𝐛𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐢𝐞 ــــــــــﮩ٨ـ she/her. 24. real life lara jean. march pisces. baby pink. chocloate boxes. crafts. coffee. cursive handwritting. sunrises. cats. big fan of evil guys
Peter Parker had always been good at noticing details-tiny things most people missed, like the faint crack in a locker hinge or the way a spider web shimmered differently depending on the angle of the light. But when it came to you, noticing things wasn’t a skill. It was instinct. It was automatic, like breathing.
He couldn’t remember exactly when it started. Maybe it was sophomore year, when you walked into class with your hair curled for the first time, soft loops catching the fluorescent light and bouncing gently when you laughed. Or maybe it had been earlier-freshman year, when you sat two rows ahead of him and turned around to lend someone a pencil, smiling so easily, like kindness cost you nothing at all.
Peter told himself it wasn’t a big deal. People had crushes. It was normal. Except his crush didn’t fade, didn’t quiet down or blur at the edges. It sharpened over time, growing more specific, more detailed, until it felt like he carried a private gallery of you in his head.
He noticed everything.
The way you sometimes straightened your hair on Mondays, sleek and glossy, tucking it behind your ear as you focused on your notes. The way, on other days, it fell naturally around your shoulders, slightly messy like you hadn’t tried too hard-but he knew you had, because you always looked just a little too put together for it to be accidental.
He noticed your makeup too-not in a weird way, he swore to himself, just… observant. Like when you wore a soft pink gloss instead of your usual clear one, or when there was a faint shimmer on your eyelids that caught when you blinked. Once, you showed up with a slightly darker eyeliner, and Peter spent the entire day trying to figure out what was different before realizing it. It drove him insane-in the best, worst way.
“Dude,” Ned had whispered once, following Peter’s line of sight as you laughed with your friends across the cafeteria. “You are down astronomically bad.”
“I’m not-” Peter had started, then stopped, because you’d pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and smiled again, and suddenly he forgot what he was saying.
Ned snorted. “You literally noticed when she switched coffee cups last week.”
Peter flushed. “It was a different color-”
“It was beige.”
“It was a different beige.”
Ned just shook his head, grinning. “You’re a simp.”
And maybe he was. Because he noticed the way you held your coffee with both hands when it was cold outside, fingers wrapped around the cup like you were trying to keep the warmth from escaping. He noticed how you sometimes paused before taking a sip, tilting it slightly to take a picture-just a quick one, nothing dramatic-if the foam art was cute or the lighting hit just right.
He noticed your outfits too. Not in a shallow way-at least, he hoped not-but because they always felt like an extension of you. Soft sweaters in the fall, sleeves just a little too long so you could tug them over your hands. Light, flowy tops in the spring that moved when you walked. Once, you wore a jacket that made you look like you belonged in a movie, and Peter spent the entire day wondering what kind of movie it would be.
The problem was… he’d never talked to you.
Not really. Not beyond a passing “sorry” in the hallway or a mumbled “thanks” when you handed him a worksheet once. Every time he thought about saying something more, his brain short-circuited. Words got tangled, confidence vanished, and suddenly he was hyper-aware of everything-his hands, his voice, the fact that he might say something stupid.
So he stayed quiet. Watched from a distance. Memorized.
Until one afternoon, everything changed.
It wasn’t dramatic. There were no slow-motion moments or cinematic music swelling in the background. It was just the hallway after school, crowded and noisy, lockers slamming, people talking over each other. Peter was distracted, trying to shove his notebook into his already overstuffed backpack, when he turned too quickly-
-and walked straight into you.
“Whoa-!”
You stumbled slightly, your coffee tilting dangerously in your hand. Peter’s reflexes kicked in before his brain did, and he reached out, steadying the cup before it could spill.
“I’m so sorry!” he blurted immediately, stepping back like he’d just touched something fragile. “I didn’t-I mean, I wasn’t looking-are you okay?”
You blinked at him, surprised, then smiled.
And Peter’s brain completely, utterly stopped working.
“It’s okay,” you said, your voice soft but clear. “You actually saved my coffee, so… thank you.”
“Oh-yeah-no problem-I mean, it’s just-coffee-so-” He winced internally. Smooth. So smooth.
But you laughed. Not in a mean way-just a small, genuine laugh that made his chest feel weirdly light.
“I’m glad,” you said, glancing down at the cup before looking back at him. “It was really cute. I was about to take a picture of it.”
Of course you were. Of course you were, and of course he noticed.
“It is cute,” he said, a little more steady this time, nodding toward the foam art. “It looks like… a heart? Kind of?”
Your eyes lit up slightly. “Yeah! That’s what I thought too.”
There was a pause-not awkward, just… open. Like something could happen in it, if he let it.
Peter swallowed, heart pounding in his ears. Ned’s voice echoed faintly in his head-You’re a simp-and for once, he didn’t try to argue with it.
“Um,” he started, then pushed through before he could stop himself. “I was actually-there’s a movie playing this weekend, at the theater on 5th, and I-”
He almost backed out. Almost laughed it off, pretended he hadn’t meant it. But then you tilted your head slightly, listening, waiting, and suddenly he couldn’t not say it.
“-I was wondering if you’d maybe want to go? With me. As, like… a date.”
The word hung there, fragile but real.
For a second, he thought he’d messed everything up. That he’d rushed it, that it was too much, too sudden-
But then you smiled again. Not the polite kind. Not the quick, automatic one.
A real one.
“I’d like that,” you said.
And just like that, everything shifted.
Peter nodded, trying very hard not to look like he might pass out. “Cool. Cool, yeah. That’s-great. I’ll text you? Or-do you-have-”
You laughed softly and pulled out your phone. “Here,” you said, handing it to him.
His hands were slightly shaky as he took it, typing in his number, painfully aware of how surreal this felt. Like one of those moments he’d replay later just to make sure it actually happened.
When he handed it back, your fingers brushed his for just a second-barely anything-but it sent a spark up his arm anyway.
“I’ll text you,” you said.
“Yeah,” he replied, smiling a little helplessly. “Yeah, okay.”
And as you walked away, coffee still safe in your hands, Peter stood there for a moment, heart still racing, mind buzzing-not with distant observations this time, not with quiet, one-sided details-
travis meacham x reader
831
an: this is set as if the fungus has taken over the world
The world outside had gone quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against your ears and made even the smallest creak of a floorboard sound like a scream. The sky was gray, the air thick with spores that smelled faintly of damp earth and rot. Buildings stood half-swallowed by vines; streets were littered with abandoned cars and empty cans. Every day was survival, every night a reminder that normal life was gone.
Yet here, in their small, crumbling apartment, it still felt like home. Or maybe it felt like the closest thing to home that still existed. Travis had insisted on keeping it tidy, in his chaotic way-dust swept into corners, a few precious trinkets stacked carefully on the shelves, scraps of paper with grocery lists and reminders pinned to the walls.
You tried not to make a big deal about birthdays anymore. There was no point, really. No power, no real food, no music to play, no friends left to call. Even when you woke up this morning, you had muttered to yourself, It’s just another day. Nothing matters. But Travis… well, Travis had other plans.
For days, you’d watched him disappear into the city, carrying a backpack heavier than you thought he could manage. He never told you where he was going, only that he “had to check something.” He came back covered in dust and scratches, but with a triumphant glint in his eye that made you curious enough to ask-and he’d just shake his head. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
And then there was the corner of the apartment he’d converted into a makeshift kitchen, cluttered with scavenged ingredients. Flour spilled over the edge of a metal bowl, cocoa dusted the countertop, and tiny sugar packets sat lined up like soldiers. You had watched him scribble measurements on scrap paper, muttering to himself about baking times and temperatures he hadn’t used in years. He hummed under his breath while he worked, sometimes glancing at you with a lopsided grin that made your chest tighten.
You had almost asked him what he was doing, but something told you it wasn’t your place. So you stayed quiet, pretending to read, though every now and then, you peeked over the corner of your book and caught him carefully carving a stubby little candle from an old block of wax. You could see the way he fretted over every little detail, how he licked frosting from his finger and muttered, That’ll do… that’ll do.
When he finally called you over, your heart sank into your stomach. On a chipped plate sat a single cupcake-crooked, slightly burnt, with frosting that looked like it had been piped by someone who had never baked before. And in the center, the little stubby candle he had carved himself burned faintly, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling.
“Happy birthday,” he said quietly, pushing the plate toward you. His hands trembled just enough that you noticed, and he tried to mask it with a shrug. “I… uh… figured… we could still-y’know-celebrate.”
You blinked. For a moment, the absurdity of it-the lopsided cupcake, the tiny flickering candle, the ruined world outside-made you want to laugh. But then you looked at him. At the scratches on his arms, at the way his hair stuck to his forehead, at the soft worry in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide. And your chest swelled with a warmth you hadn’t felt in months.
“This is… perfect,” you said softly, reaching out to squeeze his hand.
He looked up at you like you’d just handed him the world, relief flooding his features. “Yeah,” he said. “Perfect.”
You laughed lightly and leaned over, blowing out the candle together. Smoke curled upward, a fragile little wisp against the gray backdrop of the apartment. And for a moment, everything else-the spores, the ruined city, the uncertainty of tomorrow-faded away. It was just the two of you. Just this crooked cupcake and the quiet devotion that had survived everything else.
“You really went through all that just… for this?” you asked, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.
Travis shrugged again, cheeks reddening. “I mean… you deserve it. Birthday or no birthday, it’s-” He paused, searching for words. “It’s the one thing I can still give you that feels… normal. Or close enough.”
You leaned your forehead against his shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of flour, cocoa, and him. “It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten,” you whispered.
And in that moment, surrounded by the quiet, broken world, it didn’t matter that the cupcake was lopsided, that the frosting was a little smudged, or that tomorrow might be just as hard as yesterday. What mattered was this-the care, the effort, the stubborn hope that even in the worst of times, love could still exist.
Travis smiled against your hair, brushing a strand from your face. “Then I guess… it’s worth it,” he murmured.
And for the first time that day, you believed him.
Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 🌻💚🌞
omg this is so hard to choose for but!
here are the top five fics i love!!! including some from my other blog :)
on air, with love (steve harrington)
Some messages aren’t spoken, they’re broadcast. After a string of awkward encounters leaves one boy hopelessly smitten and one girl hopelessly overwhelmed, an unexpected plan sparks to life at Hawkins’ small-town radio station.
operation: cupid dustin (steve harrington)
Dustin Henderson believes in love the way he believes in science: if two things belong together, all they need is the right push.
psych 101 (rafe cameron)
What in the preschool hell…?
the meaning of insects (mattheo riddle) (found on @riddlesrizzler)
She was the Hufflepuff in bumblebee tights-bright, odd, and impossible to ignore. Mattheo Riddle never meant to fall, but mismatched socks turned into ladybug tights, and before he knew it, he wasn’t the same. Something in her made him softer, lighter. The change creeping in, like a butterfly blooming from its cocoon. With every shared smile, every strange belief she held, she brought color to the grey parts of his life, and without even trying, she gave him something he hadn’t had before: meaning.
The World Ended When it Happened to Me (mattheo riddle) (found on @riddlesrizzler)
ILL SCREAM IT AGAIN HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRACIE AND ALSO HAPPY 1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY TO UR BLOG 🩵🎉🌟🩵🎉🌟🩵🎉🌟🩵 love u and thankful I came across bumblebee tights and meet u!
EEEK THANK YOU SO MUCH MY PIZZA FROG!!!!! I WILL NEVER FORGET THE EXCITEMENT I FELT WHEN YOU LIKED MY FIC!!!
The first year he did something for her birthday, he was seventeen and terrified.
They were sitting on the diving board in his backyard, legs skimming the surface of the pool while cicadas buzzed loud in the Indiana summer. Steve Harrington had spent the entire afternoon pretending he wasn’t planning anything.
He’d dragged patio chairs out by the pool. Stolen one of his mom’s nicer blankets. Lit citronella candles he definitely wasn’t supposed to light. There was a cassette player set up between them, playing some cheesy slow song he insisted was “ironically cool.”
“You did all this?” she asked, smiling at the little picnic spread of chips and stolen sodas.
Steve shrugged, like it was nothing. “It’s not a big deal. Just figured… birthdays shouldn’t be boring.”
But he watched her more than the stars that night. Memorized the way candlelight caught in her eyes. Decided, very quietly, that he’d do something every year.
-
The second year was a disaster.
He tried to bake her a cake.
Not buy one. Bake one.
Which was his first mistake.
The kitchen at the Harrington house smelled like smoke and sugar gone wrong. The cake was burnt on top, somehow liquid in the middle, and leaning slightly to the left like it had given up on life.
She stared at it.
He stared at it.
“It’s… modern,” he offered weakly.
She burst out laughing. Not mean. Just the kind of laugh that made her double over and grab the counter.
He panicked. “Okay, look, in my defense, the box said 350 but it didn’t specify for how long-”
She cut him off by scooping a spoonful from the least threatening corner and taking a bite.
There was a long pause.
“…It’s crunchy and wet at the same time.”
Steve covered his face. “I hate you.”
She bumped her shoulder against his. “I love it.”
He didn’t process that part nearly enough at the time.
-
The Scoops Ahoy year was bold.
He was nineteen. Working in that ridiculous sailor uniform at Starcourt Mall, sweating under fluorescent lights, pretending he didn’t care that she kept stopping by “just to say hi.”
That year, closing shift, he pried open the freezer and just stared at the giant tub of chocolate ice cream.
He looked left.
He looked right.
Then he hauled the entire thing out like he was committing a federal crime.
Later, they sat in his car in the empty mall parking lot with the tub between them and two plastic spoons.
“You stole this,” she whispered.
“Borrowed,” he corrected.
“Steve.”
“Okay, technically stole. But it’s your birthday, so that makes it noble.”
They ate until their heads hurt from the cold. She got ice cream on her nose. He wiped it off without thinking.
Neither of them commented on how close they were sitting.
-
The Family Video year was quieter.
No mall. No big production.
Just the two of them on the floor of her living room with a stack of romance movies he’d dramatically declared were “educational.”
“You hate these,” she said, popping popcorn into her mouth.
He made a face. “I don’t hate them. I just think they’re unrealistic.”
They made it through three movies. By the fourth, she was crying softly at some dramatic airport confession.
He glanced at the screen, then at her.
“Okay but realistically, if he loved her that much, he would’ve said it earlier,” Steve muttered.
She sniffed. “Maybe he was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of losing her.”
Steve didn’t answer.
Because that one hit too close.
-
Now it’s her birthday again.
Hawkins is quieter these days, but not normal. It’ll probably never be normal. But Steve’s different too.
He works at The Squawk now. He says it makes him sound “professional,” even though he still forgets to turn his mic off half the time.
Robin knows everything.
Which means she knows he’s been pacing the station all week.
“You’ve done something every year?” Robin Buckley asks, leaning back in her chair, arms crossed.
“Yes.”
“And you still haven’t told her you’re in love with her.”
Steve points at her accusingly. “You said you were helping.”
“I am helping. By stating the obvious.”
He groans and runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t just blurt it out.”
“Why not?”
“Because what if I ruin it? What if she doesn’t-”
Robin stands up abruptly. “Oh my god. Harrington. She literally watched four straight romance movies with you and didn’t complain. She ate your lava-cake monstrosity. She committed ice cream felony with you. She is in love with you.”
He blinks.
“…You think?”
Robin grabs his shoulders. “Yes. Now what’s the plan?”
-
The radio station is glowing.
Robin did not hold back.
There are fairy lights strung along the walls, a cheap disco bulb she definitely stole from somewhere casting soft, spinning specks of light across the ceiling. A little handwritten sign taped to the corners of the ceiling reads:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DINGUS’ FAVORITE PERSON
“Robin,” you laugh.
“Atmosphere,” she insists from behind the desk. Then she leans toward Steve and whispers loudly, “Don’t screw it up,” before slipping out the side door.
And suddenly it’s quiet.
Just you. Steve. The hum of equipment.
He looks at you like he’s both proud and panicking.
“So,” you say softly, glancing around. “This is… a lot.”
“Yeah, well. I work here now,” he shrugs. “Figured I should use my resources.”
You smile. “It’s my favorite one.”
That makes him freeze for half a second, like that meant more than you intended.
He clears his throat and steps into the booth. You watch through the glass as he slips on the headphones, fumbles with a cassette, and presses a few buttons with exaggerated seriousness.
Then…
A soft romance song floods through the station speakers. Time After Time by Cyndi Lauper. The kind of song that plays during prom scenes in movies he swears he doesn’t like.
He steps back out, cheeks pink.
“I figured,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets, “since you’re getting old and everything… we could at least pretend this is classy.”
You gasp. “Old? Steve Harrington, you are two months older than me.”
“Exactly. Ancient.”
He holds out his hand anyway.
“Dance with me?”
You hesitate for half a second, not because you don’t want to. But because something about this feels different.
Important.
Still, you place your hand in his.
He pulls you gently closer, one hand settling at your waist, the other lacing with yours. You’ve slow danced before, at the Snow Ball, at random kitchen parties, but this feels smaller. Quieter.
Real.
The music swells.
He starts swaying.
You follow.
And then immediately step on his foot.
He winces dramatically. “Ow.”
“I’m sorry!”
“Wow. Betrayed on your birthday.”
“You’re the one who said I was old!”
You try again.
And step on him again.
He laughs this time, the sound warm and breathy. “Okay, okay, maybe just-here.” He adjusts your hands, pulls you closer so there’s less room for error. “Smaller steps.”
You’re practically pressed against him now.
Your forehead brushes his chin when you look up.
“Better?” you whisper.
“Yeah,” he says, voice softer than before. “Better.”
The song continues, low and steady.
You sway in silence for a moment before you murmur, “Do you ever think about it?”
“About what?”
“Getting older.”
He exhales a quiet laugh. “Constantly. My back hurt yesterday for no reason.”
“I’m serious.”
He tightens his hand at your waist just slightly.
“Yeah,” he admits. “I think about it.”
The room feels smaller. Warmer.
“I thought we’d have everything figured out by now,” you say. “Like… careers. Life. All of it.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Yeah. Instead I talk into a microphone at a small-town radio station and pretend I know what I’m doing.”
“You do know what you’re doing.”
He looks down at you like that might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to him in weeks.
“I just…” you continue quietly, “I don’t want things to change. I like this. Us.”
That does something to him.
You feel it in the way his hand tightens slightly. In the way he stops swaying for half a second before forcing himself to keep moving.
“Things are gonna change,” he says gently. “They always do.”
Your stomach drops a little.
“But,” he adds quickly, “that doesn’t mean they get worse.”
You look up at him fully now.
His jaw is tense. Like he’s arguing with himself internally.
The song is reaching that dramatic bridge part. The emotional peak.
You smile faintly. “You picked this song on purpose, didn’t you?”
He huffs. “Robin picked it.”
“Steve.”
“Okay, fine. I might’ve suggested it.”
You grin. “It’s very… confessional.”
He swallows.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s kinda the point.”
Your heart stutters.
He stops swaying completely now.
The music keeps playing, but the moment shifts-heavier, charged.
His thumb brushes absentminded circles against your waist like he needs something to ground himself.
“I’ve been thinking about getting older too,” he says slowly. “About what I want things to look like.”
You barely breathe.
“And every time I picture it,” he continues, eyes locked on yours, “you’re there.”
The air leaves your lungs in a rush.
“Steve-”
“I’m serious.” His voice shakes just slightly. “Every version of the future I can stand? You’re in it. Birthdays. Random Tuesdays. Dumb fights over what movie to rent. I don’t-” He laughs nervously. “I don’t want to just be the guy who plans your birthday every year.”
Your fingers tighten in his shirt.
“What do you want to be?” you whisper.
He takes a breath.
“I want to be the guy who gets to be there for all of them,” he says. “Not just as your best friend. I mean… I love being your best friend. But that’s not all I feel.”
The song softens into its final chorus.
“I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” he admits. “I just didn’t say anything because I was scared that if you didn’t feel the same, I’d lose the best thing in my life.”
Your eyes sting.
“You won’t,” you say, barely louder than the music.
He searches your face, terrified and hopeful all at once.
“You’re not gonna step on my feet and run?” he tries weakly.
You laugh through the tears threatening to fall.
“No,” you say. “I’m not running.”
You lean up just enough so your forehead rests against his.
“I’ve been picturing my future too,” you confess. “And you’re in mine. Every version.”
He closes his eyes for a second, like the relief physically hits him.
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Yeah.”
The song fades out.
The station goes quiet except for the hum of equipment and both of your uneven breathing.
He opens his eyes again, softer now. Braver.
“So,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, “can I kiss you? Or are you gonna injure me again?”
You smile.
“I’ll try not to.”
And when he kisses you, it’s a little clumsy, like your dancing, but warm and years overdue.
Attention ladies and gentlemen!!!
This writer is officially turning 24!! And as if that wasn’t enough, this little blog is turning ONE YEAR OLD at the end of the month
I genuinely cannot believe how much love and support you’ve all given me this past year. Every like, comment, reblog, and sweet message has meant more than I can put into words. This space has become something so special because of you.
So what better way to celebrate than with some fun birthday fics? Candles will be blown out, wishes will be made, and our favorite fictional men are absolutely about to act up.
Thank you for being here. Let’s celebrate together!!!!
🍰ྀི⋆˙⟡ All My Birthdays: Steve Harrington
🍰ྀི⋆˙⟡ The Last Cupcake On Earth: Travis “Teacake” Meacham
Dustin Henderson believes in love the way he believes in science: if two things belong together, all they need is the right push.
His older sister has always loved quietly-soft smiles, shy glances, a heart too tender to speak first. Steve Harrington, meanwhile, has been circling something sweet without ever quite reaching for it.
Just before Valentine’s Day, letters begin to appear.
Tucked into jacket pockets. Slipped between the pages of well-loved books. Left where only one person would ever think to look. Each note carries warmth, admiration, and the unmistakable feeling of being truly seen.
With every letter, Steve grows a little braver.
With every word, she feels a little less invisible.
Hi Gracie, it's Megan :) I was wondering if I could be added to the tag list for the Valentines Day Steve series? I've read the first part/chapter and absolutely loved it! I can't wait to read the second part!! It's on my tbr for the day hehe :)
hi megan!! i believe that i added you onto the tag list! if not please let me know!
Morning came too gently for how heavy everything felt.
The sky was pale and washed-out, the kind of soft blue that usually meant possibility-but Dustin Henderson rode his bike like the world was ending. His sneakers scraped against the pedals as he cut down familiar streets, backpack bouncing against his shoulders, heart hammering harder with every block.
Steve Harrington’s house came into view, big and quiet and far too calm.
Dustin skidded to a stop in the driveway, barely bothering to set his bike down before marching up to the door. He knocked once. Twice. Hard.
A moment later, the door opened.
Steve stood there in sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, hair messy in a way that meant he hadn’t slept much. His eyes were tired. Confused.
“Dustin?” he said. “What are you doing here?”
Dustin didn’t give himself time to think.
“I need to tell you something,” he blurted out. “Like-right now. And you’re not allowed to interrupt me.”
Steve blinked. “…Okay?”
Dustin stepped inside, pacing immediately, hands running through his curls. “I messed up. Like, really messed up. And I didn’t think it would go like this, and I swear I thought I was helping, but-”
“Dustin,” Steve said carefully, “slow down.”
Dustin stopped. Took a breath. Then looked up at him, eyes shining with guilt.
“I wrote the letters,” he said.
Steve went still.
“…What?”
“The Valentine’s letters,” Dustin said, voice cracking. “Both of them. I wrote the one she found, pretending it was from you. And I wrote the one you found, pretending it was from her.”
The words hung in the air like something fragile and broken.
Steve stared at him. “You… what?”
“I just-” Dustin swallowed hard. “She’s my sister. And she never thinks anyone sees her like that. And I could tell you liked her, but neither of you would ever do anything about it. So I thought if I just-gave you a push-”
Steve ran a hand through his hair, shock giving way to something sharper. “Dustin. That night-she thought someone was playing a prank on her.”
“I know,” Dustin said quietly. “She came home crying. She thought none of it was real.”
Steve’s chest tightened painfully.
“She thought you didn’t mean any of it,” Dustin continued. “And that she just… made it all up.”
Steve looked away, jaw clenched, the memory of her voice in the car replaying in his head.
“Oh my god,” he whispered.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Dustin said, tears spilling now. “I just wanted her to be happy. I’ve never seen her like that before. Ever.”
Steve turned back to him, eyes blazing with something fierce and resolved.
“She was happy,” he said. “And I meant every word in that letter-even if I didn’t write it first.”
Dustin looked up, hope flickering. “You did?”
Steve nodded without hesitation. “Every single thing.”
He grabbed his keys off the counter. “Where is she?”
“At home,” Dustin said quickly. “Probably still thinks it was all fake.”
Steve didn’t even grab a jacket.
“Then we fix it,” he said. “Right now.”
Dustin sniffed, nodding furiously. “I’ll help. I’ll do whatever you need.”
Steve paused at the door, glancing back at him. “You already did,” he said. “You just went about it the wrong way.”
The door swung shut behind them.
And for the first time since Valentine’s Day had fallen apart, there was a chance-real and honest-or love to find its way back.
-
The house was still when Dustin got home.
Morning light filtered through the living room curtains, pale and gentle, dust motes floating lazily in the air like nothing in the world had gone wrong. It felt unfairly calm. Dustin shut the door quietly behind him, backpack slipping from his shoulder as his stomach twisted.
He knew where she’d be.
He hesitated outside her bedroom door, hand hovering over the knob, heart pounding harder than it had on the bike ride. He could hear movement inside-soft, slow. Awake, but barely.
He knocked lightly.
“…Yeah?” her voice came, small and tired.
Dustin pushed the door open just enough to peek inside. Her room looked like it always did, but she didn’t. She sat on the edge of her bed in an oversized sweater, hair loose, eyes puffy and red like she hadn’t slept much at all.
“Hey,” Dustin said softly.
She offered a faint smile. “Hey.”
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, suddenly unsure where to stand. He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels.
“I, um,” he started. “Can we talk?”
She nodded, patting the bed beside her. “Yeah.”
Dustin sat, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a moment, he just stared at the floor, jaw tight, guilt pressing heavy on his chest.
“The letters,” he said finally.
Her shoulders tensed.
“I need to tell you something,” he rushed. “And you don’t have to forgive me. You don’t even have to like me right now. I just-I can’t let you think it was fake.”
She looked at him then, really looked. “Dustin… what are you talking about?”
He took a breath. Then another.
“I wrote them,” he said quietly. “Both of them.”
Silence filled the room.
Her brow furrowed. “…What?”
“I wrote the one you found,” he continued, voice trembling. “And the one Steve found. I made it look like you wrote his and he wrote yours.”
Her breath caught. “You… did what?”
“I know,” he said quickly, tears burning at the back of his eyes. “It was stupid and wrong and I thought I was helping but I didn’t think about how much it would hurt if it went bad.”
She stood up suddenly, pacing once, hands in her hair. “Dustin-why would you do that?”
He stood too, words spilling out now.
“Because you never think anyone sees you,” he said. “And I do. I see how you light up when Steve’s around. And I see the way you talk yourself out of believing anyone could feel that way about you.”
Her eyes filled with tears again.
“You deserve to be loved loudly,” Dustin said, voice cracking. “But I knew neither of you would ever make the first move. So I thought if I just-gave you both a push-you’d realize it was real.”
She sank back onto the bed, covering her mouth.
“But it is real,” Dustin said softly. “Steve meant every word. He told me. I swear. He just didn’t know how to say it yet.”
She looked up at him, eyes shining. “Then why did it feel like a prank?”
“Because I messed up,” Dustin whispered. “And I’m so sorry.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks now, quiet and unguarded. Dustin moved closer without thinking, wrapping his arms around her.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said into her shoulder. “I just wanted you to feel chosen.”
She hugged him back, tight and fierce.
“I was so embarrassed,” she admitted softly. “I thought I imagined everything.”
“You didn’t,” Dustin said. “Not a single bit.”
They stayed like that for a moment, the world outside the room holding its breath.
A car door closed outside.
Dustin pulled back slightly, heart jumping. “That might be him.”
She wiped her cheeks quickly, breathing in shakily. “Okay.”
Dustin stood, giving her a small, hopeful smile. “Whatever happens next… it’s real this time.”
And for the first time since the night before, she believed it might be.
-
The morning was quiet enough to hear her own heartbeat.
She stepped out onto the porch, bare feet brushing the cold wood, hair tousled, sweatshirt loose and soft, and for a moment she froze. The world was still, pale sunlight spilling across the street, painting everything gold and fragile.
At the bottom of the steps, Steve stood. Hair sticking every which way, shoulders slightly hunched-but in the way that made him look human, raw, utterly himself. In his hands, he held a folded piece of paper, fingers curled tight like it was the most important thing he’d ever carried.
Her chest fluttered. “Steve…” she whispered, the word trembling on her lips.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, raw with nervousness. “Morning.”
He stepped closer, close enough that the space between them felt electric, yet he didn’t rush. Not yet. Just stood there, letting her see him fully, the way he really was—the way she had always noticed, even before she realized it.
“I… I wrote something,” he said, shifting the paper from hand to hand. “Something I should’ve said a long time ago. I couldn’t wait anymore. I need you to hear it-from me, this time. Not a note someone else wrote. Not a joke. Me.”
Her heart caught. She could feel every word before he even spoke it, like the air itself had thinned.
He took a breath, unfolded the paper carefully, and began.
“You make rooms feel… different,” he said. “Safer. Lighter. Like everything doesn’t have to be loud or flashy for it to matter. I noticed that before I even knew your name.”
Her lips parted slightly, and her fingers curled around her sweatshirt, grounding herself in the sound of his voice.
“I like the way you listen,” he continued, voice faltering just a little. “I like the way you laugh, even when you think no one’s paying attention. I like that you notice the small things… the things no one else sees. I like you-so much it scares me.”
Her breath caught. She tried to step forward, to say something, but the words lodged in her throat.
“I stayed quiet for too long,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “I thought… I thought if I said anything, I might ruin it. But staying silent? That almost ruined everything too. I don’t want you to ever think any of this-the smiles, the laughs, the moments we’ve had-it was anything but real.”
Her eyes burned with tears, sparkling in the pale morning light. Her chest ached, her pulse thrumming so fast it was loud in her ears.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with morning air. “I wrote this because I couldn’t get the words out any other way,” he whispered, voice barely more than breath. “Because I want you to know-every feeling I have… it’s real. And it’s for you.”
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the letter, hands brushing his. The contact made his chest shiver. He swallowed, eyes locked on hers.
“And just so there’s no doubt,” he said, voice soft but sure, “this one… is actually from me. Signed by me-Steve.”
She blinked, tears slipping freely now, and all the walls she had built fell away. Slowly, carefully, she stepped down from the porch. Her hands went to his chest, gripping the soft fabric of his t-shirt. His hands found her waist, steady, grounding, certain.
Her lips lifted, searching, and his heart nearly stopped.
“Can I?” he whispered, leaning in, voice trembling but unwavering.
She didn’t answer with words. She leaned closer.
The kiss was everything-the morning air, the lingering tension, the quiet heartbreak of yesterday, the hope of today-all of it melted together in one soft, slow, perfect moment.
It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a confession. A promise. A beginning.
And when they finally pulled back, her forehead resting against his, breath mingling, eyes shining, he whispered again, just for her:
“Every word. Every feeling. All of it… real. Just for you.”
And she knew, with her whole heart, that he meant it.
-
The sun was dipping low over Hawkins High, casting long, golden rays across the bleachers and the polished stage. The Class of ’89 had finally finished their ceremony, caps in hand, tassels swinging in the warm breeze. Families cheered, cameras flashed, and somewhere in the crowd a familiar tune from the ‘80s drifted faintly over the speakers.
Steve Harrington stood beside her, tall and impossibly handsome in a crisp tan suit that made her catch her breath. His tie was slightly loose, hair still perfect in that effortless way, but there was something softer in his eyes today-something reserved just for her. She adjusted the hem of her dress nervously, feeling self-conscious, but in the same moment, utterly at home by his side.
They leaned against the railing together, hands brushing occasionally, laughter slipping between them like the easiest, most natural language. The chaos of Hawkins-the Upside Down, Vecna, all of it-was behind them, leaving this day entirely their own.
Dustin stepped up to the microphone, hair messy, backpack slung over one shoulder. He cleared his throat, grinning at his classmates and friends. “Okay… so, I want to start by saying this-Eddie Munson taught me something. He taught me about not following the status quo. About standing up for what you believe in, even if it’s scary, even if no one else gets it.”
A few murmurs of agreement floated from the crowd, and Steve squeezed her hand, eyes proud.
Dustin’s grin softened. “So, Class of ’89-don’t follow the easy path just because everyone else is on it. Chase what matters. Protect the people you care about. Fight for the things that feel like home. Because that… that’s where the real magic is.”
Applause rang out as the graduates walked across the stage one by one. Dustin’s friends-Mike, Lucas, Will, Max-cheered the loudest, all beaming. He finished the stage walk with a triumphant grin, cap in hand, before heading toward them.
Steve and she waited by the railing, leaning close together, smiling at the joy around them. Then Dustin bounded over, grinning, backpack bouncing.
“There you guys are!” he exclaimed. Without thinking, he pulled them both into a hug. And that’s when he froze.
Her hand brushed against Steve’s during the hug, and Dustin noticed a glint he hadn’t expected.
A ring.
“Wait… hold on,” Dustin said, pulling back just enough to look. “Is that…?”
She looked at Steve, cheeks flushed, laughter soft and nervous. Steve’s hand covered hers, thumb brushing over the ring.
“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet, warm, full of certainty. “I asked. She said yes.”
Dustin’s eyes went wide. “You guys… oh my god! Finally! I… I’m so happy!”
She laughed, tears sparkling in her eyes, leaning against Steve as the golden sun caught in her hair and the ring glinted like a promise.
Steve pressed his forehead gently to hers. “We’re good, huh?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “We’re really good.”
Dustin hugged them both again, laughing, shaking his head. “I cannot believe this. After everything… you guys did it!”
And for just a moment, in that golden 1989 light, everything felt perfect. Hawkins High behind them, the future ahead, and the people they loved safe and close.
Sometimes, after surviving monsters and darkness, happiness was simple. It was warmth. It was laughter. It was love.
