Byers House – Early Evening, Warm and Quiet

The Byers house smells like garlic, butter, and something rich and familiar—his favorite dinner simmering on the stove. The table is set. Streamers hang a little crooked because you climbed the chair too fast, but they’re charming in that Byers-house way. A homemade banner that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY BILLY in red and gold marker hangs above the living room doorway.

The cake—red velvet, still faintly warm—sits on the counter with cream cheese frosting swirled imperfectly but with obvious love.

The house is spotless. You ran yourself ragged doing it, because you know he notices little things like that now. Clean air makes him breathe easier.

Joyce is still at work. Jonathan and Will are out with El grabbing last-minute sodas. It’s just you.

And then headlights sweep across the window.

The Camaro engine cuts off.

For a few seconds, there’s nothing but silence… …then the sound of a car door shutting, slowly, like he’s tired. Like his ribs still remember the way they cracked under the Mind Flayer’s hold. Like the argument with Neil earlier left him feeling scraped raw on the inside.

Then—

Knock.

Not his usual loud, cocky one. A soft tap, almost hesitant.

You open the door and he stands there, jacket half-slipped off one shoulder, hair slightly damp from the mist outside, eyes shadowed like he didn’t sleep last night—probably because he didn’t.

But the second he sees you… something shifts. His shoulders drop a little. His jaw unclenches.

“Hey, angel.” His voice cracks halfway through the nickname.

He steps inside—and stops dead.

Decorations. The clean house. The smell of his favorite meal. The cake. The gifts wrapped on the table—one obviously from Will (bad tape job), one suspiciously heavy (Jonathan), one with Joyce’s handwriting, and then yours… the one he keeps glancing at even though he tries not to.

His throat works, like he’s swallowing down that flash of overwhelmed emotion that hits him whenever someone does something nice for him without wanting anything back.

“You… did all this?” Soft. Gentle. Almost boyish.

He walks further in, fingertips brushing a streamer like he needs to touch something to know it’s real.

You nod, smiling. “Happy birthday, Billy.”

He lets out a shaky breath.

For a full second he looks like he might actually cry, and you know he would hate that—so you close the space and loop your arms around his waist first, giving him a route to hide his face in your shoulder if he needs it.

He does.

His hands come up slowly, resting on your back, then gripping tighter as he exhales in a shudder. Not a breakdown—just the kind of shaky relief only he and Will ever understand now.

“Been a shit day,” he mumbles against your neck. “Didn’t… expect this. Any of it.”

You press a kiss to his cheek. “That’s the point. You deserve a good day.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—blue eyes softer than anyone else ever gets to see. “You cleaned the whole house? Made dinner? Baked?”

You shrug, smile turning smug. “And I didn’t even burn anything.”

“Damn miracle,” he teases, voice warm for the first time today.

His hand slides to your jaw, thumb brushing lightly as his gaze flickers around the room again—like he’s memorizing everything. Like he’s terrified it’ll disappear.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “Really.”

Before you can answer, Will’s voice pipes up from outside— “Billy’s here! Don’t touch the cake, El, I mean it—no powers!”

The door opens again and the house fills with familiar chaos, but Billy stays close, one hand resting on your hip, grounding himself in you.

For the first time all day—maybe all week—he looks like he can breathe.

Your birthday celebration has officially begun.