I Don't Care-A Byler One-Shot

"Mike..."

His name barely leaves Will's lips, like he's afraid of it. Like saying it too loud will make this real.

Mike looks up anyway. "Yeah?"

Will's already too close. Not touching—yet—but close enough that Mike can feel the hesitation hanging between them, thick and suffocating.

Will swallows. His hands tighten slightly against the edge of the table.

"We can't," he says, even though he hasn't moved away. "What about Carlton—"

Mike cuts him off, quieter but firmer than Will expected. "Will, I don't care."

And that's it.

That's the moment everything tips.

Because Will does care. He cares about Carlton, about doing the right thing, about not being the kind of person who lets things spiral like this. But Mike—Mike is looking at him like none of that matters. Like the only thing that exists right now is the space between them.

And maybe that's what breaks him.

Will exhales shakily, like he's giving up a fight he's been losing for a long time.

"Mike..." he tries again, softer this time, but there's no argument left in it.

Mike doesn't say anything else.

He just leans in.

For a split second, Will freezes—heart pounding, thoughts screaming at him to stop, to pull away, to think.

He doesn't.

Their lips meet, hesitant and unsure at first, like neither of them fully believes this is happening. Like if they move too fast, it'll disappear.

Mike's hand presses harder into the table, grounding himself. Will's breath stutters, and then—just slightly—he leans in more.

That's all it takes.

The kiss deepens, not reckless, not rushed—just real. Too real.

And for those few seconds, nothing else exists. Not Carlton. Not consequences. Not tomorrow.

Just this.

Just them.

When they finally pull apart, it's slow. Reluctant.

Will keeps his eyes closed for a second longer, like he's trying to hold onto it. When he opens them, reality crashes back in all at once.

"...We really can't," he whispers, but it sounds weaker now. Like he already knows it doesn't matter anymore.

Mike's breathing is uneven, but his expression hasn't changed much. If anything, he looks more certain.

"Yeah," he says.

But neither of them moves away.

Because some lines—once crossed—don't uncross so easily.