Chapter Text
Willow sat on the floor with her back against the bedframe, knees pulled in, the window cracked just enough for the cold to creep through. She inhaled, slow and careful, the smoke sharp in the back of her throat. It burned going down. She welcomed it.
Downstairs, the house was loud in that forced, holiday way; wine glasses clinking, voices too bright, the smell of warm sugar cookies, laughter that landed a second too late. Her dad’s voice blended into it, polite and distant, like he was hosting someone else’s life.
Willow exhaled toward the window and watched it disappear. She’d never seen him truly happy. Not once in her 17 years of life. And lately, it felt like everyone else was pretending not to notice.
The doorknob rattled suddenly.
“Willow!” Max’s voice rang out. “Open up, it’s your favorite aunt.”
Shit.
Willow crushed the ember out on the windowsill, shoved everything under her pillow, and swung the door open, already coughing.
“Incense,” she said weakly. “For, uh. Cleansing.”
Max snorted and pulled her into a hug anyway.
╚══ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══╝
“I got the little artist to come down,” Max announced brightly, auburn waves bouncing. “God, how I missed you, my Wil.”
Willow felt it before she saw it.
Her dad stilled, not fully, not enough for anyone else to notice. Just a hitch. A pause where his hand hovered over the counter a second too long before setting his drink down. His smile came late, practiced.
Willow clocked it immediately.
Max grinned like she knew exactly what she was doing.
Willow offered a half-wave to the room. Lucas smiled at her, familiar and warm. Dustin shot her a thumbs-up like she’d just accomplished something impressive. Her Aunt Nancy looked over from the couch, sharp-eyed and composed, the kind of woman Willow knew she’d be compared to someday whether she liked it or not.
She loved them all. Truly. Lucas and Max were basically her second parents. Her god parents. Dustin was her dad’s cool friend who never talked down to her. her Aunt Nancy was—well. Nancy.
But right now, they all felt unbearably grown. She drifted toward the kitchen island, accepted a soda she didn’t want, leaned against the counter.
“Where’s Mr. Harrington?” she asked casually, mostly to fill the silence. He was always hanging out with her dad.
Her dad glanced up. “Uh—yeah. He’s, um. Having some people visit, I think. Wanted to stay home. Tidy up.”
Huh. She wondered who. Her sex ed teacher had all the same friends as her father. Maybe family was coming. Weird. She thought all Steve’s family lived in town.
Something about the answer felt thin, like it had been practiced.
She shrugged, already losing interest.
The house was loud in that polite, contained way, conversation looping back on itself, laughter rising and falling without ever quite landing. It made her restless. Like she was trapped inside a memory that wasn’t hers.
Willow slipped away before anyone could ask her about school.
The basement stairs creaked under her weight, the sound familiar enough to feel inherited. The air changed as she descended.. cooler, quieter, tinged with dust and old fabric. The basement lights flickered once before settling, illuminating the space where her dad and his friends had grown up.
This had been the place.
The hangout.
The epicenter.
She could feel it in the walls.
The couch was still there, threadbare and sagging. A folded D&D screen leaned against a shelf. Old board games were stacked haphazardly, corners bent, boxes faded. The room felt lived-in in a way the rest of the house didn’t—as if it had absorbed laughter and arguments and long nights and never quite let them go.
Willow crouched near a low shelf, idly scanning titles. She wasn’t snooping. Not really. Just… looking.
That’s when she saw the yearbooks.
She pulled one free and flipped through it, boredom dissolving into something gentler. There they were—Lucas, Dustin, her dad. Younger. Softer. Human in a way adults rarely let themselves be.
Her dad actually smiled back then. The Mike Wheeler, smiling. She didn't know that was possible.
She turned another page.
And then another.
A boy appeared beside him. Not once, but often. Too often to be coincidence. Shoulder-to-shoulder in group shots. Leaning in during candid photos. Always close enough that Willow’s chest tightened with something she didn’t have a name for yet.
She frowned.
She’d never met him.
The boy had brown hair, the same shade as hers, longer than the others. A quiet face. Hazelish green eyes that felt uncomfortably familiar. There was something about the way he stood—alert, slightly angled inward, like he was always bracing for the world.
He looked a little like her.
Or—worse—a lot like her mother.
The thought irritated her instantly. She hated that resemblance. Hated the way people said it like it was a compliment. Hated the woman it pointed back to. The woman who had blown a hole through their family and walked away smiling like she hadn’t. Her dad didn’t care anymore that they got divorced, or maybe he never did.
Willow shut the yearbook halfway, unsettled. Beneath the shelf, tucked carefully out of sight, sat a photo album. Not school-issued. Not public.
Personal.
She hesitated, then pulled it free.
The Polaroids inside were warm and soft and devastating. The same boy, older but undeniably the same beautiful boy from the yearbook, laughing, sprawled on the basement floor. Sitting cross-legged on the couch. Leaning into someone just out of frame. Her dad’s presence was everywhere—in hands, in shadows, in the way the camera lingered.
One photo stopped her cold.
The boy was turned away, toned arms lifted up, slipping off his shirt. a small birthmark visible near his left shoulder blade. The light was golden, almost reverent. The moment felt private in a way Willow wasn’t sure she was allowed to witness.
It was beautiful. He was beautiful.
It didn’t feel like friendship. And for the first time, Willow realized something with startling clarity:
She didn’t mind looking like him.
Upstairs, the sound of laughter drifted faintly through the floorboards. Glasses clinked. Someone called her dad’s name.
Willow closed the album carefully, like it might bruise if she wasn’t gentle.
Her dad had never mentioned this.
Not once.
And suddenly, Christmas felt very far away. She had to find this mystery man.