The party was in Mike Wheeler’s basement, like they almost always were—dimly lit, faintly smelling of pizza grease and old carpet, Christmas lights strung along the walls because no one ever bothered to take them down. The hum of the old space heater filled the pauses between laughter and yelling.

You were sprawled on the couch with Max and El, knees tucked up, an aggressively competitive game of Uno spread out on the coffee table. Cards slapped down with dramatic flair.

“You absolutely cheated,” Max accused, pointing at you with a wild grin.

“I did not,” you shot back, laughing as El nodded very seriously beside you.

“She switched cards,” El said bluntly, then smiled like she was proud of you anyway.

“Oh, traitor,” you laughed, tossing a pillow lightly at her. It missed completely and hit the floor, which only made Max laugh harder.

Across the room, the folding table was taken over by the boys—Mike at the head like a tiny dungeon master king, Will leaning in with quiet focus, Lucas watching everything carefully, and Dustin—well, Dustin was supposed to be watching everything carefully.

Instead, he kept glancing over at you.

He told himself it was nothing. Just checking the room. Just zoning out. But his eyes kept catching on small things: the way your hair slipped over your shoulder when you leaned forward to throw down a card, the way you scrunched your nose when Max accused you of cheating again, the sound of your laugh—easy and bright, like it belonged exactly there.

You looked happy. Comfortable. Like you belonged there too.

Dustin’s stomach did a weird flip every time you smiled.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen. Somewhere between bike rides, late-night movies, and you sitting beside him on the bus, it just… did. And now it was bad. Capital-B Bad. The kind where he rehearsed conversations in his head and then chickened out before they ever left his mouth.

“Dustin.”

He blinked.

“Dustin!” Mike snapped, louder this time, tossing the dice toward him. “Dude, roll!”

The dice bounced off his character sheet, skittering across the table. Lucas snorted. Will smiled a little.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dustin muttered, scrambling to grab them, face warm. He rolled—poorly.

“Wow,” Lucas said dryly. “Shocking.”

While the boys argued over what the roll meant, Dustin risked another glance toward the couch. You were in the middle of telling Max a story now, hands moving as you talked, El watching you with that quiet, fascinated attention she gave to things she liked.

Dustin liked you too much.

You caught his eye for just a second and smiled—small, casual, completely unaware of the way his heart stuttered in his chest. You turned back to your game like it meant nothing.

To you, it probably did.

To Dustin, it felt like everything.

He swallowed, forced his attention back to the table, and picked up his pencil again.