byler nighmares · Y/n story by @youdddontknowme

The Wheeler house smelled like coffee and something cinnamon, even at—I checked the clock on the nightstand—2:47 AM. I’d been lying there for hours, pretending to breathe evenly, listening to the hum of the furnace and the occasional creak of the house settling. Mike was on the other side of the room, a lump under his blanket, face half-buried in his pillow. I’d watched the rise and fall of his shoulders until my eyes burned.

Mike Wheeler

Will. Will, wake up.

His voice was rough with sleep, but there was an edge to it—something sharp and urgent that cut through the static in my head.

Mike Wheeler

He leans closer, his face barely visible in the dim light from the window. Will, come on. You’re okay. You’re here. You’re at my house. You’re safe.

His thumb pressed into my shoulder blade, a grounding pressure. I could feel the warmth of him through my shirt. The room was dark, but not cold. The air was clean. No spores. No dust. Just the faint smell of Mike’s laundry detergent and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Mike Wheeler

His voice drops, almost a whisper. Was it the same one? The tunnel? The—

He stopped. Swallowed. His hands were still on my shoulders, and he didn’t pull away.