the life he and El have been building for themselves these last few months is one he wouldn’t trade for the world.
“Good,” El responds. He can hear the smile in her voice as she adds, “You were snoring.”
“What?” Mike asks, scoffing. “I don’t snore.”
There’s a gentle shake of her shoulders, accompanied by the melodic sound of her soft giggle. “How would you know?” She pokes his arm. “You’re asleep.”
Mike blinks as he freezes. The thought of disrupting El’s sleep, given that she’s a light sleeper—a symptom of spending so much of her life needing to be alert, on the run, in hiding—alarms him. He pulls away but uses his arms around El to turn her around until she’s facing him, his hands resting on her shoulders as he widens his eyes slightly. “Do I seriously snore?”
“Only sometimes,” she answers with a grin, showing off dimples he has countless brushed his thumbs over. She carefully holds the mug, making sure not to spill the contents, while her other arm slips around his waist, pressing closer.
Mike huffs, disappointed that his less than desirable sleeping habits may disturb her sleep. “Just—pinch my nose if I snore,” he decides with a shrug.
El’s eyes widen, a startled laugh escaping her. “I’m not pinching your nose,” she immediately protests with a grin. “It’s okay, Mike. I steal the blankets, you snore. We’re even.”
She does have the habit of stealing blankets—and she loves to purposefully press her cold feet against his legs. He yelps like a little girl every time, but El’s giggles are music to his ears.
Whatever protest he was about to go with dies on his tongue when he hears an unmistakable rumble, and Mike leans back to arch an eyebrow at her. “Did you eat yet?”
El shrugs, nonchalant, as she raises her mug and says, “I was waiting for you to wake up.”
His chest warms even as he clicks his tongue, dropping his hand to find hers where it rests on his back. “Breakfast time.”
As he leads her towards the kitchen, they pass the decorated fridge. The postcard El had sent Mike to let him know she was alive is pinned there by a magnet, along with polaroid pictures they took of each other—plus some that were taken by kind locals by the waterfalls or the park. He remembers the box El used to have—her Mike box, which made him blush and made his head spin with disbelief that she loves him that much—filled with photos of him, letters he sent her. He remembers barely having any pictures of El—just the one of them from Snow Ball, and a picture he had taken of her at the cabin that summer that he kept at his bedside, his desk. Even now, it sits at his bedside here in his new home.
In the privacy of their home, far from a government that is no longer after her, they decorate it with as many pictures as they can. There’s a picture of him with the guys and Max from graduation that sits on the mantle, and he sees El smiling at it often. A picture of Hopper and Joyce that they had brought when they visited a few weeks ago, commemorating a tearful reunion that El had been waiting for, for too long.
“Can we eat outside?” El asks, and when she gives him those big doe eyes, how the hell is he supposed to say no?
Not that he ever says no to El in the first place.
“Sure,” he smiles.
They get their food—waffles for her, bacon and eggs for him, and once he has poured his coffee, the two of them head out to the back porch, settling onto the seats. The morning chill is something he has gotten used to, and Mike breathes in fresh air. The clean grass and musk of wood, mixing with the crisp scent of the water from the creek is a combination that Mike welcomes every morning. A daily reminder of the fresh start he and El have, filling his lungs with airy contentment that has long since lifted the weight off his shoulders, his chest.
Like the moment he and El were in front of each other—hell, the moment he got off the plane in Iceland—everything else melted into nothing. Anything outside of this little world they’d built for themselves was irrelevant.
Mike admires the sunlight that brightens the world before him, the grass and leaves from the surrounding trees gleaming. From in between the rungs of the porch bannister, Mike takes in the sight of the flowers El has been lovingly growing. White flowers with delicate petals and yellow centers—Mountain Avens, El had told him, which is the national flower. Light blue forget-me-nots also accompany them, and during the summer, El also grows violet colored bluebells. It’s one of the many hobbies she has picked up, along with baking—par for the course with her job—and she is slowly learning how to knit as well. She plans on making Mike a beanie, to start.
Work that requires labor, work that requires her to work with her hands. She trains, too. Keeps her powers in sharp shape as she practices in their home. The cabin is pretty secluded, but El doesn’t risk trying anything outside—only when Mike offers to scout the area for her peace of mind. His girlfriend is far stronger than him—that’s never been up for debate—but he’d do anything to keep her at ease.
“What do you want to do today?” he asks when he’s almost done with his food—which, to be fair, he scarfed down. El was only just starting on her second waffle.
She hums in consideration. She doesn’t work on the weekends and Mike doesn’t have any deadlines coming up, so they have these forty-eight hours to themselves. El surprises him by answering, “Nothing.”
His eyebrows fly up. “Nothing?”
“Mm, not nothing,” she corrects herself, nodding her head side to side. She sits cross legged on the chair, the plate balanced on her lap and her mug on the small table between their chairs, his own next to hers. Turning her head to face him, wisps of dark hair caressing her cheeks, curved up by her smile. “Just want to. . . Hang out. Movies. Maybe lunch by the water?”
A simple request that makes Mike’s chest clench, especially at the hope that lights up in her honey colored eyes. It’s not lost on Mike that despite the simplicity of El’s plans for the day, even these plans had been difficult for her to make while living in Hawkins. A few months of normalcy, back in the summer before high school, had been confined to Hopper’s cabin before the Mind Flayer came back.
Now, El’s life here is simple—but peaceful. Happy. She’s free to go beyond this cabin, free to roam around this little town. She has made friends, people who care about her, who welcomed Mike openly when El introduced him to them. Together, their life consists of the most normal things, but Mike cherishes every moment because they’re with El. Doing groceries, picking up things to make their cabin even more of a home, being able to sit at restaurants and enjoy date nights, blending in with the tourists over in Reykjavik when they go on day trips.
It’s his favorite word now—normal. A kind of life that hadn’t felt possible for years, the kind of life they dreamed about.
“Sounds perfect,” Mike answers with a smile, and her answering grin robs him of his breath.
When they finish breakfast, they don’t go inside right away. Instead, El moves to sit on the bottom porch step, kicking her slippers off to sink her feet in the soft grass. For a few minutes, Mike remains on the chair so he can, once again, admire her from behind. The sun just barely hits her when she sits, just a little further from where the porch roof ends, the subtle breeze making wisps of her dark hair dance. She’s leaning forward and even from behind, Mike can tell she’s got her arms wrapped around her legs, and is probably digging her toes into the grass. He knows her—every sound, every movement, every look. He can read her better than any book—except for that one time. That one time it counted, on the bridge.
An anxious tightening of his chest pushes him to his feet, overcome with the need to be close to her, to feel her and reassure himself she’s real and not a figment of a once torturous imagination.
El’s head turns, ever so slightly, to the side as she hears his footsteps against the wood, but she doesn’t otherwise move as Mike settles on the step directly above hers, setting his feet on the step she sits on with her in between his legs. His arms loosely wrap around her from behind, resting on her shoulders, and El is quick to lean back against him until they’re as close as can be in this position. Mike’s breathing becomes easier at the proximity, feeling the warmth of her body seeping into his through his clothes. He repeats his earlier position, resting his chin on the top of her head, feeling El exhale slowly under him.
For too long, their lives had felt like they always needed to be on alert, bracing themselves for the next fight, the next war. El had built a peaceful life for herself, here in Iceland, after disappearing for a couple of years, and she told Mike often it only felt truly complete when he joined her.
It had been so easy for him to leave everything else behind. Now that they know the military is no longer a threat, the government has officially declared El dead, they are able to keep contact with their friends and family back in the states. Now that everyone has split up, it’s somehow easier to reach out to them. Easier for them to plan trips spread throughout the year to come see Mike and El and this new life of theirs. Mike thinks about the familiar streets of Hawkins, the ones he grew up on, rode his bike around on, and although there are fond memories, he has never once, not for a single second, regretted leaving it all behind.
To get to be here, with El, is the greatest gift.
He’s not sure how long the two of them sit out on the porch. Long enough for Mike to start playing with El’s hair, nimble fingers working through the soft strands and working them into a loosely plated bread, scared to tug too hard. Mike admires the lighter colored strands as El puts her hand up, a red hair tie between her fingers.
Mike chuckles quietly and obliges her silent request, tying the braid at the end. A few strands of her hair escape at her temples, framing her face, but that’s how El likes it. When he finishes, he rests his hands on her delicate shoulders, leaning down until his cheek presses against her left one and he murmurs, “Good?”
He feels her cheek push up with her smile. “Mhm,” she hums while turning her face to press her lips to his own cheek. Mike’s skin warms at the sweet touch, his right hand snaking around until he’s gently grasping her jaw to turn her head towards him just a bit more—until he can capture her lips with his in a slow, drawn out kiss.
She tastes sweet, like syrup and the coffee she puts an obscene amount of sugar in, and achingly familiar. His pulse picks up, feeling her grasp his knee, her touch hot through the flannel material of his pajama pants. He could just stay like this, forever. Completely content.
It’s warmer in the afternoon, the sun doing its job and chasing away the earlier morning chill. The creek is only a few feet away, running water lapping against the rocks in a gentle melody, glittering under the sunlight as it flows. The tree they rest under is large, providing ample shade, though sunlight peeks through the gaps between leaves.
Mike holds his copy of American Psycho over his face as he reads—or attempts to. He’s more of a science fiction guy, not gothic horror, but it looked intriguing and he impulse bought it during his and El’s last trip to the bookstore. Except now he’s not even paying attention to the book; instead, he focuses on the steady rise and fall of El’s body. His head leans against her side as she lays on her stomach; while he reads, he hears the subtle clack of needles hitting together as she knits the beanie for Mike.
They had finished their lunch by the water, per El’s request, a picnic blanket beneath them. The cabin is just fifteen feet away, their own little open world backyard that’s privatized by the surrounding trees, some wildflowers scattered about. He had been holding his book above his face to read, but Mike finds himself lowering it onto his chest, head turning to the right to peer at El.
She had asked him what color he wanted the beanie in, showing the variety of yarn she had, and Mike hadn’t hesitated to say purple. Her answering smile and blush told him it was a color she hadn’t expected for him to say, but it only felt right. It’s her color, and he wants to wear it by her hand.
This is real life. Him, El—sitting by the water, finally without a care in the world, their demons exorcised and enjoying a life well earned. Especially for her. Sometimes, Mike still can’t believe it. He had known, from the moment he found her that night in the woods when they were twelve, that his life was about to change forever. Some intrinsic, instinctive knowledge that seemed to exist, like he’s always known it, and was unlocked only in that moment that this scared girl was about to become the most important thing in his life. And he hadn’t been wrong.
Now, over ten years later—after all of the fighting, the separation, the tears, the devastation—they get to be here. Far away, where the pain can’t reach them. Not fully. Only in memories, only in a past they get to reclaim as their own. The nightmares visit them once in a while, taking turns to comfort one another, whispering sweet nothings and holding each other through it. Mike gets them more often than El, if he’s being honest. He thinks, with his stomach twisting, that maybe because she has gotten used to comforting herself, spending so much of her life alone. He fucking hates that for her. He hates every single person who has caused her pain, harm. Brenner, Dr. Kay, Sullivan, those soldiers, Vecna—
Hate burns in Mike’s veins, familiar and bright, but he forces himself to breathe through it. Reminds himself that it’s over for good. No one can hurt them—hurt El. Mike’s teeth press together, jaw tightening, as he turns to look back up towards the sky, the leaves that obscure the view, and squeezes his eyes shut. Breathe—in, out. She’s okay. She’s here. It’s over.
“You don’t like your book?”
El’s soft voice pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts, his eyes going towards her before his head follows. El watches him over her shoulder, eyebrows raising as she looks between him and the open book laying face down on his chest. Her hands have stopped their work, the needles paused between her fingers, the beanie looking about a third done.
“No, it’s—it’s good,” he says, stumbling over his words.
El watches him knowingly, tilting her head curiously. “But there’s something on your mind.”
“Something’s always on my mind,” he says nonchalantly, trying to play it off as he flashes her a smile. “In case you forgot, I’m a pretty anxious person.”
“Mike,” she sighs before shifting, and Mike lifts his head enough to allow her to change positions until she’s sitting leaning back against the tree. Her knitting supplies lay forgotten by her side and when her eyes lock with his, she makes a small encouraging noise and pats her lap.
He obliges her request with an upward quirk of his lips, even as his pulse quickens. Mike settles his head on El’s lap, looking up at her as, almost immediately, he feels her fingers carding through his hair. It’s familiar how instantly at ease he feels under her touch, careful and loving in the simple gesture. She’s always loved playing with his hair, and Mike has often fallen asleep to the massage of her fingers through the locks, a sort of muscle relaxer that has him forgetting all of life’s problems.
Mike laces his hands together, resting them on his stomach as he focuses on its rise and fall with every breath. But his eyes are on El, looking down at him with a subtle tilt of her head, a softness in her gaze marred only by some concern. That softening of her eyes, though—the lack of frown lines on her forehead, her lips no longer tilted downwards, gaze empty of the heaviness she carried for years. . . Nothing brings Mike more relief than knowing, in her heart, El is at peace. No longer at war, no longer being hunted, no longer a machine but just a girl. A woman, living a life that once felt like a far away dream. The two of them together with a threat looming over their heads, without sneaking around or living like fugitives.
She’s come so far—they both have. The reality of it strikes him in the chest, making his eyes suddenly sear with unexpected tears. His hands fly up to press the heels of his palms to his eyes, digging in to suppress the tears, a muttered, “Jesus fucking Christ,” escaping him as stars exploded behind his closed legs.
“Mike,” El says, the worry slipping into her voice. He feels her hands, smaller than his own, wrapping around his to pull them away from his eyes. Mike blinks a couple of times, adjusting to the brightness, to the pressure dissipating from his eyes, and looks up at El. She hovers over him, a crinkle between her brows. “What is it? Talk to me—please.”
He hadn’t meant for her to plead—hadn’t meant to worry her at all. Those deep brown eyes, lighter in this lighting—lighter when she’s happy, lighter when she’s looking at him—silently beg him for honesty, and he is quick to listen. “It’s nothing bad,” he assures her and, truthfully, it isn’t. He offers her a small smile and adds, “I just got a little overwhelmed, I guess.”
“Overwhelmed,” El repeats, her fingers still gently carding through his hair. She has grown her nails out, too, will often paint them bright colors—something Mike quite enjoys helping her do, always making sure he doesn’t fuck it up. Now, he feels her nails lightly scratching along his scalp, the sensation sending a welcome chill down his spine. Right as he feels a tear stupidly escape his right eye, rolling down his temple, El cups his cheek with her other hand and brushes the tear away with her thumb as she asks, “In a good way or bad way?”
“A little bit of both,” Mike answers. When the furrow between her eyebrows deepens, he explains, “I wake up some days and it takes me a minute to remember where I am. Those days, I—I think that I’m back in Hawkins, or in Chicago, before we found each other again. And I get—” A huff of a humorless chuckle escapes him, gaze on hers. He has long since stopped shying away from talking about his feelings with El. During those years when she was gone, Mike spent countless hours thinking of all the things he never got to say to her. The second he found out she was still alive, Mike promised himself, and her, that he would tell her everything going on in his head and heart. “I get so scared. I feel like the world is crashing down around me, just like that night.”
A shaky breath escapes El, distraught. “Mike—”
“It never lasts long,” he reassures, sitting up. Her hands fall away from him as Mike braces his right arm next to her left leg, practically caging her in against the tree. “Because then I see you sleeping next to me, or hear you humming in the kitchen, and for a second I think I’m dreaming but then I realize it’s real. It’s real.” It comes out as a gentle, airy laugh. A little disbelieving, but full of relief at the same time. This time, Mike’s hand comes up to cup El’s cheek, her skin soft under his touch, and his heart flips when she instinctively leans into his palm, eyes on his. “I just—I start thinking about everything we’ve been through. Everything you’ve been through, and I get so angry thinking about it all, but then I’m so fucking glad that we’re here. That we made it.”
To be sitting here in their backyard, surrounded by greenery and flowers and a creek, in a place they have made their own home, in a town that welcomed them so easily—it still feels surreal to Mike. Granted, it’s only been six months since he’s been here, and El has had more time to adjust, but Mike knows the gratitude will never lessen—not that he ever wants it to. The warmth of it is a peace of its own.
“I guess—I guess what I’m trying to say is that—” Mike lets out a breath, thumb absently rubbing along the curve of her cheek, admiring her dark eyes, prettily framed by long eyelashes. He will never get tired of the way El looks at him; full of so much love, warmth, and want. That he’s a lucky enough bastard to be on the receiving end of this look, to be able to give his entire heart to her and know that she will take care of it, just like she trusts him to do the same with hers. “It’s that I’m still not used it to it, you know? That this is our life. It takes a second to process and when it does I’m so—I’m overwhelmed with how grateful I am. Happy. You’ve been through so much, El, and I’m so thankful for where we are now.”
El is silent for a moment, processing his impromptu monologue. He takes the flush on her cheeks as a good sign, notices the subtle bob in her throat before she lifts her chin and tells him, “We have been through so much.”
He can’t help the quiet scoff that escapes him. “You more than anyone.”
But she frowns. “It’s not a contest, Mike.” She places her hand on top of his that rests on the ground next to her leg, and Mike can feel the cool metal of her ring against his knuckle. The ruby ring he had given her, years ago. “You’ve been through a lot, too.”
She looks so stern, so adamant that he doesn’t diminish his own suffering. He falls a little more in love with her, if possible. “The worst was losing you,” Mike tells her unabashedly. Losing her, over and over again, took a piece of him every time. This last time, thinking she was dead for two years before realizing the possibility of her surviving—realizing, after he finally pulled himself just a little bit out of his grief, that he would have felt her go and hadn’t after the Upside Down was destroyed—had been unspeakable. A pain like no other. If she was gone, then so was he. Living in a world without El had felt like a sin; finding out she was still alive was a kind of absolution.
“But you’re here,” Mike continues, his smile coming easily. It makes El smile, too, his pulse quickening when she turns her head just enough to press a kiss to his palm. He tilts his head, admiring her dimples, heart pounding. “And this is everything I’ve ever wanted.”
El’s lips part, a shaky breath escaping her. She smiles at him, but it’s a little sad. “Even if it’s far away from your friends? Your family?”
He won’t lie to her. “I miss them, just like I know you miss them, too. And—And maybe they might think I’m an asshole for saying this, but—” Mike shrugs, shifting closer to her, reveling in the coconut shampoo scent. “But I’ve been happier here, with you, these last few months than I’ve ever been in Hawkins.”
Mike loves his family and friends—he looks forward to their letters when they come in a few times a month. He was excited when they visited after it was deemed safe, now that the American government isn’t after El anymore. But to his core, he knows the truth: if he had to choose between everyone and El, he would choose El. Every single fucking time. No contest.
Besides, he’s pretty sure everyone knows this already, anyway.
“You’re not an asshole,” El says with a gentle laugh, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, feeling her fingers brush into his hair. He grins because it’s rare that El curses, but when she does, it fills him with an endearing sort of glee. Her smile widens, dark eyes glimmering happily as she shrugs one shoulder in a knowing way. “You just love me. A lot.”
His grin widens, watching as El’s gaze flickers down to his lips, her own smile growing and dimples deepening as he leans closer and closer. “More than a lot,” he corrects warmly, allowing himself a moment to hear her giggle before he’s closing the gap to kiss her.
El makes a small noise of contentment as she opens her lips against his, Mike’s hand slipping towards the back of her head, cupping it protectively as he leans her back against the tree. The bark is rough against the back of his hand, but he pays it no mind—not when El tilts her head and eagerly deepens the kiss, not when every single nerve and cell in Mike’s body comes alive, not as the rest of the world fades away into nothing until all that’s left is him and her.
His pulse races, his skin like it’s on fire, just as El murmurs into the kiss, “You’re my favorite person, Mike.”
His heart swells, the air hitching in his throat as the kiss breaks, though he doesn’t pull away too far. Mike presses his forehead to hers, both of their breathing a little heavy, and as he admires the pretty pink flush on her cheeks and slightly kiss swollen lips, Mike’s throat works as he asks, “Yeah?”
His voice is a little hoarse, thick from a hundred different emotions. Unbridled joy, warmth, contentment, a hint of disbelief, and so much love. Her favorite person—it’s the greatest honor of his life.
El nods, their noses slipping together. The shine in her eyes makes his stomach flip, her emotions bright as she looks at him. “Yes,” she says. “I don’t care if it’s selfish—I’m so—” Her voice breaks and Mike’s other hand shifts from the ground to her thigh, giving it a squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re here with me.”
“Always,” Mike says steadily, with the kind of certainty that can never be disputed. “You and me."
Her smile returns, bright and beautiful. “You and me."