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Will had known this would happen the moment they said yes.
Not in a dramatic, prophetic way — just in the quiet, familiar dread that settled in his chest while they packed the car. The kind that came from knowing Ollie’s limits and choosing, anyway, to step right up against them. But refusing had felt cruel. Steve wasn’t getting married in Hawkins because Hawkins was a place they’d all buried pieces of themselves. Too many memories clung to that town like mildew. Too many of their friends had sworn they’d never set foot there again.
So Steve and Crystal had picked a venue still in Indiana — old brick, high ceilings, carefully restored — beautiful in a way that didn’t ache.
Never Hawkins.
The ten-hour drive had been brutal.
The car smelled like goldfish crackers, apple juice, and the faint plastic scent of new toys bought at gas stations to buy them fifteen minutes of peace. Lainey talked almost nonstop, her voice bouncing between songs and questions and stories that made no sense. Ollie cried when the road changed texture, when trucks roared past too loudly, when the sun shifted through the windows at the wrong angle. His crying wasn’t loud at first — it was tight, panicked, like something trapped.
They stopped constantly. Rest areas with buzzing fluorescent lights. Gravel parking lots where Will paced with Ollie pressed to his chest while Mike stretched Lainey’s legs and counted cracks in the pavement. Will’s shoulders burned by the time they reached the hotel, his jaw aching from how long he’d held himself together.
But they made it.
Now the reception hall pulsed with sound and motion.
Music boomed through the speakers — bass so strong Will could feel it in his teeth, in the soles of his shoes. The lights were warm but relentless, strings of them crisscrossing the ceiling and flashing reflections off glass and sequins and polished wood. The air smelled like champagne, sweat, perfume, and roasted chicken. People laughed too loudly, leaned too close, brushed past with quick apologies.
Lainey was thriving.
She spun across the dance floor with Joyce, her purple dress flaring out in joyful bursts. The fabric caught the light, glowing rich and vivid. She laughed so hard she tipped forward once, Joyce catching her easily. Every time the skirt twirled, Lainey squealed like it was the best thing she’d ever seen.
Will’s chest ached with love.
Oliver was unraveling.
Even with the headphones clamped over his ears, the vibration of the music traveled straight through him. Will could feel it in the way Ollie’s little body went rigid, in the way his fingers curled tight into fists and then clawed at Will’s jacket. The shirt — fine cotton, chosen carefully — had turned into an enemy. Ollie tugged at it with frantic, jerky motions, whining sharply, breath coming too fast.
Will bounced him gently, the motion automatic, his arms moving even as his heart stuttered with guilt. “Shh. I know. I know,” he whispered, lips brushing Ollie’s hair, which was damp with sweat. The smell of baby shampoo mixed with heat and stress filled Will’s nose.
Mike sat close, knee pressed to Will’s thigh, grounding him. His own smile had faded, eyes fixed on their son. He reached out and smoothed Oliver’s back, but the touch only helped for seconds at a time.
Will glanced back at the dance floor.
Lainey was laughing now, head tipped back, Joyce clapping along with the music. Will couldn’t bring himself to interrupt that kind of happiness.
“Babe?” Will said softly, leaning closer to Mike so his voice didn’t have to compete with the music. “I think we should take Oliver outside.”
Mike nodded immediately, relief flickering across his face. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.”
They stood and crossed the dance floor carefully. Will held Oliver with one arm and Mike’s hand with the other, grounding himself through touch. Mike carried the diaper bag, its strap digging into his shoulder. People moved around them in unpredictable bursts, laughter and perfume and fabric brushing too close.
Will stopped when he reached Joyce and Lainey.
“Hey, Mom,” he said, raising his voice just enough. “We’re gonna take Ollie outside for a bit. Can you watch Lainey?”
Joyce’s eyes softened instantly. “Of course, honey,” she said, squeezing Lainey’s hands. “Go on. Take your time.”
Lainey barely registered their departure, already twirling again.
The doors opened onto a courtyard.
The change was immediate.
The music dulled to a distant, muffled thump, like a heartbeat heard through walls. Cool night air washed over them, carrying the scent of damp stone, grass, and something faintly floral. Soft lights lined the courtyard paths instead of flashing overhead, their glow steady and gentle.
A few familiar faces were already out there.
Steve leaned against a low brick wall, tie loosened, drink forgotten in his hand. Max and Lucas sat on a bench nearby, shoulders touching, speaking in low voices. Dustin stood with them, gesturing animatedly but keeping his voice down. They all noticed Mike and Will — noticed Oliver — and, without a word, gave them space. No questions. No pressure. Just quiet understanding.
Will sank onto the edge of a stone planter and pulled Oliver closer, rocking him slowly. The stone was cool through his suit pants, grounding. Oliver cried harder at first — sharp, panicked sobs that shook his little chest — but the absence of vibration helped. Mike knelt in front of them, immediately loosening the bow tie and unbuttoning the top of Oliver’s shirt.
“There we go,” Mike murmured, voice low and steady. “That’s better.”
Will hummed under his breath, the same soft, tuneless melody he’d used since Lainey was a baby. His arms moved in a slow, rhythmic sway. Oliver’s sobs hitched, then softened into wet hiccups. His grip loosened, fingers uncurling as he pressed his face into Will’s neck.
“That’s it,” Will whispered, breath warm against Oliver’s hair. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
They stayed there for a long time.
The courtyard filled with quiet life — crickets chirping, distant laughter drifting out through the doors, the soft scrape of shoes on stone. Steve glanced over once, offered a small nod, then turned back to give them privacy. Max slipped Joyce a look through the doors, and a few minutes later Joyce came out with a juice box and a gentle smile, setting it beside Will without interrupting.
Eventually, Oliver went limp with exhaustion, breathing slow and deep.
They left early.
Lainey pouted for exactly thirty seconds before Joyce promised a sleepover and pancakes in the the near future. She hugged them tight, her dress scratchy against Will, then skipped back inside.
The walk to the car was quiet.
Oliver slept the whole way, heavy and warm in Will’s arms. The parking lot smelled like asphalt and night air. Crickets sang. Will strapped Oliver into his car seat with slow, careful movements, afraid to wake him.
Back at the hotel, Mike changed Ollie into the softest pajamas they owned — worn thin, familiar. Will sat on the edge of the bed, watching his son sleep, chest tight with lingering guilt.
“I shouldn’t have brought him,” Will whispered.
Mike crossed the room and cupped Will’s face, thumbs brushing under his eyes. “You didn’t know how it would go,” he said gently. “And you took care of him when it got too much. That’s what matters.”
Will leaned into the touch, finally letting himself exhale.
They left early the next morning. No brunch. No lingering goodbyes. Just the quiet hum of the road and the soft weight of their kids sleeping in the back seat.
And Will knew — with aching certainty — that this was what loving their family looked like.
Not forcing them to endure.
But knowing when to step outside.